I was bound to run into the glass ceiling.
Or maybe it’s a box.
Well, whatever shape it is, there are planes and angles involved. It’s a structure that encases my thoughts, and, if you are the one standing on the other side, you may see me yelling and hear nothing.
You may see me yelling and hear nothing because I haven’t opened the window. Yes, there is a window my in box. But it’s currently only open for business once a week. Lucy is going to crowd me out of the market.
The past month or two, I’ve only been blogging every seven days.
Although it may come as a shock, however, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been saying things. Like I said, I just haven’t been open for business.
Lucy, will you help me?
There are so many thoughts that shuffle between my ears every day. Well, actually, my thoughts feel less like they shuffle between my ears and more like I can still hear them screaming at me across the room–from under five pillows, a set of headphones, and two squishy ear plugs. They pound away at my head all day long, intertwining and running over themselves in their eagerness to command my poor little Self’s attention. They jostle for affection and tenderness, and my poor Creativity has run away. I think He is hiding in a corner until all the yelling stops.
But what’s funny about blogging is that I can’t let you in on that conversation. I can’t let you in on that conversation because it’s not politically correct—or even polite, for that matter. You would be offended, and then I would be offended at you, mostly for interrupting my eloquence with a *gasp*
I can’t let you in because you don’t care as much as I do. My screaming voices are only a whisper among your screaming voices. And we really all simply want peace and quiet. The only reason my little window is comforting to you or to me is because it channels the energy; everything has to mush into a square to pop out the window and onto the other side of my glass box, or triangle, or quadrangle, or hexagon, or parralleogram, or rhombus. (I think I secretly always liked the rhombus best.) That little window of “a blog post” can do wonders to solidify the thoughts swirling around.
Perhaps it’s like those hurricane machines at the shoe stores from the nineties where the really loud salesman with the obnoxious and oversized company polo shoves you in to make a spectacle for the other innocent shoppers; you flail your arms about trying to catch on to something you can walk away with. My thoughts aren’t like single paper dollars, though; it’s the whole roll of linen tromping around in gale-force wind. They’re all connected; that’s why, if I eventually throw one end out of my glass window, the other end will eventually catch up and go sailing out into the great Beyond.
What if I am the Woman in White---does that make me crazy?
And that’s why it’s hard to blog. I don’t want all my dirty linen out in the great Beyond. I want it safely at home, where it’s regularly laundered, cut and dried.
So, accept my deep regrets: you may not hear from me for another week.
La Reisytal 