I haven’t written much lately. And by that I mean I haven’t written much here. I’ve written a lot on The Local Tourist. Although, to be perfectly honest I haven’t even written much there, but I’ve been very busy. Really, crazy, out-of-my-mind busy. And always in the back of my mind I think “I should write more. If I don’t I’m going to explode/implode/replode/do-something-that-will-scar-me-forever-plode” and then I go on about my day putting out fires and starting new ones.
So why haven’t I let loose in this somewhat safe environment?
Because I don’t want THIS to be a rant space.
I had that when I was married. Both times. I kept journals and whenever things were bad (which was often) I wrote in my journal (and filled a few). So now every time I look at those journals I feel anger and sadness and helplessness, and for god’s sake I don’t want to feel that any more. They are buried in boxes and I have the idea that some day I may dredge out all those emotions for a sad series of novels, but today I want them to gather dust.
Now when I have excitement and drama and sorrow I keep it battened down so tight I don’t even want to think of a metaphor or a simile. Suffice it to say that I’ve decided that nothing, and I mean nothing, is getting in.
That’s hard for me. I’m a long walk down a short pier when it comes to hiding emotions and being guarded and not letting anybody through that wispy little gate o’ mine. I’ve got secrets that twenty people know. I’m a vault with perforated seams.
I’ve had a few rants. And every time I’ve wondered if it was worth it. If I have to question that, then it wasn’t.
I hereby declare this website a rant-free zone. If I feel the need to vent I’ll do it over a $1 beer at the Two-way lounge or an angry walk around Palmer Square.
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