Fear Schmear!

It’s funny.  My mom just commented on my blog and I felt, almost, resentful at first.  Disgusted. Embarrassed.  Abused.  “Who is she to read my innermost thoughts and comment on them?” I questioned.  “Well, young lady,” I had to say to myself, “you did put them on the Internet.”

Yes, yes I did.

Talk about fearlessness.

But, her comment, the glimpse of my own work through my mother’s eyes, made me go back and read (yet, again) what I had written.

“Lies!”  I shrieked.  “It’s all lies!”

Only after my husband and son came running into the room to find me huddled on the floor trying to choke myself with a mouthful of blue feather boa, did I realize that I’d gone too far.  It was not lies that I was telling.  Not lies exactly.

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Turn On, Tune In, Let Go

I am sitting in the “reading room” typing away.  Silas is standing in the sliver of light that is stretching from this room into the hallway.  He is standing at his easel painting in a Beatnikish turtleneck and a painter’s apron.  He is painting his first portrait.  He is painting a vampire.  Jazz is on the radio.

With my therapist, I’ve been talking about my core sense of self.  Who she is and what provokes her.  About what stirs up the superhuman, lets the divine shine through.  This core sense of self often seems buried, underneath scars, underneath layers of emotional fat.  Still, as I sit here typing, as my son is creating art in that sliver of light, as the Pandora is on Quickmix and all the right songs are playing, I feel her, that core sense.

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Dare me.

Hello again, Dear, Dear World!

Let me start by saying:  I have not been lost and then found.  Lucille (the muse) has not forsaken me.  It is not my career (well, it is a little) that has forced my silence.

This lapse in voice (at least this lapse in my blogging voice) is attributed to the idea that I am going through some type of metamorphosis, am shedding my artistic skin, am examining myself and my motives and my desires and am putting certain fears to rest.

That takes a lot of work, moving from one hermit shell to the next.

(And, by hermit shell, I am not saying that I am bashful or secretive.  But I have, as I imagine all of us do, my social-face, and my personas, and the fears that keep me somewhat shackled. So, I am proud to say that I am moving into a roomier socio-psychological apartment.)

(Am I talking bull shit here, or do I make sense?)

(How do you like the excessive use of parenthesis?)

So…

I have been afraid to write here.  In this public domain.  Afraid, not so much of what you might think, but of what I might think about what I am thinking.  I have spoken of audience and how it is both motivating and intimidating.  I have begged for approval, have been asked to and have tried to forget my audience, and have wallowed in a bit of imagined-audience (meaning the people that I imagine to be my audience)-provoked despair.

Basically, I have lacked self-confidence.

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Life Unfurling

I am sitting in what we call our “reading room”.  It is supposed to be a quiet, inspirational corner of our 1,200 sq. ft. home, but, alas, it is cluttered with old bills and gift bags and a ridiculous pile of stuffed animals that needs immediate weeding.  One of the bookshelves is littered with makeup and hair confixor and odd bits of jewelry as this room has also become a vanity of sorts ever since our medicine cabinet came crashing down in our single bathroom two months ago.  We are not proud nor are we rich.

I am drinking coffee and waiting for my son to wake up.  I am waiting apprehensively as his waking will inevitably end this post.

I am also thinking of the title of this blog—Life Unfurling—and am promising to you, as well as to myself, that I will not talk about spreading my wings or being ready to emerge from some lonely chrysalis.  At least I will not use those words.

Still, life unfurling.

I was recently befriended on, yes, Facebook, by an old college co-conspirator.  A fellow creative writing student and a woman that I always admired as one who stayed on a true path and was determined and honest and kind.  I googled her and discovered that she had followed out my dreams—had earned her MFA in fiction, was an editor of a widely known college publication, and is now a professor of writing.  I am a middle school teacher who is feeling less and less fulfilled by my career and is finding it hard to find the time and inspiration to write.

My dreams.  What has happened to them?

My son woke up.  More than several hours later…

I am sitting in what we call our “reading room”.  A room filled with bookshelves and journals and a hip set of curtains and a day bed.  The day bed is the sort that can be folded out into a chaise lounge type of deal which is ideal for reading a half-finished book or pondering life for awhile.

I am drinking a beer and am being continuously interrupted by a certain “Cape Man” who wants me to help him fight bad guys.  He wears a fraying cowboy hat that is least one size too large and an old sweatshirt for a cape.  He calls it his superhero costume and rarely leaves home without it.  He has an imagination like his mama.

I was recently befriended on, yes, Facebook, by an old high school partner-in-crime.  A fellow yearbookie and a gentleman who is to be admired for his perseverance and determination.  I didn’t have to google him to discover that he is following my dreams—is being published and is entering writing contests and has an editor for Christ’s sake.  I am a slug of a housekeeper and a mother of one who is often inspired by motherhood but is too exhausted to write.

Still, life unfurling.

I could go on and on about former and current friend success stories.  About Mikey at the Poet’s House and Josh with his own art gallery.  I could even complain about my brother-in-law who must read ten books to my one.

Still, life unfurling.

This is my first step.  This blog.  A project that I started under the name Book n’ Boob (after my experience as a breastfeeding mama and an avid reader) and that has now transformed itself into a symbol of me spreading my writer’s wings and escaping from the lonely chrysalis of doubt and deprivation.  (Yes, I lied to you and will probably now lock myself in the bathroom and scream.)

Seriously, this blog is about the nature of constant change that we undergo.  It is about my motherhood and my bipolar disorder and my experience as a somewhat disappointed writer and maybe about bourbon and books and definitely about life in general.

I am thrilled to be blogging again!  Step one… accomplished!