I have not been here for a while. After finally admitting to my partner that I had a blog on the net and then refusing to allow it to be read, I did not feel like coming here.
In the last week or so my lack of motivation with my blog has occupied me - why?
Then there was a party, a fortieth. My partner and I turned up after he had played a concert as lead violin and had had to perform a solo; we were dragged through the door with all the guests waiting for him to play. As he prepared, running up and down the scales at a breathtaking speed I began to look around the room.
There was the birthday boy, Steve, a cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Heathcliff, horribly passionate about music, a inveterate collector and a good man; his partner, Andrina, at his side, a rock-hippy-chick, cool lady and wonderful singer. Her sons had played their guitars, keyboards and sung into the microphone/speaker set up to much applause. Nathan will be a star, the music he writes and his voice are amazing, but that is for another time. At the fringes, were the friends; all had some musical talent or other. Even Steve's parents play.....and then there was me.
Standing apart, watching and listening; surrounded by people who could display their talents without blushing.
It hit me why I didn't want to let anyone within my circle of friends or my partner read what I put here. It’s because this isn't me; at least not the me that I am with them. Here I am a different me. I fear that if they read any of this, the observations, misgivings and the doubts that the form that they see would come into question and suspicion.
I am a spy, a sneak, a fraud. An observer who at some point might, could put down what happened, who was there and what he saw. Can you be natural with someone who you know notices every change in your face, each hesitation in your voice and will fabricate/speculate your motives and explore all possibilities....ever tried to feel innocent after being introduced to a Police Officer?
You feel sweaty, your smile fixes, you comment on how difficult a job it is, how interesting it must be and finally how you couldn't do it yourself. All the time remembering that you did thirty-five in a thirty zone that morning, your road tax might be due but for some reason the date escapes you making your palms sweat and didn't you have that black pen from your work desk tucked into your pocket? You intend to take it back and every ounce of willpower is brought to bear to prevent you confessing.
Writing changes how they see you. I am guarded. At the party, no one asks me what I do or if I play a musical instrument, (I don't!). When one of the guests asks me how my degree is going I smile and say something mundane....changing the subject briefly before excusing myself for a top up of my wine. I saw a puzzled expression from the enquirer and later my partner would tell me how he was quizzed, well away from the others, as to whether I was "still writing".
While skulking in the kitchen I remembered the incident of the poem.
I was fourteen and, as fitting for that terrible age, I was confused, angry at the world, frustrated and above all an insomniac. My average night was three hours long. In the wee hours I would put together poems, notes, anything in fact to take my mind away from the silent house and lack of anything interesting to do, (this was pre-twenty four-hour television or the internet). In fine weather, I was often walking at four in the morning around the lanes and fields where I live...my dog loved these delicious adventures.
I wrote constantly and secretly. Then Mum found a folder stuffed full of poems and read them. That night the sisters were sent to bed early, going suspiciously without protest. I was called into the lounge, the television was switched off and I had a sinking feeling that I had done something terrible; I sifted my memory for recent involvement in murders, thefts, international money laundering...
The poem they read aloud was about death; a suicide. Standing in the small hours, holding a long thin carving knife to my belly, staring out into a clear night, over the black fields and hedgerows I had imagined the slow insertion of the metal. It was written like an escape, a purgatorial, painful, corrupt body being skinned of the undeniably perfect spirit; ending with the blade dropping a moment before the body. The shade lifts free and travels into the moonlight and freedom.
My Mum was horrified in that calm way that only Mothers can do. My Dad let her do the talking, glancing at me. I explained it was like acting, putting on a character and walking about the room imagining how to move, talk, think....it took an hour for them to understand or at least believe that they shouldn't contact a doctor and have all the sharp objects locked away.
I waited and, dwelling on the sideways glances that I received for weeks after and the constant enquiries "how are you feeling?" - "everything alright today" - weighted with worry - I destroyed all my poems. It is that feeling that makes me not reveal my blog to my partner or anyone close.
Here I can be angry, depressed, and dangerously silly or just plain bored. If they were here, I would be inclined to write for them, because of them; concerned that a comment might cause a serious conversation or the hateful "I never knew you felt that way".
Once I had revealed that I had a blog and then said no to my partner I felt guilty coming here.
The party distilled this and showed me that I hide. Of course I wonder what they would think about my writing. But, as yet, I am not brave enough to allow them to see. To me writing is a solitary, silent, private activity where, if you keep in mind that someone will read it you begin to write it for them...rather than to explore for yourself.
And I have too much written to burn all my work again and start again because the monster and angel I can be might shock someone.....
