2012 day 20| the mirror to which I hear

hmmmm. contemplating the one way mirror of blogging in this unedited and as yet unproofed post. crap I hope I’ve not said too much wrongness. should proof I know, too bad!

bb (before blogging) 2005 poem excerpt from grad thesis development.

and I skim across this placid self
the mirror to which I hear
glass pressed closed eyes shut tight
it burns me.

well that pretty much foreshadowed my art process and blogging life with the exception of that at the point of writing, I was in transition OUT of my Vulcan (logic/nonemotional) habits of life. clearly from my blogging over the course of the past six years my internal life has been anything but placid. damn. funny that those who knew me before the mirror to which I hear, sensed me as even keeled, level headed, oh so freaking responsible, dependable, hardworking, nonemotional, objective, clear thinking, steady, wise, anchored, nonruffleable, nonneedy, with just the smallest hint of safe rebellion at the point I wrote that poem. I hadn’t cried (except in movies) for almost nineteen years.

obviously i was long over do for a good cry. and so it began (the crying and giving up the placid life), I stepped from graphic design, which allowed for my fierce hiding (I just like this phrase and must use it every instance that is remotely applicable), into art, into my own skin, into who I was wired to be. SHIT. how could i have not known for forty plus years! oh fecal matter! no placidity accepted. the placid simple becoming an indicator for where I hide. the more placid, the deeper the hiding. oh crap. so now? my mirror’s every blemish and warp is evident, the surface simply no longer appears smooth I hold loosely to the truths reflected there knowing they are deformed by my warps. my Vulcan self has left the room and I really have been learning from the mirror to which I hear. as I press the glass close, I attempt to open my eyes. yes, it still burns me but sometimes I can now see into the other room and am interested in what is on the other side.

tangent # one on the mirror to which I hear. check. but need to go deeper. reflect (sorry couldn’t resist).

other tangents to explore.
why the one way mirror of blogging? what am I looking for? why invite or leave it open for others to watch me squirm? why alone in the interview room? am I in trouble? should I have a lawyer present or a priest? they can’t hold me, so why am I still here? am I waiting for someone to sit down across from me? am I performing? wearing a poker face? do i swear to tell the whole truth? what for? my last deposition I was instructed to say yes, no and keep my mouth shut, reveal little to nothing of myself leaving opposing counsel guessing; the one before I agreed and did answer everything no matter how self defeating or legally stupid. I was me, my non-placid self. it dragged on for almost 5 hours. the me of me must have done something to opposing counsel because no matter how oppositional or pathetic i was, she still post-deposition inquired of my counsel if she also thought it might be reconciled. when i hid as instructed, i was not me–it was short and cruel. when i was me, i was accessible, human, even lovable. (oops wrong tangent jumped on due to metaphor of choice. reel it in) back to metaphor not really proceedings. dang, I hate when I do that. returning to originally intended tangent. now. why am I still sitting here with no one across the table? why the one way mirror? I do like being seen? yup? I hate hiding. yup. I am tired of hiding. so I unpack, shuffle my bags, squirm, wuestion, ponder, even attempt answering my questions before the mirror. why the mirror? why the one way mirror? accountability in the reflection, a sounding mirror, and perhaps I might be held in check for telling the truth of my unpacking, shuffling, fidgeting, and repacking, my learning and unlearning, my making and unmaking. I intended to dig into what is real and become more so. so is the mirror an odd checks and balance. sometimes it reveals my own bullshit to me. which may be edited out or not (obviously). my dad always taught me that the truth with its consequences was far better than a lie with its. ive found this mostly true. yet, I’ve now learned, not as to lie, but some truths should never ever be spoken or written. no matter what P thinks. she was wrong. oops sliding into another unrelated different real tangent AGAIN. climb back onto the metaphor k.

perhaps I am just avoiding crawling back into the belly of my tabletop beast. dang.

on a lighter note, that makes me smile, it dawned on me that no matter where i go, Chicago, Houston, New London, East haddam, Huntsville, Florence, Rome, Paris, Ireland, San Miguel, I eat out of doors as much as I can, no matter the weather, with the ebb and flow of the city or living land shifting, moving around and through me. I need this ebb and flow. i need to not be boxed up (hence my one way mirror and table is almost always out of doors — bahahaaaa. she said doors! I just realized as i thumbed that very my real table and chairs are fabricated from doors. bahahaaaa somedays I find life to be really funny as it constantly folds back on itself in the play of language). I’ve been eating out of doors (stop it kathy) regularly since the mid nineties. I’ve tried to figure out why many times. so many reasons that link and conflict. life is so interesting in the way it makes sense and absolutely doesn’t! fold that!