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5 October 2003 (Sunday): sorry, my pockets are empty

I have only so many words in me, at any given time, and these days I've been handing most of them out to private parties. Handwritten letters to my parents, emails to friends, conversations with Soren, jotted thoughts in my private diary. There aren't many words left for The Last Embassy.

There is also the problem of visibility. I'm startled now, reading back at what I dared to write in the beginning. Of course, that was when I thought I was anonymous, read by close friends and maybe a fellow blogger or two. Now I feel like I want to be careful. I don't want to give anyone away, including myself, though I'm sure it's patently obvious to anyone who cares to investigate a little. This, too, narrows down the supply of possible words.

So I'm cheating. Here's a story from my private diary:

I stopped to eat at a sports bar and a man came up to my table while I was reading Neil Gaiman, a solitary girl in the corner with her book and ice water. “Hello, can I buy you a drink?” I said no thanks, smiling at him as sweetly as I could. He was a large burly man with a baseball cap; maybe I presumed too much, but I couldn’t imagine what we’d have in common, what we could talk about over a beer and a cranberry juice. Unoffended, he nodded and handed me a white paper object. He smiled, and began to walk away.

I was holding an origami rose made out of a bar napkin.

I grinned from ear to ear and turned it over, marveling at how he’d managed to make a few leaves along the stem. I hope he saw. Later I glanced up from my book toward the arcade section of the restaurant. He was helping a kid play pinball.

And a poem, amateur tripe as always, from several years ago:

we are building us a home,
a structure with three walls
and an open face to the sea.
we will be pummeled by winds,
frozen in salt as we sleep,
and awaken with sand like dew in our hair.

we will know then how things began,
how kind and cruel are together woven
as his heart is in mine.
how savage the winter soil,
how glorious the autumn sun,
how strange the darkness cupped in our hands.

and then we will build our fourth wall
to close our haven's shape,
our fortress complete and brave.
and in time we will forget
all lessons learned from three walls alone,
faces in firelight untouched by the cold.

vi'ae o vi chu
o fash'el di mairai,
ma lo nan acah se jo.

may your life be so joyous, brother.

posted by enjelani @ 06:55 PM PST

Replies: 2 comments

I think all bloggers struggle with what you're talking about to a degree. Obviously those in a more public life deal with it to a larger degree, but the decision to publicly share parts of yourself with the randoms can be scary and empowering... often both.

But you can only be who you are :)

*note to self*

Chix dig origami ;)

posted by syndromes @ 06 10 2003 09:27 AM PST

Comment re: nightstand
One of my favorite performers.

posted by theo @ 09 10 2003 11:29 AM PST