Nemeses (Because There's Always a New One.)

Yesterday was my long day. I'm frustrated that I left the kitchen with dishes in the sink, even though it's nothing new. I give myself all the mom-lectures: why are you stepping over the boots instead of putting them away? Why didn't you prepare your lunch last night? When are you going to promote yourself? I'm not sure whose voice that is.

I don't want to promote myself today. I don't want to attract people who think I'm awesome because of what I can produce. But that's not right, is it?

I want to attract people who enjoy my company while I oscillate from topic to topic, or avoid all topics entirely; who see me and love me for what I am and then leave me alone. There it is: don't ask me for anything, but like what I offer because I can afford to give it away. Is this fair, really, in the realm of friend-making? I don't know.

But what I can produce does represent me: these are my ugly babies. This is what I do. Everything that leaves my hands is a physical manifestation of the process which is me. It's a door I can leave open, which is terrifying. There's history: people have liked the end result before, and judged the process. This, but not that, sorry mate. You're a little too much for me - nice painting, though. 

I don't want to be judged today. Take or leave my ugly babies, but acknowledge that I deserve to exist. I am here. Everybody just wants the same thing - to be real.

There's a fine balance in the give and take of energy, even in something as simple as conversation. It's draining to monitor, so I try to ignore it and let things settle naturally.

And then I'm alone. Often I like to be alone, but the emptiness is staring at me, expectant. And there it is again. That expectation is the monster I need to battle, not the emptiness. That  voice is mine.

I see you, Nemesis. You come from inside me. Now I know, and I will win.

There is no medicine. I have to be my own catalyst because nobody else understands this job.

Bill Hope made these chopsticks, one of the many end results of the process which is him. He's one of our Mosaic Writers regulars. I found on his website that, in addition to literary fiction and dancing, he knows woodworking. We had a conversation about the latter and yesterday he presented me with this gift - three sets of chopsticks, as I requested.  I will reciprocate when I have something I can afford to give away. I'll try to remember to give him a chance to like my ugly baby first, before I foist it on him.

It's good to remember I'm sometimes on the other side of that door.  Take that, Nemesis.


  1. You're never really alone when your mind races at a hundred mph. Yours does. You write. So it is you and your divergent thoughts. And more of them. That's why I write fiction. Better someone else -- fictional character -- vaguely disguised past acquaintance -- SOMEONE else be racing around in my head. And then I can edit. There is comfort in placing commas.

    1. Dood. Little do we realise that half the time I myself am a fictional character running around in my head. I've had to sort out friends and loved ones from time to time. If you are ever in doubt, you can ask me and I will tell you.


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