September 15, 2009

I try to identify the source of my anxiety in what we have, this incalculable thing that has sprung up between us.

Maybe it is the calibre of his words? Yes, his words are his ammunition, and I am slain.

No. That doesn’t work. Let’s try again.

His words are the sun. I am blinded. I am burnt. I am… nicely tanned and it’s time to turn over?

No, no, no!

This is it, the source of my anguish. His words, his words, they crash into me, they cudgel, they caress me, they craze me, they coerce me. I feel helpless, hapless, hurt. I’m overwhelmed, blissfully so, and I can’t fight back because he has everything, and I have nothing. The words are his, never mine, given but not received. They turn me on, they arouse me, they pull me in, I drown in them, but they are never mine.

Au contraire. My words, mine, les miens, are nothing, become meaningless and empty in response, because of, in reaction to. His. I’m left verbally naked.

And craving more. Words.


A year and a half after promising to emerge from unintentional and occasional but still neglectful hiding, followed by sudden, self-imposed and seemingly permanent blog exile, I appear to have returned. What can it mean? Why would la bohémienne have been satisfied to navel gaze in solitude all of this time, and then, without warning (to herself or to others), feel a need to share all that lint with all and sundry once more?

There is only one possible explanation.

I crave attention. Your attention. The need has never fully disappeared. It was there, lurking barely beneath the surface, waiting to emerge when my attention was elsewhere. Angst doesn’t go away, not really. It just hides, and attacks when defenses are low. And now, I feel as vulnerable to that attack as I have in many months.

If I must be honest (must I?), I secretly enjoy that vulnerability. It seems to me that every grand and intense experience occurs when I feel least able to handle the consequences. That seems a fair trade-off to a self-identified drama queen.

So here I am, ready to verbally wring my hands and wail my confusion in (anonymous) public once more. I do hope that you will accept this implied apology. I know that I’ve taken you for granted, and I really don’t deserve a second chance. I know you, though, and your legendary generosity. If you take me back, believe me, read me, tell me you love me, I promise to be faithful to you, only you, only all of you.

Or at least occasionally amuse you with my not-so-quiet desperation.

Scuro, Scuro, Always Scuro

November 19, 2007

It occurred to me recently that the arbitrarily chosen categories here at Complicity (Chiaro, Scuro, Chiaroscuro) may in fact be encouraging me in rather a bad habit. The lovely and brilliant Melograna suggested these categories (she’s such a smartypants), and I thought they were a great idea — after all, they really do describe all of the types of writing we are likely to do: Chiaro (light / clear), Scuro (dark), or Chiaroscuro, that art term which describes a combination or, more accurately, contrast of the two. I wish sometimes that there was more of a sliding scale to describe feeling really fairly down, but not really suicidal. Or generally cheerful, but don’t indulge in any false hopes of getting away with anything. So, they are a great theory, all inclusive, pretty much comprehensive, as categories go. And of course, we also have a category called War, because sometimes we are just pissed off.

Anyhow, this very clearly delineated method of categorizing writing moods serves as a great temptation to me. Each time I am grumpy about something or someone, I think to myself… Ah, Boh (doesn’t everyone refer to themselves by their blog nickname?), you could just write that out of your system, and slap it up on Complicity under the pretentious but accurate Scuro designation. Then I go ahead and vent. When I’m done, sometimes I place it under Chiaroscuro, to give the illusion that I’m not really as morbid as I … well, as I really am.

Over the long term, however, this leads to a string of posts where I criticize and complain about pretty much every aspect of my life. He was mean to me. She is annoying. I’m tired. I’m bored. My head hurts. They make me work too hard. Wah, wah, wah. Pity me. Tell me I’m always right. Say you love it when I download on you.

So, what happens when I have particularly Chiaro moments that I want to write about? Ah. Really, I should have another blog just for that. It wouldn’t have a category called “Please Whine Here”, so I would be less tempted.

Since I don’t in fact have a blog named “All Chiaro, All the Time”, I resolve to try to balance my perspective a bit when I write here. I shall, in fact, continue to write snarly little allegorical tales about people who have offended me, and scathing but superficially amusing indictments of perceived slights against me. I shall also, however, return to over-analyzing the more positive and delicious bits of lint in my navel as well. After all, my navel is pretty gorgeous, and worth the time spent gazing at it.