...Hangin' In the Breeze...

"The place where you came from ain't there anymore,

and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out."

We are critics, we all are. Sometimes we are our own worse critic, and not one person I know can deny the fact. The word critic and its elbow hard edges; C’s that sound like K’s and the “IT” in the middle that stands alone (remember how you felt when you were the "cheese," and the cheese stood alone?). You expect to see a gnarly pointed finger and the possibility of the oncoming spray of spittle that lands on your cheek and burns like acid. My mom used to tell me when someone points at you, remember they are pointing three fingers back at themselves. Those words should have given me some comfort, but they didn’t. In my case, my internal temperature rises; my heart pounds to a whole different rhythm, sweat beads undetected on my scalp, the tips of my ears begin to blush crimson, and I come back to reality when the nervous perspiration collects to form an ice-cold trickle down the v of my back.
 
Your critic leans back in his oversized chair, a smirk laces his thin lips and secretly gloats, confidant he made you feel exactly how he envisioned it. Patiently, he awaits the rest of your reaction. You’re speechless. That’s okay, take all the time you need to get it together, time is on his side, not yours. This same scenario could be the reaction to bad news. Like when someone tells you your life will never be the same, or the decision you’re about to make can affect not only your life, but also the lives of those you love.

Beginning a letter can be quite a daunting task, especially if it’s been a while since you communicated with someone. The following letter will get different reactions, but I have a very savvy following and most of you might get it…or maybe not. It’s been nearly eight months since I’ve last posted and sometimes (probably most of the time), I’m vague at to what I’m trying to say. It’s like the writer who wants and loves to write smut, but is afraid what his or her family and friends will think. I say, write it using a pseudonym, or screw what others think, and just write it. Did I just say that…coming from the queen of vague? Some of my posts I’ve been told “…are an exercise in reading undertones. Have you done any acting?” Yep, that made me laugh. Don’t we act out in one form or another every day of our lives? Think about it… I digress.

I haven’t determined if this will be my last post, too soon to tell at this writing but this may be the first of the final series of The Constipated Woman. You know what they say about all good things coming to an end…when another door opens, take a deep breath and walk through…Peace.

June 8, 2013

Hello My Friend,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I sincerely apologize for being so disrespectfully remiss concerning my continuing correspondence. You may come to a few conclusions of your own, on what condition my condition is in. You may concur with others about a probable diagnosis to what may seem to you, an obvious problem concerning my delayed absence. Please don’t. Better yet, just have a party. If you love to have parties to celebrate the non-substantial and the senseless, then the subject of my well-being will make a great theme. Flavor it up with a black light, a ball of tin foil, some grease paint, and a little mood music like Iron Butterfly and take yourself a retro 60’s trip with a zombie theme. Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket…call me and we can work on the details. That was extremely rude…sorry!

After all, I did make a pact with you, and I fully acknowledge I haven’t kept many of the promises I intended to keep. In the past, you frequently prompted me to indulge you with dark and voluptuous snippets of my life to maintain your loyalties. I tried and I came up short. Instead, I frequently arrived with pen in hand, my thinning hair uncombed, and balancing my cereal bowl size cup of coffee while dodging my over-indulgent cats. I sit on my fat ass at my uniquely crafted desk and prepare to write out on my arm for all to read, a watered-down laxative in the form of feelings. I am remiss of the reason I came. The cold coffee imprinted two halos inside my favorite chipped mug. I am remiss of spent time or the number of cups I drank. The sun is high in the sky and I am remiss about why I’m still sitting here.

I duly note a number of my obligations did not exceed some of your specifications. I tried to be your friend. I tried to convey, and I believe I succeeded in letting you know you are not the only one out there with dark and crazed feelings. Should you ask me tomorrow what I wrote today, I would be remiss of an opinion and promptly display a blank canvas.

Did I forget to mention what your words meant to me? Did I tell you how supportive you were? I am remiss. I know I might have waited too long to tell you I care and for that, I am sorry. Hundreds of daily emails have dwindled down to an infrequent handful of letters from cyber followers who have become my friends, and that’s okay...really. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging during my absence; I am not remiss of the guilt or the sense of commitment I promised. I realize seven months is a long time to wait and see if I happened to share some sort of whimsical enlightenment to make you laugh or cry. By now, many of you may have even forgotten my blog’s silly name or the purpose I began to write…that’s okay, you can be remiss of that. What I fear is leaving an existence I am becoming remiss of. I didn’t leave you I left myself. It’s not so puzzling, just frightening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the playwright’s fault for setting the stage all wrong. The props, the backdrops, and the eerie musty draft from backstage…all wrong. He promised the audience something he knew I could not deliver. I told him not everyone could read between the lines. All eyes were on me and if I gave a second rate performance, it was his fault. The script was flawed; even an imbecile could plainly see he plagiarized my subconscious in an attempt to gain fame and recognition. It was he who made me forget my lines by his devilish pranks and subliminal actions off stage. It was he who made me the fool of the performance while the rest of the cast waited in the green room sipping on a mild degree of success. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter now because I am totally remiss of the events during the blackout. Was it the stage or was it the set? Yes, yes, that was it…the set collapsed, it was an obvious flaw in the design and structure…that’s the answer—which I am now certain of. I merged with the coulisse and watched the confused audience from the diffused wings of my manic thought balloon. Remiss.

Cleverly camouflaged amid the props I stood unnoticed. I froze and watched the audience with widened eyes and gaped mouths to see the massive conglomeration of their seemingly pathetic lives form over their heads. Did they understand any of what was happening? Of course, they did not. Did they see what I saw, or were they remiss their own lives were being anonymously played out before them?

When everyone twisted his or her heads for one final glance towards the stage, I believed I would be in agony if they found me out. I wasn’t, and was thankful. They, the perfect ones with their curled lips of apathy, whisper to one another behind cuffed hands hiding the mounting sense of panic. They gather their programs and their looking glasses and scurry towards the theater’s only exit in an orderly fashion. They were afraid. Their declining postures and outstretched necks told me they were afraid others would see the fading façade through the failing youth toxins. Those, with their perfect pompadours and french manicures desperately inhaled the trail of the dispersing phantom whiffs of sanity as it marched out the theater before them. I stood remiss of emotion.

It would be remiss of me if I did not share with you the vital role you have made in my life. I know you cared…I feel it now, and I felt it then. Please forgive me; I am remiss of your name and long for the days when I was untouched by an atrophied brain.