My blog has been weighing heavy upon me lately. Or rather, my lack of blog. Like an abandoned child, it has waited patiently for my return. And waited. And waited. Rain has just begun to pound down the bluebells on the lawn and here I sit. Back. I have to try to stay this time. Leaving is for the cowardly, and that I am not. Something about blogging both creeps me out and thrills me. The fact that people actually SUBSCRIBE to my ramblings both flatters and amuses.
So where, oh where have I been? Busy living. (And apparently, also busy forgetting not to use sentence fragments in my writing.) This is not to say that bloggers are not living, but things just got too busy and life got too full — and my blog was first one dish left in the sink and suddenly twelve. An apt metaphor, as I despise doing dishes. Thank GOD I have a dishwasher. New York City was the land of overpriced flats without amenities, and I can recall…no, nevermind. I just want to forget all of it. New York, I love you, but…
New York, I love you, but I have left you behind me. Forever. You and the horror story that preceded my departure. You and the people who fled there for anonymity so they could use and be used — after all, I was told by one disaffected Midwestern youth, “Everybody uses everybody, Janice.” Well, my current retort to that line of crap comes out of the mouth of babes. As my two-year old son would emphatically state, “YUCCCK.” If that is your truth, I pity you but leave you to live it. Maybe you have never known real love, or are jaded by your own self-loathing. Whatever. Who cares? I am alive and breathing and damned if I will squander that gift viewing people as tools and life as a stage for some random (and permanent, even funnier) audience in my imagination. I care.
I think I stay away from Ze Blog because, as we are all apt to do, I sometimes care about the wrong things. Like what others think of me, or how my writing isn’t as good as it could be, or whether I should write at all if there isn’t anything I think others would want to read. You see, I do not edit. Much. Perhaps a spelling error here and there, but i feel that editing is two halves of an Oreo – the one half, without the creme filling, is the side one should consider when writing historical works or contracted work for a publisher or an established readership. But BLOGGING? Editing my blog feels to me like erasing and rewriting my journal. I suppose to each his own. Speaking of editing — (!!) I just erased the latter half of this post. I will. not. say. the F word. But FUCKKKK! Ah well, even mommies say it sometimes. Some more than others – I, no longer very often. Oh – this leads me to wish to extrapolate upon the beauty of imperfection. But the Queen of Tangents Without Borders shall save that baby beluga for my next post.
So. Yeah. What was I saying again? Oh! Yes, editing one’s blog and why I do not. Because (yes, I will even deign to start a sentence with BECAUSE!! Oh, where is my style manual? Pssshhhhh.) blogging, to me, is the juicy bits that get stuck to the side of the proverbial saucepan. The half of the aforementioned Oreo with the yummy white stuff. The events of the day, goings-on of my mind, dirt I feel like dishing. The beauty of it all is that you, dear reader, always have the option to leave the page should you find it trite, offensive, boring, or otherwise distasteful. Brilliant, ain’t it just?
I guess the theme of this blurb is what I do care about…and where I have been. I do know that I have seen enough drama and excitement in this lifetime for about 42 individuals. But the rain outside, like the unwanted drama in my life, has suddenly stopped. Yeah, that is one big fat cliché. Guess what? I don’t care. Bahahahaha. It’s true, though. My life is peaceful at last. I have left New York (and its rats, residents, or transient) behind (yes, my friends there who are reading this, I DO MISS YOU!!) and have moved a thousand miles away with the one thing – or person, rather, that matters most to me. That little soul is my two-year old son, William. I carried this child, who is now one third my weight and almost as tall as my upper thigh, past a purportedly terminal illness and almost lost both him and my own life while in a coma a year ago. We now live in a little doll’s house on a tree-lined suburban street a thousand miles away from the horrors that heralded his conception. He and I are both miracles. And we have each other, unconditionally. No condemnation, no damnation, no abandonment, and no lies. Just love.
I just left his bedroom, where I stood over his crib in silent reverie, watching his tiny chest rise and fall with the breath of sleep while his flushed little cheek rested contentedly on his stuffed lamb. I could not ask for a bigger miracle. I never knew love could be so….so…GINORMOUS! (I really hate that word. It reminds me of Rachael Ray, who annoys me to no end. But I just felt like using it since I have never used it. So there, I did it. Phew.)
Rain has stopped, the winds have died, and William is babbling to himself now under a smattering of glow-in-the-dark stars, something about shoes and Bobo. Life is sweet. There are bluebells raising their heads again in the front lawn and wild strawberries growing on the side of our perfect little doll’s house. A lilac tree graces our entryway. We have family that loves us, and we love each other.
These are the things I care about.. And this is where I am. I am alive. And breathing. That is good…unedited.