i wonder if i'll ever go back and read this blog start to finish. will i print it out? will it just disappear into the cloud? am i using that phrase, "the cloud" right?
i wish i had said what i wanted to say when i typed my last post. i know the stuff i wanted to say is in my brain because i had thought it all out: thoughts about decay and the changing things and the staying the same things and how places disappear a little at a time. but when i went to type it out, i felt, i dunno, exhausted by it all.
i love telling stories here, it feels good to get it out and share and look at them on the screen. but there is always this itch, this sinking irritation of uncertainty. i just never know if what i am saying rings true or sounds a little nuts. this is especially a problem when i talk about my childhood and my grandparents. i know these stories can be sappy but i don't care so much about that, as long as it all feels real when it falls out of my fingertips. it's just that i never know if i have given enough back story, enough information to leave the why-on-earth-does-she-care-so-much without question marks. storytelling is a funny thing, you know? you do it right or you do a disservice to a real and special thing. that's a lot of pressure.
i don't really enjoy getting into the tiresome details of my life, all of the my parents divorced and i was their only child and so my mom and i lived with my mom's parents and her brothers and and and---there is just so much of this explaining that should be done, explaining that doesn't feel good to write and that doesn't really belong to me, anyway. but is it possible to describe my feelings, to you, without it? is it possible to describe my feelings at all? telling you this stuff right now doesn't really tell you. these words are shadows. they aren't even shadows. they are letters from the alphabet moved around on white space. they aren't even written in my handwriting. they are just language. the stories of that house and family can't be typed, not simply. maybe in a great american novel or whatever, but not at one in the morning with my eyes half closed.
i guess i don't have to tell you all the details.
but i do want you to know how much i was loved and how much i am loved and how much i love them all back and how very much it matters.
(i fell asleep editing this at one am. i'm just going to hit publish now and let the words drift off into space.)