a message for you.
please excuse my dust as this blog site is still under construction.
but words will never hurt me - part 2.
(posted on Friday, February 20 by eii wyy nae.)
And then?
Oh, things I love, things that bring me joy - sunlight on a lake, the tippy-toe walks of raccoons by my front door, the dusty smell of tillybell's fur after she's spent a lukewarm day outside.
And I'll add a memory - from the days I lived in 23½, the days when tillybell and adeq first came to live with me - a thunderstorm in the middle of the night, fierce with lightning, watching the white doggy in the pasture behind my house, running and running and running in the rain, a white blur in the darkness, the lightning flashes painting his image white against the night's blackness.
He was free and wild and a part of that storm, exuberant, joyous! So, yes, into the pot that memory goes, that unfettered freedom - the doggy's white mane tangling with the silken letters of unfurl. Unfurl.
Next, I think - no, I know - must be the story. The story of yellow shoes and betrayal, of pretense - a silly story really - a 7th-grade not-pretty-new-girl story. A small story that lasts only a few seconds.
Can I tell this story that lies so close to my heart and let it go? I must - it is this spell's catalyst - without it the spell has no magic.
They were awful shoes really, but I loved them, I really did - they were so bright, so fun; I can admit this today for the very first time; the spell is uncorked and beginning to breathe. I can see now - only at this very moment, from this distance of years - that I needed some color in my life, in my soul, some color to help the loneliness of a new place, a new state, a new life.
And those girls - who pretended to like them, who asked where I'd found them - UH! That feeling of being liked, of being approved of, of fitting in - I still remember that momentary soaring of my heart, still remember that turning around to answer them, seeing their faces and knowing without a doubt, instantly, their pretense, their laughter at my yellow shoes, at me, at my family's lack of money. And UH! That feeling, that coldness, those tears I couldn't shed, that turning away from them, that betrayal.
It has stayed and stayed and stayed.
So I will keep the shoes in my hidden pocket, but I will throw the story into the pot. When it lands against all the fearlessness and love already simmering, I will hear it begin to sizzle.
Last I will throw a confetti of colored paper - blue, aqua, turquoise, silver, white - and on each strip of paper will be written someone's name - here is Christy, and Robin, and the lovely, lovely Katie, and Robert and the 2 Paulas and Jammie and Jenny and Bridgette and JY, and I cannot list you all because I would be here all night; I will toss that confetti of support and belief & honesty - the last perfect ingredient - and the story will have no chance. It will lose its power - a small, pathetic puff of smoke up into the cold air.
Gone.
It will become just another memory.
Just another story
Signed with love,
the diary keeper, ‘my charliegirl.
Labels: confetti, hiss., pathetic puff, perfect ingredients, pretense, silken letters of unfurl, simmering, uncork
