See-through me

I must be fairly transparent. It seems like people can see into the heart of me, through whatever walls I’ve built or the defenses I have. Maybe it’s because I’m being more myself, more comfortable, and it lets the sentries on top of the walls and men manning the defenses relax. Several times in the last month or so it has happened.

I bumped into my neighbor on the bus. I was on my way out of town, taking the bus to the Max, the Max to the airport, the rental car from the airport to Idaho and Utah. We talked for a little while and she got off the bus with me and walked over to the Max station. Along the way she told me that she sees me as a poet. Not that I write or speak in rhyme, but that I have a sensitive soul. Something about the way that she said it made me feel exposed and vulnerable, like she really was seeing my soul.

I talked to a woman in my class who shares her name with a famous city in Egypt. It was part of an exercise: we were supposed to interview each other and come up with a description of the other, especially one thing about them that we thought was a telling detail in that it revealed something about them which they didn’t explicitly say. I don’t remember what she said, but something to the effect that I am a sensitive soul, have a gentle heart and love to give. Something like that. She said that in class and I didn’t know what to think or do or say, so I didn’t do anything. But I did feel outed, somehow.

I met my roommate’s mom the other night. It was very brief. He had just picked her up at the airport and knocked on my door to introduce me. I said hi, we both remarked that we had heard a lot about the other and that was it. The next morning I was milling around the house and getting ready for school when she came into the living room and we started chatting. Right off, she seemed to have a sense of me, and more than that I have a big heart or anything like that, but like she had a complete picture. She knew about where I’d been, in a way, and who I was. She said many complimentary things about me and told me she saw me as a writer, or maybe on the radio or in commercials because of my voice. It was incredible and came at just the right time when I needed to hear something nice about myself. My one regret is that I can’t adequately explain what happened or what she said.

Somehow there is a connection between all of us. I think most of us aren’t aware of it the majority of the time, and if we were I can imagine it being like cords tying all of us together which we’d constantly trip over or not be able to move at all. But it’s there and when we’re open to it there can be a flicker and a connection in an instant between relative strangers and somehow we get a sense of one another and there’s a small exchange, even if only for the briefest moment. Then it’s gone and we go on about our day in the same way we always do, the same colors we see, the same feelings and things happening, but at least we can carry the memory of that connection with us and hang onto it until it happens again.

Calling out and Change

My attempt in a previous post to call out any readers of this blog failed miserably. I ask myself, What do you expect? Do you really think badgering the witness is going to get you the response you hope for? Instead, I suppose the correct technique is to write gorgeous prose or political statements about something people are interested in. Write about what people believe or want to. Write a post full of tags that people might search for on the internet so they find your blog (kidding).

I haven’t written much here because I’ve been too preoccupied with reading and writing elsewhere. I think I mentioned before that I’m in a writing class. The largest task so far has been constructing a short story but I did it, it’s been critiqued by the instructor and my peers, and now it’s time to go over it and make revisions to turn in a second draft in a couple of weeks. I also need to work on a second story that will go through the same process and be turned in as the final. Been reading lots of good stuff, too. Not so much the works of my classmates (although they all have redeeming qualities and some are quite good), but the short stories that are assigned for class or the novel I chose to read for class or the stuff I’ve been reading on the side.

Life is good. I’m back to being myself more often and being okay. I’m fairly busy and that’s been good for me. My own philosophy of life is bubbling back to the surface and it feels like I’ve repressed it for so long. Portland helps draw it out. Meeting new people helps the experience as well, and the combination of this city and my desire to reach out has made it so I’m having some good interactions.

That’s all I’m really going to say for now. I have a new blog project that I started, but I will wait a little while before I make it public here for any random souls passing through to find and look at. I guess in a way it’s good that I don’t know whether I have any readers or not. It frees me to write whatever gobblydeegook I want and not be concerned about the content or writing for a specific audience. It’s just for me. ‘Til next time…

Post #47

I made a comment once on another blog I sometimes write for that I only write when I’m feeling down and need a place to vent, but when I’m happy and things are going well in my life I don’t need it in the same way and therefore don’t write as much, if at all. When I look at most of what I’ve written here, I would say that the trend is opposite that of my writing on that other blog. This is my shiny, happy blog.

What is the purpose of blogging? Why do we write the things we do in a place that is so accessible, where anyone can read it if they only know to look? Why not keep a private journal? Do we crave attention, secretly hoping that someone out there will find resonance within the words we write, within our experiences, our pains and our hopes? I know it’s writing practice for me, but it’s also a way to slowly expose more about myself to an invisible audience, to get comfortable with revealing my thoughts and some of my experiences so that I don’t mind even when I have an audience that is no longer invisible, so that I’m not ashamed of anything I am or think. I check my blog stats all the time to see how many times people have visited and what they’ve looked at. I’m curious about who is finding my blog, what they think, if there are any regulars.

I have to ask myself about my motivation to write certain things and to avoid others. The only person I’ve ever known to read the drivel I write is my ex. She used to comment, but only she and God know if she still reads this. It’s clear to me that I’m not ready for primetime. I don’t have the capacity to expose myself like a true exhibitionist, even if I apply a “fictional” tag to what I write. Maybe I can gain courage through interacting with you, dear reader. Are there any? Are you out there? Oh, send me a sign. Better yet, avoid devil-worship and divinity equally and just leave a comment here for me to read. Maybe I will be more brave, more able to show myself and lie exposed if I see examples.

What the fuck am I talking about, you may ask. Sometimes, old chum, I honestly don’t know. It all goes back to the subtitle for this blog, which doesn’t show up with the current theme I’m using: Sometimes high-minded rhetoric – the rest is crap. (This is just a label.) Oh, so self-deprecating, so witty. So is the title of this particular posting. Very original, it is. I wrote most of this the other day and saved it as a draft. The title is what it was saved as, so I guess let’s celebrate it as an anniversary.

What is a writer? (Did someone mention the need for a segue? We don’t need no fucking Segway.) I never claim to be a writer. I sometimes write, but it’s mostly shite like this. But now I have to write a short story in the next two weeks. Two weeks! I haven’t written anything that can really qualify as fiction for a decade or more. Bloody hell. Anyone have any great story ideas?