You adorable weirdos, you
Sometimes being an adult sucks rocks. Sometimes being an adult means I can say stupid stuff like that last sentence and know I'm not going to be scolded for slang. Sometimes I have more thoughts than I can possibly have words to express them with. Sometimes that means I say the same word over and over for emphasis.
Writing has no rules.
Writing has, at best, a series of suggestions and best practices, and those vary depending on far too many variables to make it into a perfect science. Take this post, for instance. Or don't take it: you are free to clicky the little x and not waste your time on what is, in large, a journal of the random things that fall out of my head. Sometimes those things are interesting, sometimes they are not (damn that word. I need to stop using it).
Writing is structured, most of the time. Not all of the time. This post is free-form words coming out of my fingers, and this once, trust me, you are grateful for spell checker. My fingers are not as adroit in creating clean copy when they are in this mode. But in this format, I can get away with it. Fiction? Not so much. Non-fiction? Few things are rawer and less filtered than a tipsy blogger. Never drunk - drunk is unpleasant and feels bad, but when there is a toothache involved, alcohol is indicated in judicious levels. Which are, at least for me, enough to remove a lot of the filters I normally keep on for y'all's safety and comfort. And my own. It's not that I mind plopping it all on the table. I made the decision a long time ago to live in the public domain. I didn't make that decision for my kids: that's why they have nom'de blogs, and I talk to them about what I write about. Not always before I write, but I'm careful. Me? Well, there are reasons I don't try to hide my flaws or burnish them or anything. I know I'm broken.
I'm busted up inside. There's a lot of scar tissue, whether it shows or not. The thing is, I 'spect there are others like me, who can't or wont' talk about where they are, or what they endure on a daily basis. I'd lift my glass to you, but it's empty and I'm not refilling it. I salute you who live with the pain and never let it show. Me, I talk about it because if I can show one person that it's possible to heal from being busted, then that's enough. I dunno. Maybe it's all in vain. But I'm just Pollyannish enough to believe that even pain can make a difference in this world. Nothing happens without an equal and opposite reaction.
I'm 'minded, frequently, of that quote from Men in Black (and sidebar: I love that movie. I really only like movies that have happy endings and are corny. So, there. I'm not apologetic about it) Jay: Why the big secret? People are smart. They can handle it. Kay : A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky dangerous animals and you know it. I haven't weighed back in on the Covid-19 thing, for a reason. But that's a sidebar. If it's a pandemic? Meh. It could be worse. Which sounds callous - and it might be, my sense of sh*t like this is warped by a lifetime exposed to emergency medicine, infectious disease research, and reading about history. Have you any idea how much health and hygiene have influenced the course of nations? Probably. You're reading this blog, you aren't the normal human being in this world. You're weird. I love you.
It's not about the physical. It's all about the emotional. It's about the reactions - and mostly the overreactions - to the threat. It's about how our brains are wired, for good and sufficient reasons, and how logic can only go so far before the dumb and panicky win out.
I am not capable of writing right now. This minute. Er. Ok, I guess that is what I have been doing. I mean in a meaningful way. Because I really am fond of the anonymous faceless lot of you reading this, and I like to present you with interesting things to feed your minds. Not this babble. However, there are times I'm going to be honest with myself, and therefore you. Journals? In this day and age, someone will read them. Me? Nothing to hide. So here I am with the weirdness that is my brain. Cool thing about the internet, this. Something the social justice bullies haven't copped to yet, which is weird but shows their biases: it's not about the meat suit my soul pilots. My color (or lack thereof since my immune system has decided it's an enemy and is steadily committing autophagy on it), my ladyparts, my, um, whateverthehell else is the irrelevant 'ist-du-hour. That should have been jour, but you know, hour works better in a world with constant motion goal posts. Anyway, on the 'net all that counts is the form my words take. The words that come from my brain, orchestrated by my soul. If you don't believe you have a soul, I'm sorry to inform you that you are wrong. But it's ok. We all learned things today.