I'm just terribly private, you see?
Everything about the process seems like such an unavoidable hurdle.
It isn't like I dislike people.
I like people.
I like what makes people people.
The ticking and the tocking.
If that feels as if you've just stepped
close enough to overhear some nugget of a conversation which was in
no way aimed in your direction, then you understand. I feel that way
all the time. I started you off on the same foot I'm usually standing
on.
And it isn't as if people don't like
me. Contrarily, people often find some part of me worth gravitating
towards. Usually, it's some part that is a stranger to me. It's
fascinating, flattering, and more-often-than-comfortable, unnerving.
See? This is my 'unnerved' face. (actually, it was taken while we were on holiday in Atlanta in July. The lights in the bathroom at Hotel Indigo (fantastic place) made my eyes look weird.)
Don't wrap this gift in the gaudy paper
of ungratefulness. Or please, at least, do not read it as such. I am
thankful for interactions, although it may force me to seem like a
new-born doe on ice. I'm doing my best. Between the unfairly
neglected Official Facebook page, the even more neglected blog, and
the criminally neglected Twitter feed, it may not seem like it, but
I'm doing my best . . .and you matter.
That's a conundrum, isn't it? The whole
thing. This whole thing. It's a tennis match with my ego. I'm sorry
to drag you through this, but it's part of the deal. If you read this
blog hoping to learn about me, then you get to have the unadulterated
insight that I do not have the patience (or energy) to perform as a
persona. I could dress it all up as pleasanter or easier to digest,
but why? If you've read this far, you're in on the deal. We're in
this together, and the person to which I would like to direct the
sentiment, “you don't get to be disappointed that I'm not who you
thought I was” has either already left or is reading on in a huff.
Either suits me just as well as the other.
Now, let's talk about the hard
stuff.
My family (biological, step, in-law, & Soda Ash) aside, I could fit in the palm of my hand all the people who I have called 'friend' in all of my life. It's a muddled concept, 'friend'. It's a simple word, used often, filled with meanings which differ from one to the next. I'll drive it home: I have five friends. Five extraordinary human beings to occupy their own little sections in my life. One of them is married to me. The other four don't know each other. That is the honest, dark, deep depth of it all. It's purposeful. It's deliberate.
My family (biological, step, in-law, & Soda Ash) aside, I could fit in the palm of my hand all the people who I have called 'friend' in all of my life. It's a muddled concept, 'friend'. It's a simple word, used often, filled with meanings which differ from one to the next. I'll drive it home: I have five friends. Five extraordinary human beings to occupy their own little sections in my life. One of them is married to me. The other four don't know each other. That is the honest, dark, deep depth of it all. It's purposeful. It's deliberate.
Obviously, I should probably address
the fact that I've likely just annoyed scores of people. I don't mean
to betray or humiliate: If you know me, and feel hurt by what I just
admitted, I'm sorry. I care about you, Poet. About you,
Mom-of-three-one-adopted-but-three-well-loved-children-in-total. And
you, quiet-yet-well-loved illustrator. All of the rest of you
wondering if you're on the fence, I do care for you. I really do. The
only difference between you and The Five is that The Five approach me
like a medicine which could harm if taken improperly. I'm
getting off-track...
The
point is (finally) that I've opened myself up to a vast world of
connectivity. Part of me wants the contact with readers, while part
of me stumbles all over myself in the attempt. I never re-read these
blog posts as I know I would delete much of what I typed, so - no
edits (lucky ducks). I simultaneously get the most bizarre messages
on FaceBook, as one would ask about 'the underlying symbolism' in my
work, while the other asks if I've seen the latest 'The Voice'. Nine
times of ten the legitimate questions have answers that I really
can't share with someone who hadn't read it yet. So, my relationship
with readers, a relationship I would truly like to learn to foster,
is still greatly one-on-one. I'm trying to suss out how to remedy
that.
This has taken 3 hours. I could write about the smallest little hidden sliver of a memory lodged in the deepest recesses of a haunted mind …. thousands upon thousands of words, in 3 hours. This is very difficult for me....worth it, I think, but difficult.
This has taken 3 hours. I could write about the smallest little hidden sliver of a memory lodged in the deepest recesses of a haunted mind …. thousands upon thousands of words, in 3 hours. This is very difficult for me....worth it, I think, but difficult.
I
think what caused all of this
is that someone felt closer to me than she was. A reader, I never met
her, connected through Facebook, read my books, sent me messages, she
wanted me to be something she invented, she got
angry, felt hurt, I kept hurting her. She
kept getting hurt. She said
that I'm a disappointment. I
said it didn't concern me.
She called me
'condescending'. I agreed.
Had it
gone another way, it could have been a lovely conversation.
In
summation and conclusion: I'm trying. I am really really trying.
Very
few people are 'close' to me.
You
don't have to be 'close' to me for me to care (deeply) for you.
Reading
my work is the highest praise.
Being
able to give me a
dissertation on my own work, while flattering, does not mean you
suddenly own me... or my intangible 'disappointing and condescending'
intellect.
3-and-a-half
hours now.
