I have been terribly tardy in blogging these days and want to offer an apology to those who happen by. I’m sure I’m not the only blogger on the planet to miss days or even weeks of posting, but I feel fairly shabby about beginning with such enthusiasm and then, well, next to nothing. So here are a few words about inner voices that I hope will soothe you savage yet literate beasts-if you happen give a d*mn! 😉
“Get on with it, then!” says the non?/voice. This ‘thing’ is insidious, that voice, and I have yet to identify it with anything close to precision. More disturbing is that it may not exist at all.
And so that voice-or the lack thereof-is the subject of this post; perhaps an attempt at taking its incessant babbling down a notch-or five…
Because, my friends, it is responsible for my silence, not I! ”Hee hee,” say I… If I had my druthers, I would wax endlessly about this and that, comment expertly on the latest agenda facing the Senate, and present my philosophical proofs with wit and elegance. Ah, yes, those would be the days.
As it is, I live in this middle-aged head of mine and listen to the endless banter between conflicting selves that have grown up within me. This is not news to anyone, certainly none that I know. We are all at battle with our pasts and potential futures.
My persona(e) have combined into one personality all their own.
”Grow Up!” it/they command, yet I try to engage in self-affirming awareness, saying to myself, “That’s so very long in the past, those people are long dead, for God’s sake!” Yes, I know this, I know it all too well, yet that voice is the only one I can now unavoidably hear. And it is not one-or more-to shut up.
Particularly when I want to sit down and write.
When I neglect my blogging responsibilities, it is to blame, you see, and all those voices do combine into a ‘she’ without any doubt. Yep, she’s one hell of a bitch. Now obviously I am being facetious, yet that voice does seem a separate entity at times, yes? And never to be discounted.
She was not kind. She had little patience. She was a ‘battleaxe’; a tough chick in modern day lingo. And her only project was little old me. She was insufferable enough to wake me in the night to remind me of my interpersonal missteps of the day before, making sure that I was sufficiently aroused so I could not go back to sleep for hours, if at all. Her personal joy was in jabbing me in the side just as I had relaxed into writing confidence. And of course, she made absolutely sure I received a nasty emotional bruise. I always did and they still ache like hell.
Okay, okay, I am not going to blame it all on her. Although I should. But how do I fight back? Her life ended in ’78. So what is this schizoid word processing that goes on in my brain?
Well, I suppose it comes down to a simple choice. I either sit comatose in front of the waiting page, or I can have the courage to meet it with the written word. ”Just do it” as the advertisers entice-well, okay, I’ll do it, if someone will only tell me how! Still waiting…I wonder if she will help this process from her grave.
Topics and ideas come and go, and I am a jack of all, master of none-which I must reluctantly admit and embrace. So dear ones, if you are still with me by now, you may by now see that all this is a pep talk to myself (you, too?) that I have oh, so sorely needed. I thank you for sticking with me through the lean times, you’re the best.
Thanks for reading such a rambling rant-a specialty of mine!