Thinly Veiled

There is nothing thinly veiled about the story I wish to tell. There is no secret formula for cracking the code. What I have written is a memoir. A true telling of the most painful period in my life to date. Twenty four years, two of which are documented and saved on a hard drive for anyone who would like to read them. Yet, I hide behind a veil of busyness and mediocrity rather than throw into the world this "child" I have created. Tonight I decided to try and get representation by representing my story for what it truly is, rather than a lie. I have written a memoir and while it may be difficult to face the truth on every gory page, I'm going to have to eventually...

Goodnight.

Isolation

It's been awhile since I've done this. So much has happened... so many things to discuss. I wish I knew where to begin. Work is so stressful. Our biggest client was there today, overseeing our every move. It was stressful to say the least. My stomach turns at the thought of going back tomorrow. I wish I could just take a month off and write... I know, it sounds crazy. I wouldn't get anything done if I stayed home. I come home at night and can get nothing done. I wish I could spend a month on an island alone... isolation is my only respite.

Words flitter onto my tongue like tiny drops of acid on a piece of paper... spreading against all of the granules, wishing to be spoken or written or somehow expressed. I sit alone wondering if anyone will ever read what I am devoting my every thought to; If anyone will ever care enough to have faith in my abilities; if anyone will ever support them.

To hell with this

I have a question to ask you...

This is what I was greeted with moments before bed tonight... My father stated this to me minutes ago. "Okay," I replied quietly, hesitant to hear his words. "My friend from Colombia would like to read your book." He said and then continued slowly, "her son is a publisher in Colombia." As though this were supposed to entice me into allowing this woman who is a stranger to me, but knows my father better than I ever will into my inner most thoughts. 

"I'll have to let you know," I replied. "It was more of a statement than a question..." I trailed off in the smart-assed tone that I've perfected. 

  I want to let her read it because ultimately the goal of any novel is publication, but I'm also terrified that I may not measure up. In my own mind, I just want her to read it and tell my father that it's worth reading... Silly, I know. I want it to be good. I want to be published. So I guess we'll finish up editing and send it via the beautiful world wide web. Goodnight.

"Mock" Blog

So tonight I am writing a mock blog that I would imagine my sister would write if she had the patience or mental capacity to write one. I'm experimenting with putting myself in someone else's shoes, if you will. Here it goes. 

"Title: Many Names"

There are many names one might call me. We could start with my birth name, that which was plastered on paper in a Baltimore hospital for all to see. Next would be "Mommy" as my children once called me. Now, would be "Mom" or "Mother" as I am now less affectionately referred to. Followed of course by Crackity Anne. This is the name my siblings and father have taken to calling me. Whore. This is the name whispered by my youngest sister at the mere mention of my name. Entrepreneur. My response to her sordid name. 

You can call me whatever your heart desires; whatever your loins long for. 

Lady Bug Graveyard

You may wonder why a lady bug is the chosen icon on my page... no? Never thought about it? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. In nearly every culture the ladybug is said to be a creature of great luck. Killing one (which I would never do) is said to bring great misfortune and sadness. Why do I care about ladybug folklore? 

Well... let's just say you'll have to read the book to learn more. Sorry, I realize it's vicious of me to do this... but it's my favorite part. I could never possibly reword/paraphrase/replicate it. You'll just have to read it. Let me know if you'd care to... I'm almost finished editing. Goodnight.

Prodigal Daughter

No word from her yet. Am I still raising her two children? You know it. The real fear of it all is that I don't want her to come back. It just makes life harder for her children. Her older son, we'll call him James, wants absolutely nothing to do with her. Which is sad, in some respects. I understand where he's coming from though. There have been times in my life that I didn't want anything to do my mother either. My mother has made her mistakes.

Her younger son, we'll call him Sean, he misses the crap out of her. Sometimes it makes me angry. I know there is a bond between mother and child that can not be broken by crack pipes, prostitution or abandonment. I suppose I had just hoped he would see past it all. Yet, on some level I hope that he never does. On the day he sees past her for who she really is that beautiful twinkle in his deeply set brown eyes will be lost forever. At what point is our innocence so crudely stripped away from us? I wish I could find it. If you should happen upon my innocence please tell it that I am waiting for it here. I'll stay put. I won't move for fear that it may return. 

Dreams Tell Terrifying Truths

I've been struggling lately with escaping my dreams. I'm told all "artists" ( I hesitate to use the word, since I hate to refer to myself as an artist) struggle with dreams versus reality. To clarify, I have no qualms with the dreams that I hope to make reality. It's the dreams that occur when my head rests upon my pillows that distress me. I close my eyes at night and my sister haunts me. No matter where I am or how I've fallen asleep she is standing there. 

Last night I was out with friends (kickball) and had a little bit to drink before my eyelids fell closed. The initial flickers of dreams were pleasant and I drifted off to sleep. Around 2 AM I awoke, much like people do in movies or in television shows. I had a quite clear recollection of her standing beside my bed yelling idle threats that she would kill me if I didn't let her son leave with her. In my dream I removed a gun from under my pillow, shot her, then rolled over and went back to sleep. It was horrible. When I awoke, I lay in bed convincing myself it wasn't true. My hands shook. Sometimes I wish I could cry.