Dear Writing Exercise No. 1

I think you are a good thing, particularly if you are me and looking for a way to help organize your thoughts and develop a skill that could prove invaluable in job-hunting, social correspondence, and the future expose you hope to write on everything. So, that is what this post will be-an exercise, not an expose, sadly. If it reads (if there is anyone reading) as forced and not funny and weird, you have my apologies. Many of my exercises (physical or written) happen in a similar manner with comparable results, except there is also sweating.

The trick, for me, to blogging, is putting myself out there without sharing too much. It isn't too hard for me in that, I kind of live my life that way, but also really hard for me because when I write, I am usually better able to express myself than when I speak. I have said it before and I will say it again;:I am better on paper (and/or the interweb) than I am in person. This is not because I can edit what I say. It's because I have more clarity when I write than when I speak. I think this is because the writing is solitary and the speaking is with the peoples, and for me, this is a no-win combination.

I think I am afeared of the peoples. All people. I always say I hate people but really that probably is because I am scared of them. This admission, is a sad one for me. I never knew how much of a coward I was until recently.

I will immodestly say that up until about a year ago, I had kind of thought of myself as fearless. Moving away from home to a town where I knew no one, I thought was brave. Taking long drives alone. Doing my volunteer ministry by myself. Living alone. I thought all of this showed an inner strength and courage. Maybe it does, and while I am glad for those accomplishments, lately, I feel like they were just big scene changes in the play of my life where the 17 trillion fears I carry can continue to be acted out. Fear of trust and trying and failing and hurting others and not speaking up and looking dumb and being judged and on and on and on. All fears that keep me mobile and paralyzed simultaneously.

The good news: because of the big scene changes I seem to not fear taking, I know I can conquer the 17 trillion other fears. The bad news: because I have been carting around 17 trillion enemies, I am a little weak and it will be hard to challenge them. I expect much crying, on my part and possibly that of others.

The revelation of all of this and the inspiration for this exercise, is that it is okay. The fears and the work and the crying is all part of it, if it helps in the conquering and in being able to support others in doing the same. This is a monumental insight for me, because fear number three is fear of myself-my fears, my feelings and the accompanying weeping. I have always thought that I was not long for this earth and if I was, it was just a temporary stop until finally I was committed to an institution. When I have a day of sadness, I always think it means I am weird and messed up and really just the most awful person there ever was. Then when someone tells me that I am in fact messed and awful, it reinforces the belief of my impending institutionalization.

Interestingly, these same people, all have issues, too. They have sad days and difficult times and are not always beacons of sunshine and hope. When it happens to them, they give themselves a break and say, it is part of it. So, I have decided to do the same. I am not completely deranged, I just had a sad day. They occur and sometimes they teach me something, like I need to slow down and get rest and read a book and think. Sometimes they just suck.

If it helps me figure out more about me so I can be better for myself and others, then that's good, too. If I don't have to fear me as much, then I don't have to fear the peoples. Then my play can undergo a major re-write and when the scenery changes, only 15 trillion fears take the stage and I can carry them with more strength, skill, and love. Maybe even do a little musical number.

I am me.
That is all.

Dear Boy's Calves

I notice you more in the summer months on account of it being hot and boys are wearing shorts. What stands out to me is the two extremes: really, really skinny calves and gigantic calves.

When I see the skinny calf, I wonder how anyone could possibly call them calves because there are only bones. There are no muscles there and I think that were my legs to touch those skinny-calf legs, the boy skinny calves would be crushed, and then I would have to drag him around to wherever else we might need to go.

My thought on the gigantic ones is, how in the world are you walking around on those things? Do you wince in pain when going up the stairs? Do you cry when you realize you must lift the calves and walk around but since you are a dude you choke on the tears and chest bump yourself into a wall, screaming: "C'mon calves! We can do this! We're gonna walk. Bring it, calves! BRING IT!!!"  In short, they look painful and also intimidating.

Finally, calf and its plural are weird words to say. Go ahead, say them. Weird, right?

Love,
me

Dear Island I Someday Hope to Own

To me, you are everything.

I know that is a lot of pressure for one island to carry on it's own, but I have to be honest. All of my hope is rested on you. All of my hope rests on you. Every dream I have is fulfilled because of you. Just knowing you are out there, somewhere, waiting for me, helps me get through life.

I long for your sandy beaches and non-existent bugs. I ache for the caress of your easy breezes blowing in from the south. I awake each day with the hope of seeing you shine like the diamond you are; aglow in sunlight, paradise and our love.

To only see your strengths might say to others that I am infatuated, that our love isn't real and that it won't stand the test of time. To those who would hate on our love, I say: "OUT! OUT! You haters of purity and passion! I condemn you to exile with people!"

We shall be together in our solitudinous amour, enduring all tropical storms and power outages. Our hearts will burn electric and fuel our life and my laptop.

I want you, island. I want you for the promise of an allergen-free life. I want to breathe you in. I want to breathe. I wish to eat fruits and vegetables. I wish to document my life with an ink pen; not define it via the expiration date of my epi pen.

I want to spend a day without answering the repetitive questions of the assuming, the condescending, the demoralizing masses who won't read or listen. I don't want to see the short shorts with the materials from the pockets hanging out underneath. I don't want to hear the off-key singing of the loud and misguided. I will not miss the smelly graduate or the woman in the pink Cadillac with the pink stickers on her back window proclaiming: "I'm a bad bitch."

(I want to take just a moment here because I was quite bewildered by the sight of this lady. First, did she mean she was bad, like MJ bad, meaning good, but full of bad-arse-dness? Was she shamed into driving this car with it Pepto-pink lettering because she was not in fact any good at being a bitch? Frankly, she looked a little uncomfortable whilst driving. Maybe that was the shame, maybe she was sitting on her bad pistol. Either way, really? I mean, you really need a sticker to tell people that? And doesn't a pink Caddy take some of the sting out of said proclamation?)

I just want to be with you. I want to wake up glad for the day from a restful night. If I itch my shoulder, I don't want to cry out in pain because I had been so tense for the past hour that scratching hurt. I want fresh food, respite, and you.

Until we are together, caro mio.
With undying love,

me