January 30, 2018

excessive disclosure

It kept happening.  No matter how many selfies I took in an attempt to find one just right for use in creating my profile pic, on the right over there, it kept happening.  Maybe another expression?  Maybe tilting my head?  Maybe different lighting.  No.  It made no difference.  In every single picture, I look like my mother when she was this age.  Exactly like my mother.  I have her eyes.

I waited for a week before making the previous post live.  I know that it constitutes an inappropriate degree of self-disclosure.  I imagine refined English women with their fans, whispering to each other.  "It's just not on," they say.  "It's not proper.  It just isn't done."  I have readers now, and some of them are going to file it under TMI in their minds and move on.  Some won't be back.  


I did not write it out of a desperate attempt to be known or to stir the pot of anything the least bit controversial.  The word "stalker" evokes shock and discomfort.  I'm aware.


It simply hinges on this:  I refuse to begin to censor this blog, to refrain from writing the spark that comes my way, no matter how deep inside it demands that I reach.  I would say that way lies madness, but we're already wandering around in that country, snapping photos and buying kitschy souvenirs, so I'll say instead that way lies dishonesty, and I am vehemently opposed to dishonesty, particularly dishonesty practiced for the sake of maintaining others' approval.  That is not why I write.


And anyway, I thought of a caption for the one-armed Barbie picture, which is what pushed me to publish it.  I think you'll agree this constituted a fundamental obligation to share.


People who meet me and spend time with me, even on a daily basis, think I'm more or less normal.  I think the same of them.  I know nothing of their own depths.


It's entirely possible that I have nothing to fear after posting about my fracture.

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