Monthly Archives: May 2012

What is this thing?

Lately I’ll be honest. I don’t know.

After my post yesterday I thought for a while about what this blog is and what I want it to be.

Here’s a list of things it is…
• A place for me to vomit my feelings.
• A place where I can vomit said feelings and no one will suggest I need counseling…at least to my face.
• A place where I can discuss things that matter to me.
• A place for me to write (see last post)
• A place for me to sit in a coffee shop and type on my computer and feel important. (that’s what I’m doing at the moment)

And here’s a list of what I want it to be
• A place for me to vomit my feelings
• A place where I can discuss things that matter to me
• A place where I can share neat bits of information that I pick up.
• A place where I can share things I’ve created
• A place for me to write (see last post)
• A place for me to create virtual friends I won’t have to see in public.

The last line is a joke.

Or is it?
You won’t know!!!

Haha, no I don’t say things that cruel unless they’re jokes.
Or do I?

I am really really really going to make an effort to post more and update this thing more often and be a better blogger. I have established that I have a need to write, and where better to write than my own blog. That way I won’t get ink all over my hand writing while left handed…and I won’t get a wrist cramp from writing on paper. Plus paper??? Really, its barbaric.

So I suppose I’ll be seeing you around blog!
And blogging has made its way on to my to do list and I obliterate to do lists!


Promises to Keep

I carried a spiral bound notebook everywhere.
I was eleven, everyone told me I could write so I did.
Every day I sat quietly by the desk while my grandmother typed her novel.
Every day I wrote in my notebook.

When she died for the first time words failed.
Nothing I wrote could express the pain I felt.
I wrote word after word.
Everything I wrote was to do her honor, to remember.
Even after filling volumes, the pain never stopped.

After she died for the first time I stopped.
The notebook stayed locked away.
The words came, but I shrugged them off.

We sat together my father, my sister, and I.
He was reading.

“Whose woods are these, I think I know.
His house is in the village though.”

I said I didn’t write any more.
Words didn’t do justice to the feeling I had.
He said it wasn’t something that could be stopped.
The words will come out, they will find their way out.

I said I would just forget them.
I wouldn’t put pen to paper.
It wasn’t worth it.

“These woods are lovely, dark, and deep.”

He made me promise to write.
I promised him I would never stop.

The days tick on and on, the world turns and life continues.
I put pen to paper and I write.

I paint, I build, I cut. I create.
I approach the chasm that is the pain of him being gone.
I know it will be an eternity before I can write about it.
I try to fill the chasm but it stands wide and deep.

But I still remember.

From the day I picked up the notebook to the day I die.
I promised.

“but I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.”