I’m glad I’m not famous, or every st00pid thing I’ve written would be immortalized forever. Remember when we used to shoot the shit with friends and those convos would drift off into the aether, lost with our hangovers? If there was any brilliant philosophical insight or poetic piece of pretty, they’d be gone too, poof. But now we tweet and fb our every stray strand of emotion, and hopefully no one screencaps it since we’re nobodies. I myself have deleted more things than I’ve poasted. Yes, while you’re all sleeping, I walk the cyberbeaches in the moonlight and erase my footprints. Well, I used to do a lot more of that; now I do it only sporadically.

While I was poking around the otter day, searching for lost writings, I found this piece of poast* which I really like, even out of context, and will share it with my loyal blogfans.

Laurel Canyon. The summer of nineteen seventy-nine. I am my own gaslighter. I drive too fast on these curvy roads, but I am made of silk and butter, and I slide around danger like an egg on a sizzling skillet, close to the edge, but always slipping back to the center before anything terrible happens. Something would happen soon. I run through the scenarios in my mind every time I leave the house. There are times I believe the bad thing has already occurred and I scour old newspapers for the story. I have to go to the library to find the papers because someone won’t let me see the mail. People creep around the house and hide things from me. Who are they?

I’ve poasted about gaslighting a few times now, and every time I do I end up deleting the poast because it’s too personal and I’m uncomfortable with it sitting out there for anyone to read. Even though this blog doesn’t get much traffic, it is public after all. Theoretically, anyone in the world could stop by. I don’t feel like changing permissions when I get all emotionally vomitatious; I’ve done it in the past and it’s too cumbersome. In any case, I’m not some wannabe counselor or a Linky Laura going for adrev ~ either my poasts are about me or there’s no point.

Well, actually my long game is to accumulate a giant number of blog readers that I can eventually show to a publisher and say SEE I HAZ POTENTIAL BOOK BUYERS! But er for that I would actually need to write a book. Gah, details. Always details!

I had a cold for a week, which wouldn’t be a big deal, except it triggered a cascade of violent migraines and I’ve been very dizzy and nauseated. Still not 100% “normal” yet. I missed a few days of work, and I haven’t been able to write much or do needlework at home. I just zone out in front of the TV every night. But finding that gaslighting snip has motivated me. This weekend I’ll be getting back to my pomes. These are cathartic, a purge of years of old moldy boxes from the attic, and I caution everyone not to buy the poetry book when I plop it onto Amazon because the pomes are simply dreadful. Post-ploppage, I shall return to my Real Writing.

*phrase stolen from the Great & Powerful Lizard

3 responses to “Glittertrails

  1. Thanks Paula! Sometimes I think writing is an expression of an emotion. I let it come, enjoy it (most of the time) and then let go. And sometimes deleting, whether by an eraser or a delete, is therapeutic. Just my two cents – no change necessary. 😉

    PS – I’m back in the WP world!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The problem I have with stupid things I’ve written is that there are a vast number of places I write them under any of a variety of aliases and with variable intent. This is not to include those I’ve written and never put anywhere plus a largish number that I intended to write, never got around to, and now can’t remember whether I did or not. On this issue in particular (writing), my record-keeping and organizational skills just suck. When I run across something I’d forgotten from years past I spend the next few minutes (a) admiring how good it is, since I can barely remember it at all, and (b) trying to sort out whether I’ve ever actually put it up anywhere. Combine this with often afternoon-long searches for something I cannot find and therefore cannot establish whether I actually wrote it down (probably not, or maybe in a couple of places over the years), things get a bit complicated. The older I get, the more versions of more crap gets crammed into this bulging dustbin of possibilities. I must say I’m developing a deep understanding of the old fart who will tell you the same story you’ve already heard a dozen times. He’s not really forgetful. He just can’t figure out whether this particular chunk of a giant file-cabinet of random shit has been already been put out there or not.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Oh wow. Nail. Head. It seems like it used to be there was a tag on each apocryphal story in my head that said who I had already told this story to. No longer. Unfortunately that includes things I said last week. That time period getting shorter and shorter.


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