I’ve recognized a few things in going thru these old drafts, one of which is that I am more of a Ken Burns sort of storyteller, then I am a Stephen King. And, that I’ve shifted gears, going with the flow might be more correct, and that real life is far better than any fiction.
Suppose this post is also about why I do what I do, or keep doing it. Mom had a clear vision of who I was and knew she needed to push me out into the world, to explore, as I would never do it on my own. Well, and that in end I would never be satisfied with the standard life that most desire. Certainly, every single time I’ve ever tried I’ve been swept off into the brambles, the less travelled way, going after some desire, notion, person, place, thing, as I’ve always been attracted to those rare and unusual fringe dwellers.
She saw my introverted nature, my shyness, but she recognized that the little world of our village of Dodge was never going to fulfill me, would, in fact, stifle me. So she fashioned me some wings, took me by the hand and showed me what there was to see, do, be, and with a tear in her eye, probably, knew her tea towel in the wind was always going to be the away daughter, sometimes the fool, and that she would probably never know exactly where I would land, but she made sure she taught me how.
I was going to scrap this post, but in the end, I decided to share it since it is authentic and part of the larger story of how I found my way.
First drafted March 31st, 2015.
Mom, for the longest time you know, I felt as though I was living the life you had wanted to lead, or I think I tried to. Even, you know, my time at Irish Lake, some of it can be blamed on you. Wouldn’t you have taken the opportunity to live at a lake? And have a lovely little cottage garden to putter around in? Now really? Yes, it’s all your fault.
Well, no. But you get the gist. I wasn’t trying to please you though, rather it was like you lived vicariously through me. Me off in Australia at 19 years old, me in California the year before, and the weekend at the gay couples you and a friends Mom arranged when I was 13. And of course, I did get to go to BealArt, and you did not. You instead got married, moved to North Carolina, and moved back again after I was born, and Dad was still being a dick. You had two kids and worked at a small village Newspaper doing ads for how many years?
So maybe after your death, it took me some time to recover myself. I’d lost bits and pieces of me all over. I’d stupidly, somewhere along the line, lost me almost completely. As I told Crossroads Man last night, the first bad thing that ever happened to me happened when roger.the.dodger and I separated…up till then my life had been all hunky-dory idyllic. Spoiled even.
Then I separated and barely two years later you up and died, and for a while, I could barely breathe. I felt constricted, and pensive, and looking over my shoulder, wondering what bad thing would happen next. Grandma’s death had been nothing in comparison to these tragedies of the heart.
Then I met Tim, and all that whirlwind, and woe, and grief. Now here I am. Once again, and I’m somewhere I’d almost been before, and yet again I find myself just where you would love to have been. I see that Mom.
Just so you know, but it’s not for you I live the way I do. I live the way I do, and not just because of you, but instead it just happens to be who I am, but you, of course, knew that all along.
And besides crossroads man, I am still struggling on the book front. Still wrestling with ideas, which I think is half the problem, instead, I need to just bloody write, and sort it out afterwards. I’m thinking of little pockets of this and that, little vignettes of real, but fictionalized ancestors. Intermingled are snippets of this ongoing present-day love story as well. This story no one living knows the answer to yet, and won’t know until I know. Sort of like an old-fashioned quilt of many pieces of material from the past.
Then, of course, there is the gaudy stitching made from my past loves. And in the end, the answer to something I’ve hinted at in the opening paragraph…or not.
My idea is to create this weave and weft as the means by which to sketch in the scenes, snippets of the characters, the dialogues, rather than telling it all right out in a classic narrative. Instead, I want to play with broad and bold sweeps, with a certain simplicity, with the hidden layers of an onion, and an earthy, feminine depth grounding the stage I’ve set.
Yeah right. Or something along those lines. But I need to drink copious amounts of coffee first and drench my heart in acid so as to not create drivel spewed from your mouth whilst you sleep narrative, that coughs and sputters in its slumbering boredom. Just for faux points, I’m even thinking of giving myself a reward for even writing about my book. So, this today counts as a faux point, and therefore I get a treat. To be determined when I can afford it treat. Although, it is a lot closer now to fruition then last week when it was merely something I would occasionally admit I wanted to do ONE day if pressed.