Posted by: scintillatingspeck | February 17, 2016

Chalcedony.

I’m buzzing and floundering in thoughts that refuse to coagulate neatly.  Why should it matter?  Why am I expecting myself to make sense right now?  I guess I got it in my head that I want to write a blog post.  I see that it’s been one month since I wrote the last one.  It feels too long.  As if I’m on a schedule.

I told myself: Go ahead, you disorganized blob of fog.  Why not.

Um, because I’m supposed to appear coherent?  Because I should be producing perfect little gems of polished wisdom, gleaming like chalcedony?

Since when?  Says who?  Can you give it up, please?  You and your perfect chalcedony—you will end up surrounded by mirages of unexpressed treasure without a peep of an authentic word. 

Bah.  This is always where I end up.  Fine.  FINE.  Displaying my inner arguments.  I’ll claim it’s all for the greater good; somebody, somewhere, will feel less foolish, or at least less alone, for their ongoing internal tussles.

Topics that insinuate themselves into my fingers include:

  • How to deal with homeschool anxiety attacks (because clearly I have experience with this)
  • Why relationship anarchy is an ever-more appealing term to me than polyamory
  • Why I try not to care about identity labels but they seem to keep mattering
  • How any relationship finds its own equilibrium, eventually, whether it flourishes or withers
  • How getting friend-dumped can be a decent catalyst to clarifying one’s relational priorities

….and then my brain spins off into eddies that are about doing laundry, and remembering to replace the horribly deteriorated windshield wipers on the car, and flickers of erotica, and rowing madly toward a drowning bit of thought that surely was important except it’s gone now.

I was thinking that perhaps this whole blog is about me talking to myself and trying to scrape up an ort of sense by doing so.  Or perhaps it’s my sacred practice of shame-busting via vulnerability.

“So, what exactly do you do, Jen?”

I’m a shame-buster.  I’m a meaning-sniffer.  I’m a nurturer of bodies and souls.  I’m a bullshit-detector.  I’m a miner of my own intuition and sometimes yours.  I berate myself.  I berate myself for berating myself.  I practice loving myself and it’s fucking hard.  I take a child by the hand and pray that my love outweighs my mistakes.  I get thirsty for people to be real with me.

 

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Responses

  1. it matters. you matter. you write from the inside out. i really like that.

  2. I can completely relate, Jen. Spring is coming.


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