A Brain-Blush

Attention Readers!!
BUSHLETTE HAS MADE A VERY IMPORTANT DECISION!!!

I don’t think I ever want to get married!

Image

I might be able to attribute this decision to “daddy issues”, but I think I will end up as one of those women who, at age 48(24 years from now), has been with the same man for 8 to 12 years, but won’t ever get married. I’ll call him my “partner” because after being in an 8 to 12 year relationship, “boyfriend” will sound too juvenile. Because I will refer to him this way, people will think I’m a lesbian, which he and I will always take in good humor as we spend our nights drinking dry wine from the east of Bolivia and staring sideways at abstract paintings.

I will wear long flowy skirts with delicately embellished flips flops that I will acquire on my vacation to a quaint, untouched Caribbean island. My scarves won’t match my outfits, and I will learn how to sew. As of now, I can’t knit, but I will try to learn in my spare time (when I’m 48). I will knit hideous scarves and sweaters for my family and closest friends. As ugly as they will be, these tokens of love will be appreciated because of how much they love me. I will have no idea that my knitting is horrendous…but those are the kinds of friends and family members I will be lucky enough to have.

Hummus will be one of my closest allies! I will eat a modest diet of completely healthy foods that are good for me but taste like cardboard…not because I should, but because I’ll like them! Okay…maybe I won’t like all of them, but most of them! I will like most of them!

I look forward to adding to this list! These thoughts were recently extracted from the tiny part of me that generates the most ridiculous, and most honest ideas that make my brain blush.

What makes your brain blush? 😉

xo
Bushlette

Advertisements

The thing about small islands…

…is that they are surrounded

completely

by unforgiving waves

and they are pockmarked

deeply

with secret-guarding caves.

There is no escape

at all

from past and present harms

and if you dare

to fall

you’ll be trampled by its charms.

Writer Terror

“Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.”   
— Flannery O’Connor

All weekend I have been battling with my writing class assignment.  The result has been that not one word has been written.  It promises to be a very intense piece of work (visceral is the word the instructor used) and I am likely going to have to work it and re-work it.  So far I have been writing light works for my blogs, little bites of my day.  It has been a forward-looking journey charting a new course through lands hitherto unknown and filled with optimism.

Not so my writing class homework.  This promises to be a visit to the murky swamps of my memories.  And I admit it freely here – I am intimidated.  The assignment for this week is that I take a childhood memory and re-write it in the voice of my childhood.  Three pages.

Writing about the past is something I have never practiced.  Not about my past anyway.  I don’t mind brief visits to other people’s ponds.  But much like I don’t like the idea of going to a psychologist to dig through the silt and make a new decision on what happened in the past I have a strong resistance to sifting through on my own for sources of fiction.

You would swear I had skeletons in my closet!

A big part of what scares me is the burden of protecting the people in my life from the magnifying glass.  It scares me to have to examine each character closely and make a decision on them.  It scares me to show the decision I have made to them.  They lived in my life un-rehearsed, un-varnished and would never have guessed when I was growing up alongside them that one day I would open my veins and bleed out my secrets, which are shared secrets and therefore their secrets, through a pen.  The rye words exchanged, the events we pushed into the past in order to still be able to relate today, the wrongs we have worked hard to forget and survive.

I struggled to identify a childhood memory that wasn’t in some way tainted by one of these secrets.  The drama that belonged to the adults affected how we children would be allowed to relate – where we went, who came over, what could and could not be discussed with whom.  In the end I found some untainted memories in our neighbourhood, things shared with my brother and our friends, but most of them I had to really fight through the mire to get to.

Without even beginning to write I see how enormous an impression adults leave on children.  A theme for the story of my life.  The fears and the fierce love of our protectors and the way they fought for us or over us during the days of our childhood – the prickly hedge that kept us sheltered from the world.

Having already admitted to my commitment phobia, I am going to apply my own advice to this problem.  I have a problem – I am terrified of writing for this class.  My goal is to complete every assignment from the heart for this class.  And you, the reader of my blog, I ask to hold me accountable.  If by Friday each week for the next five weeks I haven’t mentioned it, this means I am avoiding it.  Please kick my rear into gear.