I have an itchy brain. There are certified (certifiable?) reasons for this, but mostly it means ideas go round and round and round the old brain pan like a tiny mental roller derby. Stuff just zooming round, bashing into each other. It’s chaos. And some of these ideas have been in here for so long that they’re either geriatric retirees sitting by the pool at some cognitive Miami Beach resort or they’re fresh, new Hellions--the grandchildren of those past unheeded creations, or perfectly pristine darlings. Young or Old, in the past year, they have teamed up in a ploy to be noticed.
Stories and characters. People who want to live their lives somewhere outside these confines and come talk to some of you. They’re really a bit sick of my cowardice. Of pages containing a few scribbles, allowed to exist for piddling nanoseconds before being torn out and torn asunder. People hate asunder, dontcha know. It’s painful. And only The Inner Jerk, Bern, really thrives in the gated community up here--everyone else has been kvetching the tour guide, ever more insistently, that this confinement was not in the brochure.
It’s letting them out in any orderly fashion that’s the problem at this point. They’re so used to the banging and crashing and hiding in corners that they’re likely to mob the exit , or worse, tell me to sod off and disappear. That’s what native cultures supposedly feared of photography--that the box would steal their souls? Perhaps by now they’re sure the notebook is certain death and they’re all gonna bugger off.
And then there’s the terminal embarrassment. Somehow, I was able to start this blog. After years of posting on FaceBook, writing about the here and now became unlocked, like an easter egg. I don’t know how to level up for this, to let these freaks out of my head without dying of mortal humiliation. I never really had a real-life embarrassing family, they were all very nice. It’s explaining the lives of incorporeal characters, their words and actions and loves and losses that I’m sure will kill me. If I ever posted a chapter of their lives, much less published a book, it would prove me a roiling mass of silly, stupid freakiness. I could never show my face in public again.
“Did you read that girl’s book? Did you read what she said the widow did with the musician in the photobooth????”
Really, why does anyone do this?
Because of all the sniggling little voices. Not the bad ones, I took my meds today (I even double-checked the pill case), just the huddled masses yearning to be free. They may rush the door like a Who concert, or they may keep rolling round, playing side-on-side in an orderly fashion until they’re called out. I don’t know how, but some day, they’re gonna go sniggle your brain for a while.
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