PoeticaL
cluttering the net since 2001

my voice

Friday, Nov. 08, 2002
Ok my crack addict co-workers (thatís a joke) are gone. Gone! GONE I tell ya. They are on their way to Germany and its quiet and calm in here and as you can see, weíre not busy. Most of the industry is going, anyone who is anyone or at least wants to be someone in the industry is going. So next week will be somewhat hectic because weíre all wearing extra hats for now, but other than that the broker world is in Germany and so no oneís doing normal business at the same rate as normal. So while I have a few extra hats, there is not much call for me to use them hard. Itís always fun to try out new positions though. ;-)

Tonight will be sushi , writing, rewriting, scrapping and making up for last nights missing writing time. I have a long weekend to get caught up and reorganized. I promised Bucky that I would actually buy him the Glitter soundtrack. When I was younger my mother never bought me any CDís and that used to bother me so much. I promised my future children way back then that I would buy them music at their request and so he reminded me this morning with a smile that he hadnít forgotten my promise. Heís also in need of a new pair of sneakers and so Iíll be busy hunting down a nice pair this weekend. Iím also going to check on and hopefully procure some Our Lady Peace concert tickets so I can see the Blue Joules open the show. I canít wait to hear the response to the new song. Iím torn about that song. Itís hard to explain it except to say that most songs are reminders of things.

When you have actually penned something yourself, itís a deeper reminder of that place you went to find the inspiration. I know how to get to that place, and I know I need to do that with this fiction masterpiece, but itís a painful process for me. Itís emotionally draining, and I donít know if I can sit for hours and hours a night and let all of those feelings and that vibe I go to, that pool of experiences and past pains to write. I know if I can, if I do, there will be no way to stop me from achieving the end that I seek.

I have taught myself in the last year to hold it all in. To grow a thick skin. To stretch my skin tight like cellophane so that no one can penetrate my heart. I have so little of it left. Cracked and torn and sometimes having waved in the wind catching bird shit as it fell like a flag standing for little else but that sliver of inner strength and resolve that Iíve never lost. Having taught myself how to close off and find that inner strength, it is now fear inducing to think of shedding my security blanket and laying anything out there raw anymore.

Being raw was something that came natural for me for so long. And then came the blows. About the head and chest. The ones that caused me to dream smaller, speak softer, walk slower. I have crumbled and glued back the pieces so many times that the turmoil taught me to avoid turmoil. So hard to overcome it, that it seemed best to avoid it and embrace that ever safe feeling called numb.

Now I am tagging words together like an outline. Facts. Figures. Dates. Badly used adjectives. Because it is safe. Safe but bad. Safe but bland. Safe but not me. Where did my voice go? Can it surely be that I have opened my mouth to sing my beautiful song and found that in my attempts to protect myself, I have killed my expressive soul? Have those shit slinging visitors caused me to shield myself from the beautiful sun?

I need to peel away all of those things and let myself remember what it is to be a walking wound. What it is to see blank stares and want to pick them from the air and sling them around the neck of emotional abuse. To strangle any possible threats of personal wounds. Have I lost the ability to feel pain in the deepest most beautiful raw ways that make us speak from places that are cold like metal daggers, hot like just murdered bodies. Have I given up myself to save myself and if so what have I saved?

I thought I was saved. I thought I had learned to protect that which can be shattered. That is what I thought, and then I found out that still, one tiny miniscule lie can rip your heart out. It can break all the chains that bind your emotions inside your chest. All the words you gave up with the need to believe that by letting them go they would disappear. Even kite strings can strangle your heart if you assume that they can only give flight to beautiful things.

I am a girl who started out with a heart. Iím sure I thought that life would go a certain way and when it didnít I pulled away. I glue words together and writes words and pacify myself with creative outlets like electrocution waiting to happen. I have a thousand thoughts and all Iím doing is trying to find my way back.

I know you have been lost, we all get lost. How then after being lost does one forget what it is to stand alone, to be so utterly alone?? How do I forget? Forget what pain destroys. I need to forget because it is my pain that staples my voice right to the pages. Pageís that will grab your face and punch you right where you cry!

-PoeticaL

4:12 p.m. ::
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