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 likes 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.