Of Note

I should be grateful that BRAVO hasn't turned my bar into a reality series yet because it leaves the stories for me to write without contract infringement.

I gave Possible Boy my blog address. On purpose. I wrote him a note and included the this very blog address towards the end. I had to write the note on the computer because that's how I write more coherantly and naturally. It seemed a strange thing to have printed off and somehow unfaithful to the words and the recipient to let them live any life but their singular intention, yet something came out of me in that note that I think belongs in here, too. So just that one part, and appologies to Possible Boy:

I feel compelled to write so there is some record of everything in me, so that maybe someone somewhere will read it and understand. There is just so much universe, and I want to catalogue it all so that each lonely feeling can be found and pointed to and said, “Someone is with me on that.” Selfishly, I want someone to read what I write and say “Yes!” to every word and tell me I’m not alone. But that means another person is no longer alone, too, and the magic of books and words is that they can be used over and over again by people who don’t have my compulsion, the same way I can use a computer but have no idea how to build one. I have to remind myself, in that way, too, we’re not alone. Ever. It’s just easy to get lost sometimes.

I guess that's my point, or a point of writing, and what I'm saying, and all kinds of other pointy things, too: adding permanance to the ephemeral. Memory. Antiques. I'm the one person at estate sales who is disappointed when all the vintage cards and stationary in the big box are all still blank. I want to collect stories and smear them all over the world so that things that aren't mine can connect stranger to stranger with silky strands of "Yes! Me too!"
I'm more spider than I realized.
Spin spin spin, a web or a dizzy blonde.

Has anyone checked my medication recently?