...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.



"Falter"

The following thoughts are from my first guest writer.  She has written her feelings about many of my blogs in emails and comments, and I would like to share this one with you.  Her thoughts and feelings about the oncoming of winter have a new twist. 

Falter

by: Pepper

Well...it finally happened. This morning there was frost on the truck, cold, crisp, clear, and frosty. At 6:15 am, I stood in my driveway staring up at the still night sky. So clear, every star that God has given us was out in all its beauty. The kind of sky that makes you feel like you could just reach up without effort, touch whatever’s out there, and bring it down and hold it. I guess that's what I did; I held what I saw in my heart and said a prayer. It felt good. It felt right. I thought if I can see through the sky without difficulty, could those in heaven see me as easily? It’s just another question in a mind so full of not knowing what to think about.

I don't really like this time of year. The leaves lie dead on the ground, cold, wet, and rotting into next year’s mess. The changing colors from summer to fall have all but gone now. The trees stand in their nakedness, looking sad in shades of black. They sleep without movement. Time stands still, as they wait for that blast of snow and the unforgiving winds that accompany it.

We have the four seasons, and I don't think I would be happy without them. We start with Spring rains, everything turning green and coming back to life. Summers...filled with warm days and nights and living outside in the sun...a special time of the year to gather at the lake and enjoy friends. Fall...the beautiful colors, warm days and cool nights, long walks in the woods, football and tailgating. Winter...cold days, and nights, cabin fever, and snowmen. Laughing with grandchildren while making snow angels, mugs of hot chocolate, and pots of hot soup...and the endless wondering if Spring will ever come again.

 But there's that time between seasons when Fall is done, and Winter hasn't shown up yet. That should be our 5th season. And, I think it should be called, "Falter.” The dictionary’s description of falter is, 1. "To move unsteadily, stumble, totter. 2. To hesitate in purpose or action. 3. To lose effectiveness." Yep... "Falter," 1/2 Fall...1/2 Winter.

Now I go to work each day, and come home to a dark house. I sit with a book and sleep through a movie, and feel the total, "lose of effectiveness." Bring on the snow...lets get it over with…I will be in a mood until it does!

...Sticks & Stones & Words...

Remember the old saying, “Stick and stones may break my bones, but names and faces won’t hurt me.” Even though we may have said it in a lyrical sort of way, ending with a nah, nah, nah, nah, nah nah. It’s a dangerous lie. Words have spiritual value you know. They can create life in our spirit or they can produce death. Cruel words crush the soul and wound the spirit of the person.

I posted this quote on Facebook and after I did, a barrage of memories of my childhood in the early 60’s came flooding back. I remember my mother telling me to say this when I was at the mercy of some mean nasty kid that made me cry. I remember screaming it at the top of my lungs with tears in my eyes a few times at someone who hurt my friend’s feelings or mine. Sometimes it’s just hard growing up. We took the dose of childhood with a spoonful of caster oil, pulled up our big girl panties, and went forward. I was talking with my husband about our different childhood memories and he chuckled and gave me that look, you know the kind that says, hold on, stop right there, and then he blurts out, “Sounds to me like you were one of the mean kids.” Naturally, I gasped, “Not me,” I replied. “Well,” he says. “Sounds to me any kid that screams at another kid, ‘Your mother wears Army boots,’ is kind of a mean kid, don’t you think?”

“Humph.” Back in the early 60’s that was a common thing for kids to say if they wanted to be spiteful. “But, they said it to me,” I retorted. Any comment made towards someone’s mother was a personal attack. Fightin’ words to be exact. I grew up with a close-knit group of neighborhood kids. We were all born and were raised on the same street. We were the next generation of kids whose older brothers and sisters were in high school or already graduated. Our street was our territory and those who invaded it, most of the time weren’t welcomed. Hmmmm…come to think of it, what I just wrote makes us sound like a bunch of little bullies. I assure you we weren’t. And, we were not the new generation replicas of the Little Rascals either. But there were a couple times someone was initiated into our spur of the moment clubs. We did stupid things to them, like blindfolding someone and making them smell a concoction of rotten fruit that fell off the trees and ended up throwing rotten fruit at everyone in rotten fruit tag. We made up stuff to do and yes, there were a couple kids who were picked on more than others, but no one was ever immuned. Eventually everyone was the blunt of a prank, you know how the saying goes, what goes around comes around. It came around that eventually our school peers picked us on…something like a rite of passage without the ceremony. No one is inoculated from being victimized once or twice in his or her lives.

This leads me back to the beginning of why I started to write today’s blog. Words. Words are spoken from being hurt. Words are written when you’re hurt and can’t express them any other way. Both forms have hurt me. I have hurt others by both. Words can be vicious hooks with enormous power, becoming a living entity that grows, spreads, and influences others directly or indirectly. Words can be taken out of context. I am not above saying I have held grudges because of spoken and written words, hell, I’m the Queen of Grudges! One word, just one frickin’ word out of place driven by emotion can submerge a relationship. I know. I think of my mother cautioning me, “Don’t ever put in writing what you wouldn’t want repeated. You can never take it back.” She was a wise woman in many ways. Now, I will close and let you ponder the power of the written and the spoken word. Notice how it provokes and divides or calms and connects. Does it create and produce change? I have pondered the same questions and my own faults. I am increasingly more cautious in what I say and how I listen to the words around me.

Oh, and one last thought, if you ever hear a kid scream, “Your mother wears Army boots!” Tell them that you personally want to thank her for wearing them and God Bless Her!

Peace everyone...