Hello all! There is so much I want to say today. I spent the first half of today at my alma mater, visiting my favorite college professors. I even got to sit in on a class- Honors Philosophy and Ethics. It was cup-filling, soul refreshing, wonderful. I don’t think it’s possible to understate how much I love being on a college campus, roaming the grounds, searching musty-smelling library shelves, sitting in a classroom…there’s just something magical about the whole atmosphere. I love seeing traditional college students, thinking about what a great time in their lives this is supposed to be- that first foray into adult independence when they go off to school. And then…I remember that I’ve had that, and you can’t really re-create it into infinity. It’s meant to be a certain time in your life, not the totality of a life. That said, I am seriously considering beginning to look into graduate programs and/or adjunct teaching positions solely for the purpose of hanging out in the World of College.
I have also been looking at a lot of other blogs through links on Twitter, and there are so many writing challenges I would like to be taking part in, ((A to Z Blogging Challenge, NaPoWriMo, etc.) so many great things to read, so many great things waiting to be written. And possibly some mundane, average, mediocre things to be written, but I enjoy the process of creating too much to back down just because the result might not be amazingly deep or clever. And I think the rest of the world does too- they are just becoming trained to do it in 140 character Tweets or Facebook status updates, except for the writers and bloggers who can’t contain themselves to such limited venues. The urge to create and share seems to be an overwhelming human instinct. Or the current social media landscape is speeding up the evolutionary process toward making it so. Either way, I’m pretty sure self-expression has never been quite so widespread, varied, and popular.
Poetry. I mentioned NaPoWriMo, both above and in my previous post, and I would love, love, LOVE to be posting something new and awesome here that fits that definition, but…how do I say this? The things inside me that want to come out in that form- I need to save them for myself right now. They just don’t really fit the mold of ‘Made For Public Consumption.’ I’ve sort of created this blog to be easily accessible from my real world life, and unfortunately I haven’t really achieved my tagline of being my True Self in front of all those people. I might feel the need to apologize. Explain. Defend. Justify. Rationalize. Stuff I don’t really want to do, because we’re talking about my unique feelings and experiences, and I’m entitled to those, in all their gory glory or their desolate, blowing emptiness, or their rich, deep beauty. They are mine, not my readers’ but when I put them out there for the world to see, they become my readers’ too, to interact with, share, relate to, or even disdain. I guess I’m just not ready for that level of intimacy. It’s risky. But so is life, I guess.
That may be my point- as anonymous as blogging, Tweeting, Facebooking, Instagramming, and all the rest ARE, they are also a form of intimacy, or they can be. Letting someone into your head- your thoughts and feelings. Or maybe that’s just blogging the way I do it. I’m not sure that I’m not just wading in deep BS at this point. It’s just that people are always trying to break off that intimacy. You’ve seen it- we’ve all seen it. A friend or follower decides they’ve had enough of the social media scene, dramatically exit whatever stage they’re on, Twitter, Facebook, or whatever it is, but like a co-dependent relationship, they always come back. There’s just something about that connection with other people, creating, sharing, that keeps us reactivating those accounts. It’s understandable and inevitable.
Here’s a short snippet of the poem that’s forming itself in my head:
I was talking about you.
It meant YOU, damn it.
It referred to how it is for me,
seeing your name, your face, your words
and how it’s a fresh gut punch every time it happens.
How I hate the way I’d rather feel that punch
Than lose touch again.
How I know we’ll never be
what we might once have wanted to be,
but what we are is enough.
It is too much. It is not enough. It is enough.
And I don’t know why, but it is what it is.
Until next time,