If it comes to you in ashes that means I burned it. Burned it, but sent it to you anyway. I am twisted enough that I would do something like that…just to show you my good intentions comes with an evil streak. I started this whole thing in earnest thinking I would, I could, build you a masterpiece. Something worthy of a bedside table as a good bedtime story..or maybe even a coffee table out in the open if I let myself dare to dream that big and ambitious and grandiose. Shopping for supplies was much like being a id again. I was drawn in by sparkly stickers, glittery borders, sticky glue, funky cutting scissors, colored paper of vellum and linen and cotton. So much to chose from I didn’t know where to begin or end. Embellishments aplenty. My credit card shook from exhaustion. I wish I could say my enthusiasm for the project held up through the piles and piles of purchases, pages and pages of printed out out-of-print pictures, the plethora of everything saved and once cherished. Suddenly, without warning I felt unworthy of the task at heart. Who was I to decide what to keep? What to exclude? How could I decide what was coffee table worthy? Every well-wished sentiment, every scrap of paper had something worth saving, keeping, holding onto. The insecurity grew and grew and grew with each passing page created until finally every page created became a page hated.
So, I started again. Tearing the old masterpiece down and starting new. Different ideas flowed and I worked feverishly to retain the enthusiasm. I worked methodically, determined to use everything given to me, entrusted to me. Everything meant a creation oversized and bulging. Bigger and bigger. But, like a sandcastle caught in a rising tide my enthusiasm ebbed away…again. This time it was my displeasure with how cramped and crowded every page looked. Bigger didn’t mean better. My eagerness to please was obvious overkill on every page. With remorse, I tore it down again and again.
I ended up rebuilding a third time. I started with all new supplies. This time I dared to play god to the creation. I dared to determine the worth of each scrap. When it was done I was proud of it but also insecure. I needed more time to reconcile the conflicting emotions before I sent it off.
I never sent it. It’s still here. I sent a decoy, a fake. something to placate you and keep me covered. I still want to burn it. I still want you to have it. Two conflicting emotions. So, maybe it will come to you…in ashes.
I met someone today who blew me away. Picked me up, spun me around like a hurricane and got me going in the right direction again. As everyone knows it’s far too easy for me to be angry, to hate, to be glass half empty (and cracked). Far too easy for me to be Negative Nelly. Bitchy bitchy bitch bitch. Then came him and the hurricane. Here’s how it went. I complained, he came back with compassion. I bitched, his was a brighter view. I ranted, he rallied. I was negative, he said never say never. I smirked, he smiled. Back and forth we sparred.
Take this story – I have a hanger-on. Someone who just won’t go away. I was feeling cynical and snide. Loved to be evil, warming up to the hellish conclusion. When I was done I thought he would agree. I thought he would share in my negativity. Instead, he smiled. Smiled and offered me this HaveYouThoughtAboutThisWay? different angle. He cocked his head to the side and said, “from everything you told me I can’t see what the big deal is. I don’t know Your Problem so I can’t judge except to say I don’t see the problem.” It’s the “I don’t know…so I can’t judge…” part that got me. Why am I quick to say weird? Why am I eager to say wrong? Exactly what is the problem?
I’m sorry I have been so mean to you when you weren’t looking. I’m sorry I painted a bad picture when really you are a masterpiece. I’m sorry to have confused you with something sinister. I take it back.
To my new friend. Thank you for being compassionate. For being caring without knowing. For listening to me judge without a jury. While you drove me crazy with your “to be fair” sentence starters I see where you are coming from. And to be fair, I want to be just like you.
We are right in the middle of a messy divorce. Not that we want to be. We didn’t mean to put ourselves here – it just became part of the deal by default. But, in the grand scheme of things it has taught me a valuable lesson: stay away from drama. Run, don’t walk, from situations out of your control.
I learned of an on-coming train wreck last night. My first instinct was to jump from the track. My second was to stay and see what happens. High drama is always highly amusing. Except when there is the potential to get tangled up in it. I really, really don’t want to be involved. I was there before. I feel like I just got free of it. Why get in the way again?
Last night I ignored the signs and stayed on. Last night I wanted to believe. Today, I see things differently. Much differently.
There is a scene in some chick-flick movie. Of course I don’t remember the name of it. Bette Midler plays a meddling mother. She loves her daughter too much to be of any good to her. In the end she picks a fight to end the relationship. She does it on purpose to put some distance between her and her daughter. It’s painful – but necessary. Something she must do. At the time I didn’t understand the ending. Thought it was stupid and unnecessary. A royal WTF? Now, I get it. I am at that point. I get the point. All I want is for you to be happy. I’ve said it a thousand times. You mean the world to me. Butbutbut, I refuse to be part of the approaching drama. There is no way I can be involved and be accused. Again. If I can’t live my passions out in the open without having them distorted and distrusted I don’t want to have them at all. I refuse to defend what I hold dear.
Don’t hate me for pulling a Bette.
Some say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, what do you call plagarism? A friend came up with the perfect word, asinine. In my world it’s “I am not smart enough to write my own sh!t.” In my world it’s “I’m so stupid I need to take other people’s ideas and call them my own.” Colin Deslage, if that’s even his real name, fits this description. IQ of a sand flea. Or, more accurately, a sand flea’s fart. Why else would he take my book review and post it on his blog? I don’t think he’s an azzhole. I think he’s just floundering in a sea of smart people and doesn’t want to drown looking like a dolt. When you are that obtuse looking intelligent is a really, really hard thing to do.
When I was first alerted to this odd occurrence I seethed. I thrashed around with so much anger I couldn’t sit still. Not long enough to write anything anyway. Then I considered the blog Colin Deslage stole – it’s an odd one to steal. Consider the facts: it’s a freakin’ book review (a very unprofessional one at that), it’s about chick lit (which says something about Colin’s reading preferences, or maybe I’m mistaken and he is really a SHE), and it mentions my hometown, a place where few people have ever heard of (let alone visited).
What does anyone have to gain by posting something that obviously isn’t original? Sand flea fart credibility.
Anyway, the rant is over.
How I’d like to talk to you right now. How I’d like to explain this fear that snakes around my lungs, making me think of choking, feel like drowning. I am a sea of nerves and awash with panic. I am not good enough for this journey. I have not the strength to take this next step. The fortitude of a fortress surely cannot be mine. I feel the fall of failure before it has even happened.
“Daddy, come quick! The dreaming tree died.” ~ David J. Matthews
They accepted the offer and we have accepted the responsibility. Only now do I think I am wrong to think I deserve so much. Why can’t you be here with me? Be here now to walk me through this thing called a process. You have missed out on every little thing, but it’s the big stuff that bugs me. We are so distant by design. Apart on purpose. How I’d like to break that barrier.
You didn’t think I would take you up on it. You are oh so wrong. I updated my ‘about me’ page and was able to change most of it. I think you owe me a peanut butter and pickle sandwich. Love, me.
The past week has been a little on the hellish side, without the heat – if you know what I mean. Two major storms; one with weather and one in my personal life. I’ve managed to dig out from both.
Thank you to the students who were so appreciative of the extra library hours. Staying open an extra 5.5 hours for you was my pleasure. I had nowhere to go and, apparently, neither did you.
Thank you to my mother-in-law for braving the weather to see Miss Rebecca sing last night. I couldn’t have asked for a better pilot. Now that we know how parking works we should do it again.
Thank you to Rebecca for making the four hour trek to Northampton. You and your funnier than all get out father are amazing. Thank you for singing your heart out. I must insist that you stop saving ‘Hold Me’ as your last song. I couldn’t hold my camera steady thanks to the tears. I’m sure the video is going to reflect that grief. Don’t worry, I will blog about the entire thing…maybe even post a snippet of the video (depending on how shaky it is).
Thank you to my friend. I understand your absence. I missed you just the same.