I’ve been in a very weird and wonderful place lately, but now feel I’ve completely crashed. Why? The written word. I haven’t blogged today, nor, I think, yesterday. I’ve sat with my warm hugs and read and reread the words of others, searching. For what? Absolutely no idea whatsoever. But I really do love words....
I adore the pontification of some, and enjoy the boastful bloviate of another, the mellow pure soporific effect of a carefully constructed and oh-so-sweetly delivered piece delving into the mind and soul of a poet or the heat emanating from the mind or memory of another. Each one leaves a piece of themselves with us. Each one gives consent for us to look into their eyes and “see them”. Each piece allows me to be the perv that I am, validate me, and lets me perv on them too! (Marmalade is a big word too btw...)
So I’m sitting here, royally pissed off, having spent hours today putting together a piece, not to be shared with all but with one. I wrote, deleted, used a theasaurus for the first time in years, double-checked the meanings of words so many times it made my eyes hurt (fairly confident I need glasses...!). I searched my heart, my soul, my body, my mind, my everything to explain what he’s asked me to so there could be no doubt whatsoever or misinterpretation of my words. (God I love words...). It would be incredibly naive of me to think there would be no misinterpretation, but I had hoped my meanderings put more in bullet point format would make a difference - but then I felt that wouldn’t be enough so did paragraphs on each bullet point, then changed that to headings and so on... I think you can get the jist...
Aaaaanyway, I was finally content with my words, finally ready to press send, finally “safe” enough to believe I had compiled a consolidation of what he asked of me. I believed every word I wrote, I was ecstatic at the prospect of this raw clarity and handing over this giant piece of me to share with someone else. I’ve waited patiently all day (I so fucking wasn’t but anyway...) until I knew he would be home from work, done what needed doing, had his dinner, finally relaxed so I could send him quite a big piece of me for him to process and absorb. He’s a busy man, it’s tough sometimes, and I do so resent the time difference and the lack of opportunity that provides for “us”, that and so much more. But he shares himself with me every day when he can. So I waited, in earnest, like a child bursting with newfound knowledge and drama after a day at school hardly able to contain myself. And he absolutely destroyed me with words, just one sentence, and he probably doesn’t even realise it. The funny thing? I still haven’t pressed “send”...
So now I have an utter hatred of words, of all they represent, of my idiosyncratic response to one sentence of words. He meant no harm, that’s the irony of it all, I’m sure he didn’t - or maybe he did, I don’t bloody know. And now I’m sitting here, listening to the wind howling mournfully outside with rain hammering against the panes of glass after weeks of glorious sunshine as even Mother Nature is giving me the middle finger. I love to walk things off on a cold crisp night if I need to, the silence of it all bringing solace to a loud busy mind while the gentle roar of the sea makes sense of it all. Mother Nature: “lol, not tonight bitch, sort your own shit out”.
So I’ve read all your blogs again, the happy, the sad, the contemplative, trying to reignite my passion and lust for words. But the wind keeps taking them all away. And all I can hear is that one sentence reverberating in my ears in time with the rain on the glass...
(Insert dramatic sigh here...)
