My students have found my blog. I feel my literary world and professional world obliterate each other and the line that existed forever gone. These perfect bubbles I have lived in are destroyed as the worry of parental complaints and protest. As a teacher you feel the weight of responsibility for those you teach as if they belong to you. My literary works are personal and not gossip. Will they recognize that in their tabula rasa state? some will while others will not and I am forced to confront a truth. My writing is public and I have chosen this stage. I must write with pride as I come out of the wings and stand center stage. I will not be silenced.
I know I trade what I want for what I need. We always trade but I believe few of us want to acknowledge it. What am I trading today? Or has simply the addition of children made the trading endless. I understand why Woolf wanted a room of her own.
I read your soul in your divine words and am honored to be let into your brilliant spark of life. I feel the weight of my soul. The soul always finds life again, a seedling is always left behind after obliteration to begin renewal. It is covered in scars and perfect. The soul can heal and it does reside in all of us so why do we resist the idea of our soul. We feel it exist within us but cannot name where it resides; the heart, the head or the base of our spine. Perhaps it is a romantic notion to believe in a soul. To believe that something dwells within all of us; something otherworldly, breathtaking and sacred. But when I read your words, I hear your spirit.
we read we write we read we write
It is the ebb and flow of a tide
the push and pull of a door
As we come up
stroke after stroke
We are reminded not to drown
as ink spills from our ears
our brain comes up for air
Should the mentally ill get handicap spots at the store? I mean crazy is a handicap of mine. I take a great deal of time, therapy, money and medication to attempt to stay on the sane train. I just feel like a perk here and there would make me feel special. It is hard work keeping my bipolar, ADD, insomniac, anxiety-ridden self on the straight and narrow so a shorter walk here and there may lighten the load.
P.S. And yes, I know they are for handicapable people (a term the special education teacher at my school says is correct) that can’t physically handle long walks and I am not trying to belittle or make light of that issue. I am making fun of myself and my handicap.
His suitcase a rainbow interior as he inspected his clothes with a fastidiousness reserved for the Mona Lisa.
Mom tried to hide his flaws with stories of bravado
I saw a vain, flirtatious and angry man
Her stories never compensated for the truth
You are critical because I am critical. I will be criticized as I hear your thoughts with so few follows. We all have so much to tell that our stories often feel tedious and mundane. Nothing original going on in our head. Is originality truly possible? Hasn’t it all been said before so perhaps we look for new ways to describe the original. Make it seem new again. Hold it up to the light to see a new fascet that illuminates our mind for a brief moment. Reminding us of essential truths. We matter even if we walk alone.