32B's Blog

…where I write my words

Lovely Curse

It’s not a good day for me and it’s only the wee hours of the morning.  When I can’t sleep I try to write which eventually tires me out so I find sleep easily but that doesn’t seem to be working.  All that I have written sounds like gibberish and what I feel I can’t seem to find the right words to translate so I went back through my writings and found this piece I wrote called Visitor which seems to touch a part of what I am feeling.  Until I can capture the other part then I guess I’ll have to postpone sleep and dreaming. Sometimes I hate how emotional I am because I will cry at the drop of a dime…literally, I just might.  But, then again, when I read things I write during those times I wonder if it truly was I who penned those words. I’m no Maya Angelou but I love the emotion behind every line although my friends say I write too much in one piece. I told a friend of mine that the irony of it all is that I only reach a level of brilliance when my hearts suffers an equal degree of pain.  A lovely curse.


November 28, 2009 Posted by | Life | , , | Leave a comment

My Memoir

inspiredI feel this insatiable need to write but I have little confidence in my own writing skills.  Sometimes my mind is working in overdrive so I write a few blogs just to save them as drafts because I don’t know if they are actually “viewable”.  It’s not until some time has passed, more like a few weeks, that I go back and read what I wrote oh so long ago and think to myself, “hey, this is actually good stuff!”  Why do I write?  I don’t know.  I feel I need to explain this to myself so I can justify why I have this blog but I have no answer.  Even telling myself that I need to write, that I like to write, that I thrive on writing is simply too simple of an answer because I think my actions should generate some monumental result.  Like feeding poor children.  Or snatching depression from someone’s day and replacing it with sunshine.  Maybe letting regular ole folks know that there are other insecure and ridiculously fearful people out there in the world too.  I mean really….I don’t remember a time in my life when I was not writing in some way.

After all these years, after all the things I have written (most lost forever), after all I have felt & lived to translate into my own words…..I still feel I suck at this thing!  Who would read this?  Who would want to?  A friend texted me last night to say he had stayed up til about 2am reading my blog entries and really liked them all.  He even included quite a few exclamation marks.  I was extremely flattered because that was the best compliment I remember getting.  Maybe I can write basic stuff from time to time.  Where do I want this to go though?  I have stopped counting the times people have suggested I write a book.  A book about relationships.  A book about love.  A book of short stories.  A book of just my random thoughts but I think that is a cyber book called, drum roll please, a blog. 

Well, I guess I am as insecure as they come.  I have fantastic thoughts sometimes but who knows if I have reached my full potential?  If I haven’t, what am I supposed to do with that potential?  Why do I have this freakish need to only do when it leads to something definite?  I can flow with all other things in all other aspects but, and this is my own theory, I can’t seem to flow in areas I excel in out of fear that I am wasting my “gift”.  I excel in writing.  I excel in love.  I excel in running.  I excel in my career.  All those things I do with a conscious plan and notion that “this” will lead to “that” followed by “something else” pretty soon. 

So, personally, why do I write?  Because it documents my very existence on this earth and that I did laugh, cry, feel, hurt, dance, sing, run, think, and was completely aware of myself.  Because I have this insatiable need to leave proof that I actually existed.  Leave proof of my thoughts whether no one but myself and my boys read them.  Leave proof that I wrote this for this guy I was madly in love with.  Leave proof that I have a fascination for lace panties, sex, chocolate, and puzzles.  Leave proof that I felt this way about the war, about George Bush, about September 11th, about Obama, about AIG, about Enron, about same sex marriages, about organic foods, about Lake Shore Drive, about Greek Life, and anything else I can randomly think to list here.  In a nut shell, I write because I don’t know when God will take me home so this is and shall be my final collection to my memoir which I leave behind to answer the question, “who was Denisha?”  She was a lot of things but, namely, she was a great writer.  I added the “great” myself. 🙂

April 16, 2009 Posted by | Me | , , | 1 Comment

I the Anomaly

split-personality1Since I was a little girl I have always written whether it was poems, short stories, or just assignments for class.  I would enter writing contests at school and I loved when we had a writing assignment to complete for class.  Writing gave me expression which is something I didn’t have or didn’t desire growing up in a rather large family where everyone was outspoken and I was reserved.  Reserved.  I was never shy but rather observant.  Not timid but watchful of those around me not knowing if I should show them me or not.  I was quiet if anything but never shy.  On a daily basis I saw hurt inflicted by words.  On a daily basis I saw bonds broken by words.  On a daily basis I saw battles won by words.  Truth be told, people talk in a disproportionate rate to how they listen. 

Growing up, I never saw a need to talk a lot.  There were always arguments, fights, and mis-communication because people don’t know how to communicate but they can talk their azz off!  How can you talk and not communicate?  Pretty simple but complicated for others to understand.  I observed that talking did not get anyone’s attention in my house so I kept to myself and wrote.  To this day, my family has no idea who I am or what I am because they don’t know how to listen to me and hear me.  They want to listen and hear in their own way and not in a way that is conducive to me and the way I speak.  So, I don’t let them in.  I don’t let others in.  I don’t meet people.  I don’t socialize.  Most think I am stuck up, conceited, arrogant because I choose to keep to myself as a learned behavior after all these years.  I guess I should make it known that it is not them personally but, in a way, it is.  All you want to do is figure me out just so you can misread me and begin to judge and categorize me.  Then, when you come across something I have written you say, “I didn’t know you had it in you!” 

One thing I will admit is that, as much as I talk nowadays, I never talk about my writing.  It is as if the two exist independently of each other.  Someone told me that, from reading my blogs, they have learned so much about me and that I am an anomaly.  Before I spoke I had to be sure this was a compliment rather than an insult.  If not an insult, then which commonality am I being compared to that I am an anomaly and the others are not?  Often times people will say, “I know this and that about you”….so you know me now?  The same information you have is the same information the next person reading my blog has…..congratulations!  Have you met this me or that me?  Which me do you think I have shown to you?  Seldom do I talk about my blogs to the people face-to-face because, frankly, as public as this is I find it personal to approach face-to-face because I lose my sense of anonymity.  I know….I actually know some of these people personally so how can that possibly make sense?!  Do I expect them to not mention it?  Act as if they don’t read them at all?  No…..I don’t know what I am trying to say but I know what I am thinking….just can’t formulate it into words right now.   If you ask or want to discuss with me my writing/blogs then you show me you want to meet the other me at which point I get nervous because she does not like to meet people because that would mean opening myself up completely to you which is too much.  To whom have I opened myself up to in such a way?  Hmmm….

Why do I write?  Why do I blog?  Why do I take the time to write these things everyday for the purpose of nothing more than to get things off my bird chest knowing not that many people read it?  I write for me.  When I die, no one will frame a painting of mine or a quote I said…likely, they will archive one of my writings, my stories, or my weird random off the wall blog postings.  I speak but more so I speak through my words.  If I speak and open up to someone in particular then that is a rare occasion so I build a bond that, even now, I find hard to break.  My topics aren’t from the same vein.  My ideas aren’t predictable.  My moods are scattered.  My writings are just normal everyday stuff that makes up me.  I find it fascinating that people have grown closer to me through blogs.  Sometimes, when I step from the computer, I feel like a different person when I am writing and when I am in the every day world interacting with people.  Sometimes.  I just know that the person writing is still inside and only feels comfortable with certain people whom she trusts.  Who do I trust?  No one anymore.  I used to trust but now it seems easier not to trust at all.  The fear in typing these words?  I sound like someone I know all too well. 

I am an anomaly.  I express myself better through words than speech.  I am an anomaly and I like it.

February 9, 2009 Posted by | Me | , , , , , | Leave a comment