I was watching Anderson Cooper on his new daytime talk show. Did anybody else see it? He confessed to not especially liking…food! He tends to eat the same thing over and over. I found it one of the most interesting shows I have ever seen. And I ended up realizing that we are all crazy—just in different ways and to different degrees. So I thought I would share some of my lifelong craziness with all of you dear crazed folk.
I have never liked to socialize. I don’t dislike people; I just prefer to be at home alone. I can force myself to be with people socially but it doesn’t feel like who I really am. I am always relieved to come home and be quiet. I have never liked to dress up either; it feels like “trouble ahead” when I do that. I become someone other than Vicki.
I know all about people energetically immediately. Through the computer even. I can read a book almost instantly and have always, always known how to read and spell. I love written communication.
I do not like complicated plots in movies or movies that have a lot of evil characters.
I have never liked holidays. The more elaborate an occasion, the less I like it.
These confessions are just pointers to the fact that we are all crazy. C.r.a.z.y.
I don’t like people that talk, talk, talk and go off on tangents, as in “She was wearing this dress and it was made out of…uh…uh…dotted swiss…I think she got it at …uh, uh, uh. I don’t talk or write that way. Keep it simple, people. Keep it simple.
I am a neat freak. My mother says I came out of the womb prissy. There is a picture of me at about age three. I am wearing a straw Easter bonnet and holding a little purse and my mouth is pursed!
One reason I gave up forums is because so many people are c.r.a.z.y. about their brand of God. They insist on having Him served in a certain way. And they want to fill your head with c.r.a.z.y. They want to communicate to you that light workers are taking care of the planet which is leaning crazily on its axis and will likely take off for Key West just to let extra people get on.
See, I get crazy when I sit at the keyboard. At this point I am beginning to write comedy instead of true confessions. I better wrap this up before Anderson Cooper hits me with a Boston Market turkey dinner with two servings of corn and a piece of cornbread. C.r.a.z.y. B.u.t. i.n. a. g.o.o.d. w.a.y. He is my new crush. Call me c.r.a.z.y.I got up this morning knowing I was the dispassionate observer. Synchronistically, John Evans says this in the September issue of Writing and Wellness newsletter:
“Lately I’ve been thinking that if you want to write honestly, you must become an outcast or an exile or at an observer’s remove. As a writer there are at least two of you; one before you became a writer and the one you become after. As a person, you are the passionate participant. As a writer, you are an astute observer, but loyalties to the stories of friends and family are secondary considerations to writing your own story. This is not to say that the right attitude is “@#$% ya’ll, all-a-yah-all,” but it is to say that your story is not about them; it’s about you and all your story!
And so I come here, day after day, observing Vicki’s life and mingling with her humanity and foibles and honest-to-God aloneness. I will say one thing about her. She was born honest. She erected a facade, as does everyone, but she knows it for what it is and sees through the facades of others easily. But she still falls down into reactionary chakras while I look on her with unconditional love.
She has left online communities where she has to suffer the slings and arrows of ill-mannered people, but she knows who her friends are and needs their support.
A Poem For Friends
I like to write notes and poetry and funny stuff in equal measure.
I crack my knuckles and shake out the stress from my fingers
before hitting the mean streets of the internet.
I jump rope to warm up my heart
and play hop scotch from Friend to Friend.
I always hope they are using my words to
wake up to the beauty of who they are
even when they can barely crawl out of bed
and feel the slime of their own self-reproach.
I dance among the alphabet, picking out the
x’s and z’s because they are harder to digest than
the simple a’s and o’s.
I crack wise like I crack my knuckles, just to
see if I still can play the harp like little David
and win the war against the Goliath of my own ego.