There was much more you had to say on the subject of blogging and the real world; but with one false key stroke you deleted it all.
You wish the person who tried to take your dignity and pride the best of luck. You’re glad that they get so many comments. Their ego needs it; yours needs to write, you’re a writing junkie. But all your work–gone with one key stroke.
You take it as a sign that you shouldn’t be working on your blog today. So you don’t.
It’s a beautiful day. You plan on enjoying it.
You come home; to take a shower, change and hopefully go to a barb-e-que. Unlike the one you never made it to on Saturday it has a real apartment as fall back if it rains, not a studio apartment.
You think about the meaning of Memorial Day: a family story; your father’s uncle on his father’s site was a soldier during World War One. He survived only to die still in France of the Flu during the flu epedemic. He was engaged to your father’s aunt on his mother’s side. His mother and all her sisters were known for their beauty. This sister, you can’t remember her name, was the youngest and rumor has it very nice. She died, family lore has it, of a broken heart. You’ve always known it was probably the flu, but like to think it was a heart cut into two.
Then you run across some really cruel things said about you in various blogs. Being selfish and and idiot has its advantages. You really don’t care. Hearing yourself described as “frail,” is almost funny. When Lucia and you were much younger and half of a woman’s group that met every Saturday around the kitchen table at your old apartment, you played a game. Everybody had to pick a name and describe that person as if you were an object–not of desire–just an object. Lucia got you and described you as a Ming Vase that looked fragile on the outside, but lived unscathed through the centuries. You’ve never forgotten that.
You’re so far from perfect it’s not funny. You’ve made more than your share of mistakes. You’ve hurt people; usually unknowingly sometimes knowningly. But it’s not one of your 100 favorite activities. A big reason that you broke off your friendship with Shelby was her inability to stop being sarcastic, fifteen or more years after college ended. Shelby’s sarcasam was sardonic, and never had a loving edge, just an edge.
Shelby’s then boyfriend’s friend wanted to date you. Shelby wanted you to date him but you would have had to pretend that you had been born ten years after your birth. You could have easily done it, but there’s something about lying about your age that’s always turned you off. How do you keep the stories straight? Music alone would give you away.
Thinking about music always leads to questions about other things. You’ve never actually been sure why. Maybe your blog has served its purpose. Maybe it’s time to cut the blog cord. No, not tomorrow. You don’t know why but you feel that you must continue this blog.
Life’s complicated and then you complicate it some more.