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All the things I want to write but haven’t yet

For now I shake myself loose from myself and let it fall onto the white digital space of this blog as if crossing unmarked snow. That’s how I stay connected.

I want to write about my failures in relationship, in business, in money, in parenting

Like the other day I told my son to “buck up” after he started crying over something I declared “should not fuck your day.”

I, of course, want to wrap it up – each small, small piece of my life with a pretty bow of a last paragraph because I think, it’s gotta be a story of how I overcame it all.

Thing is – most things I haven’t overcome. That’s not entirely true, but I definitely slip all the time.

I want to write about the time I lost everything, and the steps (A through Z) that I took to pick myself up from the floor – but I don’t know which time I should choose.

I want to reiterate – again and again – how often I slip along the way, regress, devolve, wake up to the nightmare, then climb out because the Saber Toothed Tiger is hot on my ass.

I want to write about how I have disappointed my most important people, then felt guilty and ashamed. Then cried over the loss.

I want to write about how embarrassed I am to tell people the truth about my failures. How I FAILED yet again.

I want to write about the time the heat got shut off on my birthday, or the time I missed my daughter’s birthday because I was in jail.

I want to write about the time I was on a date and paid for her beer with a hundred dollar bill. She tried to be funny, “Whoa drug dealer!” she said. But on the inside I was embarrassed. Because indeed, I WAS selling drugs. And, that 100 dollar bill was from the check I’d cashed at Walmart. Because I shut my bank account down when the overdraft fees added up.

I want to write all the things I already know before I hear them. Because that is why I am in the world.

I don’t know where to start.

Maybe I’ll start with – how all these years of mistakes later – I often think about the dogs that got left behind – starting with Luna and Buddy, but mostly Redwood. Oh Redwood! I’m sorry, it was my fault.

Somehow through all of these things I write, I want you to know that I’m funny too, but how do I show that? It never comes through.

I want to tell you about my Junior year in high school English Comp. When I turned my rough drafts into the teacher, I had wiped boogers in the margins. She circled them with red pen and a question mark. Is that funny to you? (hilarious to me!)

I imagine an entire collection titled “Notes from a Dirty Young Man” like Bukowski’s “Notes from a Dirty Old Man.”

I want to be ironic, and tell of my season trying to “hook up,” and instead, attracting women who want relationships, but aren’t ready for them despite how ready they think they are, and absolutely missing all the fun.

I want to write all of these things with a new computer, my feet in the sand sipping a fu fu drink and the ocean as my soundtrack.

These are some of the stories I want to tell, and they have written themselves all over my life.

I want to describe how comfortable I am with the uncomfortable, the awkward. How much I cringe before clicking POST.

I want to peel back my resentment of white women who “eeny meeny miny moe” where to best focus their activist energy (as if posting it to social media is “activism”). I want to champion a project that collects all of their disavow posts for an anthology, Best White Women Disavow Posts of 2017. I will relish in Amazon reviews that call me an “…ist” word ie. misogynist, narcissist, racist, fascist, etc.

If I wrote that, I’d have to tell you about my Dad’s sense of humor too.

I want to write a memoir of all the times I have lived and died in Kalamazoo, MI.

I want to tell you about my son Ben in Florida, age 12. How he only has a vague idea of me, but I know every detail of him, and my confidence that a day near where he knows as much.

I want to tell you about the time me and mom walked around Timothy Lake. Her bunyan and broken elbow. Her stick shift Ford Tempo I learned to drive on the logging roads of Mt. Hood. Our break down in Ogden, UT. The way she would cry and how it made my skin crawl.

I want to write a manifesto persuading you to show your work, think out loud, fail on the way to succeeding, imperfect on the way toward better than good enough.

Since I want to leave behind this easily found trail of little posts and stories, I want you to do the same. Because no one is interested in resumes, THIS is the resume.

I want to tell about the time I was ahead of the curve. And how, sometimes, if you’re ahead of the curve, you’re actually just wrong because no one around you has lived into what you know you see. Because you don’t have to be “right” very many times to know being right isn’t the point.

I haven’t written about any of these things. Not yet. They are still stories that are being written. Maybe I’m not far enough away from them. I don’t know.

Right now, I’m laying flat – debating with myself whether I’m saying it grammatically correct – is it “Laying flat” or “Lying flat?”


… I so often have the urge to shake myself out from myself and fall onto this digital white space that we call Facebook or Instagram or my blog, because that’s how I stay connected to myself.

And, I’d know that you like me after I’d confess that I love myself, because you’d just smile, giggle, and say, “I know you do” but my stories don’t end that neatly.

Published inDaily Writing

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