Sunday, October 31, 2010

Day 27: The day I met Rome.

I walked out of Fiumicino Airport and stood in line for a taxi. It was hot, I was overdressed. I was so tired from the red eye flight from Montreal, but I was completely awake with excited nerves.  I took a deep breath. I was here. Alone. In Rome! The city that has fascinated me since I was a child.

The cab driver smiled shyly as he said, "Ciao Signorina," and placed my bag in the trunk.  I soon realized that his shyness did not translate onto the autostrada. He drove like a wild man, writing onto a notepad, and then fiddling with the radio. I checked to make sure my seat belt was properly fastened. Oh please God, don’t make me die before I see the Colosseum.

Talkative as I am (in any language), I began to ask questions about the weather (mostly to keep him from writing on that notepad again).  He loosened up when he realized I spoke Italian and explained that the weather was horrible and rainy until today.  E 'come hai portato il sole--It is like you brought the sun.  (Ah, a charmer. I'll take it).

He spoke so quickly- so elegantly, my ears feasted on the Italian language and the Italian rock music playing on the car radio. The sun was high and bright as we drove into Trastevere.  From the rear view mirror he could see me smiling from ear to ear.

Him: Hai un bel sorriso. E 'la tua prima visita a Roma?
ou have a nice smile. Is it your first visit to Rome?
Me:  Si. Un
sogno diventato realtà
       Yes. And it is a dream come true.
Him: Capito. Non c’e nessuno posto como Roma.               

       Understood. There is no place quite like Rome.

Suddenly he began to drive slowly, enough for drivers behind us to honk and shout profanities (and can I just add that even Italian profanities in Rome sound lovely). I had paid a flat rate for this cab ride, so he was taking his time because he wanted to. He turned down the radio and began to point out some of the autentico restaurants in Trastevere that I absolutely had to try (not the tourist traps). And then we drove by the amazing Porta Portese Sunday flea market. It was in full swing and jam packed with people.  Colour, everywhere!  Noise, everywhere! And was it possible I heard live music coming from the heart of the market?!  

We finally drove into the historic district, and sped past the pristine white Il Vittoriano. I literally gasped at the sight of it. My God, I thought to myself, I will burst.  After some crazy twists and turns (I’m still not sure how taxi drivers in Rome fit through the tiny cobbled streets and manage not to kill pedestrians or cyclists) my driver says proudly: “Ahhh. Via della Maddalena and Piazza della Rotonda. Is here, where you stay, Signorina.”  I thank him with a big fat tip and wave goodbye to the first person I would ever speak to in the city of my dreams. He left me in a piazza with my luggage and my smile.

While zipping up my knapsack, I heard water trickling behind me so I casually turned around to find myself face to face with- the Pantheon. 
The Pantheon!!
You can’t imagine how the world came to life, both inside and outside of me. 
I was in Rome. Finally.

Why did it not feel like the first time?

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Day 26: careful

what you write in haste
for letters
will seal words in place
and post regrets
may not erase
the pungent sting
of their aftertaste

Friday, October 29, 2010

Day 25: phew

It’s now 11:33pm and I’m searching my brain for what this post should be about.
I have a few ideas roaming around in there…but the principal thought coming to mind is how I set up this ridiculously colossal goal.
365 days of something to say.
I am less than a month in. Can I do it?
It’s pretty remarkable, though, what this process has me feeling.
The nerd in me has homework to look forward to (racing home on a Friday evening because I have to write before midnight).
The romantic in me has a safe outlet to suffer through the darkness of my own romanticism.
The perfectionist in me has that ‘I-didn’t-study-hard-enough-for-this-exam’ anxiety and exhilaration right before I press “publish”.
And sometimes (a small number of times) I feel like someone else is doing the writing.
I am just the stenographer, listening and typing away.
Those are my favorite posts.
Those are the ones that make me so grateful that I am, in fact, doing this silly experiment.
It is working.
I am finding my voice. I'm listening to it.
25 days done, 340 days to go.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Day 24: " know how I feel."

I’m feeling a strange buzz in me today.
Like I’m trembling precariously on the precipice, but it’s not scary.
And I’m not scared.
Because I feel so different.
I feel open.
I feel new.
I feel good.
Something has changed in my mindset that is allowing these four walls to have doors that lead to everywhere. And windows to materialize out of thin air--no--out of fresh air.
I am way up high and ready to leap, with or without you.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Day 23: fuck it. (sorry mom)

I hate filters.
I'm tired of them.
Tired of auditioning to be a particular type of someone for a mother, a father, a boss, a brother, a sister, a friend, a lover...It's exhausting!!
How many times, in one day, do you filter what you say or feel?
Seriously. Think about it.
How many times are you feeling what YOU want or need to feel about any given situation in your day?
Without letting all this 'other-people-think-this-way' polite bullshit factor in on your decision?
Let's be real, shall we?
Let's just tell it like it is.
You won't like all of me. I won't like all of you.
But we will be two separate individuals having a real conversation.
For a change.
A real moment.
Living life in real time.
People are so wrapped up in what they think a good life is.
They got lost in their own charade.
They even turn it into a life that others envy.
When did we stop being something to ourselves?
For ourselves?
It has taken me 33 years to realize that: I am who I am.
Take it or leave it.
I am not going to change for you.
I am not going to be anything that I am not.
But I am going to try to make this my best life.
Every day.
I will trip over my own feet.
I will fall into my own ego puddles, and get very wet.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve.
So you can all see it.
And break it.
And I will be lonely.
And I will be independent.
And I will make my own rules.
Life according to me.
But mark my words: I am not going to filter anymore.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Day 22: foggy

We have had some impressive fog in my neighborhood lately.
I adore fog.
I love how it turns everyday surroundings into a thick and hazy painting that we get to walk through, or drive through, find our way through…
It has this irresistible cinematic quality that makes me…well, impulsive.
Once I woke up in the middle of the night; saw the fog through my window- and suddenly I was out of bed, jacket and rain boots on, walking down my street photographing the mist.
In the middle of the night!
Something comes over me and I just want to be part of it.
I don’t want to miss it.
I want to have my senses heightened by the sexiness of a blinding fog.
I want to linger in this extraordinarily striking and transitory scene.
Because you know what? The fog will lift.
And everything goes back to being as it was.
Why wouldn’t we want to seize the opportunity to be part of a little magic?

Monday, October 25, 2010

Day 21: pockets of blue

It’s raining, finally.
Sometimes the weather is exactly right for what you’re feeling inside.
I’m not trying to be melodramatic or anything, I just feel gloomy today.
I’m allowed to feel gloomy sometimes, right?
I’m allowed to stop pretending that nothing is bothering me.
I had a rough night yesterday (if my last post didn’t let on) and still today the blues linger.
Have you ever noticed; the more you try to suffocate a feeling the more it haunts you?
 I don’t want anyone or anything to be a proverbial umbrella right now; I just want to feel the rain on my skin.
Until it stops raining.
I hear the weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Day 20: must be the full moon

There’s so much I want to say, but I have no idea how to formulate the sentences to articulate it.
I have typed and deleted and typed and deleted…
I can’t tell if this is a really delayed coffee buzz or just plain restlessness.
I have time on my hands tonight, energy to burn, and I’m too indecisive to do or say anything.
So I won’t.
Let someone else do the talking.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Day 19: Anyone got a light?

Her cigarette falls from her fingers and onto the ground.
She watches the sparks hit the pavement like a silent firecracker.
She never actually smokes them. She’s not even a smoker.
She just likes the hiss of the match bringing it to life.
And because she can relate to how quickly it burns.
She can relate to being set on fire and unsmoked.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Day 18: Awkwardness and Led Zeppelin

I heard Stairway to Heaven on the drive in this morning. And just like that, I am not in my car; I am transported back to the eighth grade:


I’m in the high school cafeteria at 10pm (because that’s the time they play Stairway to Heaven to signal the end of the school dance). I have butterflies in my stomach, and my palms are sweaty because I was told that Derrick Lenail (I changed his name but it rhymes with the real one) is going to ask me to dance. He hadn’t up to this point, and this would be his last chance to do so. Ten seconds into the song, and just like magic I see him walk towards me. I think, “Oh Derrick! You’re so cute; you look JUST like Joey Joe from the New Kids on the Block! I can’t believe you’re about to ask me to dance!!”

A bit of back-story: Derrick never noticed me until the day before the dance. I had just performed a funny rendition of ‘Sooner Or Later’ from the movie Dick Tracy in the high school variety show the night before. I guess he liked it, because he stopped me in the hall and said, “Hey, I didn’t know you could sing, that was really cool. You were funny, too”. (I’m pretty sure I said something back but I can’t remember- this was the biggest moment in all my 14 years on the planet, who the hell could concentrate?!). Then he asked, “You going to the dance tonight?”  Swoon. Needless to say, the rest of that day felt a decade long.

So back to the cafeteria:

He walks up to me, and says, “Hi, do you wanna dance?”  “Ummm, DUH!! You waited until the LAST possible dance number, Derrick!”(I said that last part in my head).  So we make our way amongst the crowd of couples, choose a spot and dance. High school-styles. His hands on my hips, mine on his shoulders and our bodies about a Toyota Camry apart. We never looked at eachother. (I know this because I was too busy noticing my friends giggling, pointing, and giving me a thumbs up). We dance some more. (This is a really long song). Then, oh dear, the fast part starts. The slowest song in the world is now an aerobics class. Shit, how the hell do you dance to this? We kind of pretend it’s still slow- except now I feel the need to bop my head from side to side to keep time with the music. I get into it. And then I see he is kind of cringing at the bopping. I stop, and smile weakly. Back to slow.  An hour later, the song is over, the lights come on bright and I take a good look at him and realize: Derrick Lenail…meh!

For your rocking-out pleasure:

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Day 17: "Ok".

I just came back from visiting my aunt in the hospital. She is in the palliative care unit ending her fight with colon cancer. Although much of the situation is very sad, I left there with a smile on my face.

What a beautiful woman. What a beautiful soul. She was smiling and chatty the entire visit. She laughed when I scratched a horrible itch on her back. And she made me laugh when she mimicked the sounds that her stomach makes in between meals. And again afterwards when she said her sister (my grandma) is a little cuckoo (and she made the appropriate finger swirling in circles by the head gesture) when I complained about how my grandma ragged on me at Thanksgiving for not marrying my Portuguese ex-boyfriend.

Ahhh, she was so pleasant, so inspiring…. Made me feel like a dumbass for complaining about a headache today, or how it was cold outside, or how I got ambushed by the sprinkler system outside work and got into my car soaking wet and upset. Look at this woman. In pain, and smiling.

It’s a choice to smile when you know you are dying.

And her daughter, who has been there every night! Whose daily schedule is work, then visiting her dad at the home, then dinner, then rushing to the hospital to sit by her mom….My god! I could tell she was tired, but I could also tell she would never admit to it. She smiled and conversed with me, too. Definitely her mother’s daughter.

After an hour, as I went to kiss my aunt goodnight, she started reciting blessings. Wishing me luck in the future, and I interrupted her (with my broken Portuguese) to say that I’d visit her again. She stopped short with her sentence, nodded and with a smile she said, “Ok”.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Day 16: ordinary magic is the best kind of magic.

I had a really great moment today. I was in my car, driving kind of fast and I spontaneously decided to lower my car window and hold out my arm. My hand immediately started to flip flop with the heavy current of wind, and my hair started flying in every direction- (you know, the way hair looks when you’re underwater). The sun was shining hot on my face; the colours were on fire outside my window, the music was swelling and this cool gust of air felt as though it were trying to take me by the hand and sweep me away. It was such a strange and lovely feeling of awareness. It caught me by surprise and had me smiling when I got to a red light. Because I felt like, for one minute, the wind and I were dancing.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Day 15: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sleep, you are a fickle lover.
Some nights - all night- I get to blissfully bask in your glow.
Other nights - last night- I wait for you, and you never show.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Day 14: message in a bottle

I deleted my earlier post. Felt like maybe it was too personal to share.
But isn't all of this quite personal, really?
I am starting to question this blog idea.
I kind of jumped right in without thinking it through.
What, exactly, am I trying to accomplish?
What am I trying to say?
When I write something, do people get it?
Do they have to?
The creative process is such a tricky, delicate, and revealing experience.
I know, in spite of my doubt wanting to shut this down, that it has been good for me to write here.
It is a time and space set apart from all the rest of my day.
It is me. It is mine.
It is passing thoughts set to the music inside my head.
It is nostalgia.
It is my heart wide open.
Like a book I haven't written yet.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Day 13: déjà-vu

Tonight I am in post war Paris, at a busy café. I am distractedly having wine at a table, when the radio begins playing Lucienne Boyer’s “Parlez-Moi D’amour”. And I suddenly get the strangest feeling that I have been here before. I have been in this room with these strangers. I have already smoked this cigarette. I have felt this draft from the door opening and closing and I have felt this flush of heat on my chest from the wine. I have smelled the lady’s perfume at the table next to me; and I have noticed the face of the man she is seated with, whose eyes met up with mine for a brief second before looking away. I have been in this moment before.
But I have been never been to Paris.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Day 12: Shhhhhhhh...

Silence is golden. It’s true. When it's quiet enough to hear the fridge humming and the leaves blowing up against my window… Mmmmm, nothing is better. For a girl who talks (maybe too much) quiet is something I crave more than sunshine.

I often wonder why we all feel the need to fill up this silence. We are so wired to always be turned on or tuned in. It has become uncommon to just be silent. I’m not only referring to when we are alone. For me, being in a quiet space with someone listening to nothing and everything together (while reading, writing or cooking etc…) is peace. It’s a special brand of magic to do that comfortably, and not feel you have to say anything.

Yet we do- all the time. We say things. When we have the chance for quiet; we keep the dialogue going. I wonder why that is?

There’s nothing special about today, really. It’s a grey afternoon. But it’s warm here, it smells like coffee and it is deliciously quiet. I can hear my thoughts, I can be aware of them, I can feel them. So, for a little while, I choose to stop moving, to stop thinking, to stop analyzing, and to stop this dialogue. I choose to be still.

Be still with me.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Day 11: boxes

Boxes, everywhere boxes.
You’d think I was moving somewhere. But I’m not.
I am not moving to any place new. I’m cozy and somewhat settled in.
Just surrounded by a bunch of boxes.
A few black boxes, one or two white boxes, a million grey ones…
And, of course, a striking shiny red box that I have never opened.
It’s so well wrapped.
Possibly too well wrapped to open.
The closest I’ve come, is bringing it down from the attic and laying it there on the table next to all my cards.
I have a strong feeling about what’s inside it. I think I know, but then maybe I don’t.
I suppose upon better inspection, it is red and grey. Darker shades of hurricane-cloud grey.
I’m pretty sure it’s fragile, so I handle it carefully when I put it back on the shelf.
And it sits there, still.
It’s getting kind of crowded in here with all these boxes.
Boxes, everywhere boxes.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Day 10: Having Trouble

Stuck in traffic this morning (kind of dazed and lost in some of my thoughts) two separate bumper stickers caught my eye:

Car 1 (in front of me):

"I'm having trouble keeping up with all the things I'm supposed to be afraid of"

Car 2 (beside car 1):


I realize they probably are catch phrases about something political and have nothing to do with me...but today, with these two side by side, I asked myself:
When did bumper stickers become omniscient?

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Day 9: unwritten stories

Maybe I need to start really paying attention to these words. These unwritten stories that dance around my brain and turn into the most bizarre dreams at night. Maybe I need to relish in the fact that I have my own space to really think and write, without the interruption of a child or husband. I am hiding under a cloak of politeness, duty and responsibility in my everyday life. And somewhere underneath a girl is taunting, “What about me? When do I get to breathe life onto paper? These acute moments of awareness and the sporadic spurts of chi- they are gifts. Why are you wasting them? Tell a meaningful story. Maybe you don’t know what story yet…but it’s here. Under this heavy cloak. And, hey…when did you start wearing cloaks, anyway??!!”

This is my time. Who knows what may happen tomorrow or the next day.
We are foolish to think beyond right now, anyway.
I don't know.
I don't know so many things.
Seems more natural to ask the questions than to ever really just delve in and try to find the answers.
But, it's nice to have my hands on this keyboard again.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Day 8: shit

I have one minute to write something today.
And that's all I got.
But that's an attempt.
(Isn't it all about the attempt?)

Monday, October 11, 2010

Day 7: Embers

there is something so intoxicating about the fall.
for a fleeting spell
luscious, fiery shades are everywhere.
leaves dance their way to the ground
like embers,
falling from grace
ever so gracefully.
reminding you it cannot always be this way.
but for now, death is lovely
because it looks and feels like untamed magic.
And plunging onto a mountain of blazing foliage
is deliriously enchanting,
because the opportunity
will soon pass
all too hurriedly;
when winter douses the flames
of the fall.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Day 6: His harmonica is on my nightstand.

My grandfather died today.
6 years ago today.
And the space that is left since he passed gets bigger and emptier every October 10th.
His story is a great one.
One I am even too intimidated to think of writing: the product of an affair, left on a doorstep as a baby, witnessed two world wars, poverty stricken, immigrated his entire family to Canada from Italy, saw four generations thrive, suffered the death of his greatest love (my grandmother) and taught us everything about family and music until his 101st year on this earth came to an end.
He lived a full life, but being around him for so long, only made us feel a bigger void when he was no longer with us.
He was at the helm, and he made us feel we belonged to something greater than ourselves.
The last time I saw him, he was in a coma.
I spent the night at the hospital by his bedside.
I dabbed wet q-tips on his dry lips and tongue.
I spoke to him.
I prayed for him.
He was so far away.
But breathing still.
The doctors said he had the heart of an athlete.
In the middle of that night, he started to stir and looked uncomfortable.
I got up, off my cot, took his hand and rubbed his face and hair.
I don’t know why, but I sang the chorus of Calabria Mia to him (whatever I could remember of it) and he began to calm down.
His hands relaxed and a tear streamed down his face.
I have never had a sweeter goodbye.
I miss him.
So very much.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Day 5: Not a creature was stirring, not even a--Wait! Hold the phone...

Fear. What a concept.
One that is different for every single one of us. 
And yet, it's so easy to trivialize another person's personal set because it doesn't match up with our own.

Yesterday (and still today) it's me against the mouse.
Laugh, sure. Sounds ridiculous and irrational. Me: 5"9 vs. It: 6cm.
But it's beyond fear, it's phobia!
People don't seem to get that part. 
A few people who know me reallllly well, know that it's a big one. 
(I mean, even squirrels freak me out!)
But I have seen more live mice and the big "R"'s than many of you, I am certain.
I have been told my fear seems to attract them from the Universe. 
(Not very nice of the Universe, if you ask me).  
I'm a huge clean freak for this very reason. 
I vacuum for sport. 
And I have taken up the autumn-time hobby of caulking (teehee) my base boards since moving a block away from a mountain.  
I could be anywhere (like a busy, noisy cafe writing for instance) and one will graze MY foot (which, by the way, entailed me freaking out silently, throwing money on the tabletop and flying outta there Kramer-styles, much to the bewilderment of the other patrons).
I know people with messy apartments, visible holes in their walls and floors (that I point out to them).... so why did it choose MY walls? 
Why the long weekend, when I seriously need to regroup and get rest? 
Why now that I am enjoying the TV off, and the whir of my computer fan as I type away again for the first time in months?
Yesterday, when I heard the squeaking, I literally grabbed my purse and hightailed it to Hotel Mom & Dad.
My poor folks had to come today, and find the stupid hole under the sink. 
For three hours they steel wooled-duct taped-nailed wood-set strategic traps and helped me obsessively clean EVERYTHING in my place.

When we finally sat down to relax: 
Them: It's gonna be ok tonight, honey. No way that thing is coming in here.
Me: It better not, it's not paying rent.

Later, when they put on their coats to leave, I head to the kitchen to put plates and glasses in the sink. 
Low and behold I hear scratching and rustling. 
The damn thing is trying to come back in!
It's persistently scratching it's way through our layers of "don't you dare you stupid vermin" steel wool and nails!
I throw up in my mouth a little (not going to lie).
They look at eachother tired, take their coats off and sit back down on the couch.

Me: It's ok guys. Go home.
Them: There's no way it's going to get through. And if it does, there's the trap. You'll hear it.
Me: Wonderful.
Them: Honey, we're tired. Sleep over again tonight.
Me: No. Damn it. I can do this. (I can't).

It's going to be a long night.
Fear is such a dumbass.
Anyone want to come over for a late night Scrabble match?

Friday, October 8, 2010

Day 4: conversations with my cursor (part 1)

Cursor: Blink. Blink.
              Blink. Blink.
Me: I know, I know…I’m trying to think of something here. Me and my stupid idea of writing something everyday! Now people are expecting something somewhat creative EVERYDAY!
Cursor: Blink, Blink.
Me: I don’t want this to turn into My Journal, you know? That’s boring. But sometimes… it’s all I got.
Cursor: Blink, Blink.
Me: That’s really annoying. Can you please stop blinking?
Cursor: Blink, Blink.
Me: Pbbbbllltttt….Ummm….
Cursor: Blink, Blink
Me: I don’t know, man. Maybe I’m just not a writer. If I was, wouldn’t I have this unrelenting force from within that spews in-depth characters in motion? Shouldn’t imagery and stories be crowding my every thought?
Cursor: Blink, Blink
Me: You see? This. THIS is why I stopped writing. You, Cursor, and your friend Blank Page just scare me now. You feel like a mirror in a fun-house. And when I look at you, all I see is this changed grownup who has slowly let pieces of her creative insides turn to mush.
Cursor: Blink, Blink
Me: I don’t see the dreamer anymore. Show me the dreamer. I already dropped theater, and (surprisingly) the singing, and now I'm getting bored with my camera! What do I lose next?
Cursor: Blink, Blink
Me: I don’t want to lose it all. So be kind to me, Cursor. When I look at you blinking, throw a sentence my way. Something. Anything.
Cursor: Blink, Blink. Blink, Blink…There once was a girl who lost her heart to the ocean...
Me: hmmm.
Cursor: ...and a boy who waited patiently by the shore, for the tide to bring it back.
Me: That will do fine for today.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Day 3: I Wanna Hold Your Hand

I love hands.
To look at them. To hold them.
They say so much.
And the more weathered the hand, the better.
I love to run my fingers along the lines.
All those lines.
Where do they come from?
Some lines are faint, some are deep ridges.
Some hands are soft and smooth.
Some are dry and abrasive.
Some have paper cuts, some have burn marks.
Some have short fingernails that have been eaten away.
Some have long fingernails that feel good in your hair, scratching your head.
They tell a story, your story.
For me, the most intimate thing in the world is holding someone’s hand.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Day 2: Once Upon a Wednesday Night...

Tonight I took my young niece to see the Disney on Ice show: “Princesses and Heroes”. After watching for two hours the way her eyes lit up seeing ‘happily ever after’ play out on the ice, I fear my poor niece is in danger of becoming a lot like me.

When I was about seven, my father came home from a business trip with a heavy hardcover collection of fairy tales from the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson and company. There were no pictures, just the ones I could create with my mind. Oh man, I worshipped that book! I would hide away in my room all evening reading every story, and then start over again. I loved all the fantastical magic, the romance (sometimes only after cruel transfiguration or torment) that always led to happy resolutions and just rewards.

How do you tell a wide eyed, imaginative, little girl that it doesn’t always turn out that way?

Conversation while walking back to the car (keep in mind she is only 5):

Me: What does happily ever after mean?

Her: It means you’re married.

Me: Oh. Ok. Can you not be married and still live happily ever after?

Her: No, that’s not a good story.

Me (eyebrows lift...and under my breath): Wow. Ok.

Her: Are you ever going to get married?

Me: I don’t know.

Her: Yeah, you have to find someone first. It’s a lot of work.

Me: What is?

Her (no word of a lie she said this): To find your happily ever after. Now can we stop talking about this?

Me: Yes, we sure can. Who is your favourite of all the princesses we saw tonight?

Her: Belle from Beauty and the Beast

Me: Why?

Her: ‘Cause she reads.

(Thatta girl!)


Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Day 1: Honestly, Honesty.

Oh Lie. You do so much more for me than Truth does.
It's like the two of you dance the tango, seductively inside my brain.
But mostly because, for me, it's a case of : "betray thyself" or "display thyself".
Telling a lie is protection. A safety net. A fire extinguisher. A hiked up red tango dress.
Telling the truth is surrender. A tight rope. A lit match. A clown suit.
I told the truth.
Bozo doing the tango is not as sexy to watch.

INTRO And so I begin...

Dear Blog. (Wait, is that how it should start? No, how about):
Dear Readers. (That's assuming I have readers, and being lost in cyberspace I most likely do not).
Ummm, ok:
Sometimes, we need to do things simply to get them started.
Does that make sense?
Let me try to explain.
I used to write. A lot.
And lately, I feel like someone vacuum packed all the ideas inside me and sent them to Istanbul with no return address.
So, seeing as I am idea-less, if you will, I have to start somewhere.
Here. Every day.
For one whole year.
I half heartedly promise that I will try my darndest to find interesting things to say.
 But that is not a certainty, and so I ask for your patience.
I will be silly, trivial, dull, journal like, story like, my punctuation and grammar will be terrible, but I will say something.
Anything. Sometimes even twice.
To practice. To write. To find ideas.
To find my voice.
And so I begin.