twisted and free

I finally blogged after months of silence. I’d been waiting for some bud to break. Some lighter moment, maybe some wisdom. Let’s face it, I wanted to write something good.

And even though I think the best of my writing has been the darkest material, like the time I went to 12 liquor stores in 20 minutes looking for my cigarette brand when I should have been at the Brownie Court of Awards Ceremony, that time when I was feeling exactly like one of those oily haired, cigarette reeking, broken toothed, white trash mothers who can’t get it together to get to their child’s recital. After so many pieces like that I became self-conscious, less free. I kept thinking that I needed to heal for the reader, that the reader wanted me to get better, make smarter choices. I was afraid I would disappoint you, not with my writing, but with me, who was an absolute failure.

And then things did lighten up and I wanted to write, but I was so happy and I didn’t know how to write about happy without it sounding stupid and gleeful. I’ve told you, I see better in the dark, can find a billion words for weirdo, manage to see past the rainbows and straight into the coming storm. It’s not that I’m a downer, but things are more interesting when they’re twisted, you know?

One of the most beautiful moments was the night I lowered my naked self down onto that cold, dirty cement floor. I remember how he let me tumble slowly to the ground, onto the filth of the floor, and how positively focused I was on the eyes of this man who had completely unleashed me, how I grasped his hand to follow me down to the floor. I tried to write this, but I wasn’t sure how to convey the beauty in such a cold and dirty place, and since I’m not a liar writer I couldn’t substitute furry shag for cold, dirty and cold dirty felt slutty, shameful. People might not understand, and I was only beginning to.