The Ballad Of Yes

Give me your shouldn’ts, your wouldn’ts and won’ts,
I’m buying up couldn’ts and didn’ts and don’ts;
I’ll take each ‘if only’ and ‘what might have been’
and I’ll stack them in boxes and lock them all in.

I’ll load them all onto a boat on the sea
that’s got just enough room for the boxes and me,
I’ll sail through the waves and the currents and tide,
then I’ll throw every single box over the side.

I’ll toss every ‘not now,’ ‘maybe later,’ and ‘no,’
every ‘what were you thinking’ and ‘I told you so,’
I’ll watch as they sink through the brine and the foam,
then I’ll turn back to shore and I’ll set sail for home.

And I’ll sing to myself as I sail on the sea
a song about how good it is to be free,
about all the adventures waiting for me,
all the things I can do, all the things I can be.

– The Little Blind Girl

Illustrated version [download here]:

the-ballad-of-yes-illustrated

 

Little Blind Girl has left the building

Jeff and Jodi's Epic Bike Move by Will Vanlue on Flickr

Jeff and Jodi’s Epic Bike Move by Will Vanlue on Flickr

I’m moving.  I’m pretty sure the tears are because I’ve developed allergies to cardboard, packing tape, and bubble wrap simultaneously, and not at all because I’m leaving the place I’ve called home for six years.  You can disagree with me if you want, because I’m just making that up to keep from sounding like a wimp.

Don’t get me wrong.  There are things I will not miss.  For instance, I live in a converted warehouse that wasn’t built to be a residence, and in one of the corners the walls don’t quite meet.  If you’re standing at the right angle at the right time of day, you can see daylight.  I’ve seen it snow inside my apartment.  I won’t miss that.  I also live above a restaurant.  I don’t know why it is that they like to dump all their glass bottles into the recycling bin at dawn, but they do, and the restaurant has a bar, so that’s a lot of bottles.  I won’t miss that, either, though it’s been a pretty reliable alarm clock.  I also won’t miss the trains that run immediately behind the building, and I definitely won’t miss whoever it is who thinks it’s a good idea to blast Justin Bieber at two in the morning.

I’ve made this into a home, though, the first I’ve ever had on my own.  I’ve lived on my own for a while, but I never stayed anywhere for long.  I’m a rolling stone, baby, and I gather no moss.  Except here.  My home, my sacred space, my sanctuary.  The place where, no matter how mad the Chloe Cat is, she has to let me in because she has nobody else to feed her.  I’ve had sleepless nights here because I was anxious, because I was ecstatic, because I had a broken heart, because I had a broken bone, or because I just couldn’t sleep.  I started this blog here.  I can see where my viewership is coming from, and it knocks me out to see that little map light up with countries all across the world in which people are reading this blog, and it all started here.

I’m moving to a great place and I’m looking forward to making a new home in which I haven’t had any heartbreaks yet, or had to shovel snow off the floor.  Maybe my new neighbors will blast Muse at two in the morning, or (it could happen) Bach.  Maybe I’ll blast Bach and see how long it takes people to complain (prediction:  17 seconds).  I’m looking forward to living in a place where the ceiling is so high, I have to submit a work order to get a light bulb changed.  But mostly, I’m looking forward to not having to pack any more boxes, or wrap any more fragile items, or try to hold a box closed with one hand while I tape it up with the other using tape that has somehow become stuck to itself in the last half-second.  Sentimentality is nice and all, but if this doesn’t end soon, I’m going to find out who it is who’s been blasting Justin Bieber for the past few years, shove them in a box, tape it shut, and mail it to Canada.

And I’m going to miss the hell out of this place.  Even though it has no closet space, the floors slant, and it managed to get flooded on the top floor, it was home.  Au revoir, apartment mine.  May you be tenanted by good people who always remember to change your air filter.

Respect Your Blog

Image credit: openclipart.org

Image credit: openclipart.org

I’m not gonna lie, I used to post a good portion of my blog entries while wearing PJs.  I’ve come to realize, however, that when I’m wearing PJs and slippers and I’ve got my rat’s nest of uncombed hair pulled back in a scrunchie so I won’t have to deal with it and I’m not wearing any makeup because it’s not like any of you can see me, anyway, I usually end up writing a sloppy blog entry.  Because I’m sloppy.  So I came up with a resolution:  respect your blog.  Treat it like something you value, not like something you just got from a fast food restaurant that you’re done with and you throw in the back of your car because who cares.

I like to dress up a little while I’m posting to my blog.  I put on pretty shoes, I do my eye makeup, I try to make my hair look presentable.  I know you can’t see me, but it makes a difference.  When I respect my blog, and my blog readers, enough to approach it like a professional, I write better blog entries.  I also try to make sure that my apartment has achieved at least a basic level of cleanliness, because I can see my living room reflected in my computer screen and it’s really distracting when I’m typing a post and I see the reflection and think, why do I have three coffee mugs on my end table?  I don’t even drink coffee.

Why is this important?  Because I’m a freaking adult.  I know my laundry has been piling up and I really need to empty the trash and I haven’t been grocery shopping in two weeks so I’ve just been ordering in (which is probably why the trash is so full), but it helps me concentrate when all my crap is where it’s supposed to be.  It helps me write when I know, somewhere in the layers of my little blind mind, that I could walk outside to get the mail and not worry whether anyone’s around to see me, because I look decent.  It’s all part of not becoming a crazy cat lady with 27 cats who goes to the grocery store wearing a house coat because she forgot to check the mirror before she sat down to post to her blog.

This blog may not be an actual job, and thank God because most people end up hating their jobs and that would suck for me, but it’s something that’s important to me.  It’s important to me to write a good blog entry for you to read.  And I don’t mind if you read it while wearing your PJs.  That’s totally OK.  That’s almost what you’re supposed to do (unless you’re reading this while at work).  Get out your scrunchies and put on your slippers and know that I put effort into myself as well as into this blog post, because I respect my blog and I respect you.  Peace out.

St. Blogger’s Day Speech

This was long thought to be the only portrait ...

Shakespeare 'Chandos portrait' (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was thinking there should be a blogger’s day, or maybe a WordPress online day of appreciation for those who put their close-kept thoughts and most dearly-held opinions online for the pleasure of people they’ve never so much as met.  It takes a great deal of courage to say what you think and invite literally the entire world to read and comment on it.  When you stop to consider it, it’s an extraordinarily powerful phenomenon.

Then I got all defensive on behalf of bloggers, thinking about the random vicious comments people make on blogs just because they can do it anonymously, and about all the blogs that are so passionate and into which people put so much work, but that are virtually ignored.  Then, predictably, I got to adapting Shakespeare’s St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V in my head, which is the kind of thing I do when I get bored.  And then, of course, I had to type it out and share it on my blog!

So here you are, fellow bloggers, readers, and commenters:  my St. Blogger’s Day speech for you (it helps to imagine Kenneth Branagh delivering it):

And WordPress Holiday shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the ‘Net,

But we in it shall be remember’d–

We few, we happy few, we band of bloggers;

For he online that comments on my blog

shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

this blog shall respond to his comments;

and bloggers on WordPress now a-bed

shall think themselves accurs’d they weren’t online

and hold their bloghoods cheap whiles reading those

that blogged with us on WordPress Day!

Wait…what??? (Obligatory post-Freshly Pressed blog entry)

Bambi (character)

Bambi (character) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There I was, peacefully putting away my groceries (all healthy, worse luck.  I think my doctor reads my blog) and chatting with my mother, who was in town for a visit.  She went off to do something else, and I sat down to check in on my blog.  I pressed the stats button…

I recently got a new pair of glasses.  I thought maybe they had malfunctioned.  I’d had how many page views?  Suspicious, I took off my glasses, rubbed them, put them back on…yep, same number.  I checked out the Freshly Pressed section of WordPress and, sure enough, there I was!  With a blog post that I’d put about five minutes worth of thought into and basically consisted of me blowing off steam about my new diet and exercise plan!

Though, come to think of it, that’s probably a pretty universally interesting topic–not diet and exercise, which are just universally torturous, but being annoyed and frustrated by them.  Yes, I cunningly picked this topic of common interest, came up with a nifty list, inserted a colorful visual, all with an eye toward getting Freshly Pressed…no, I didn’t.  But it’s still fun that it happened!  I had the following conversation with myself after seeing my tiny little blog up there with the big boys:

Little Blind Girl:  Oh, wow, this is so cool!  Look at all these page views!  Look at all these comments and all the new followers!  Thanks, WordPress!

Voice in Head:  Wait, they picked this post?  I have, like, fifty other posts that are way better.

Little Blind Girl:  Oh, don’t be a buzzkill.  This is awesome!  I want to do a backflip, except that I’m pretty sure my body doesn’t bend that way anymore.

Voice in Head:  I’m just saying.  You wrote a sonnet to Johnny Depp, actually in iambic pentameter, and they go for this one?

Little Blind Girl:  This was a good post!  It may never get included in an anthology of insightful, provocative essays, but it’s not bad for an evening’s work.

Voice in Head:  You mean twenty minutes’ work.  Thank goodness I proofread.

Little Blind Girl:  Yeah, I kind of feel like a mother who tells her kid to wear clean underwear in case he gets in an accident and has to go to the emergency room.  “Now, blog, I’m going to make sure you don’t have any typos, just in case you get Freshly Pressed.”  “Aww, come on, Little Blind Girl, that never happens!”

Voice in Head:  Until it does.

Little Blind Girl:  Exactly.

Voice in Head:  So we’re just ignoring the fact that you’re having a conversation with yourself?

Little Blind Girl:  Just like always.

Voice in Head:  Right, then.  Hey, don’t you have a policy about responding to every comment on the blog?

Little Blind Girl:  Yes.  (Pause)  Why?  How many comments are there?

Voice in Head:  Fifty eight and counting.

Little Blind Girl:  ….

Totally worth it.  Thanks to all the people who read, liked, commented on, and followed my blog, new and old readers alike!  And a special shoutout to my favorite comment, which was by laurenwhitney91:  “you are insanely hilarious. thank you for being you!”  Seriously, that’s the comment!  Best comment ever.  I love being Freshly Pressed!

Also, for those of you who read the hilarious blog The Waiting:  welcome to the world, Miss C.  You’ve got a really cool mom.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Blog!

Dear Blog,

Anthropomorphic Valentine, circa 1950–1960

We’ve been together for several months now, and I feel that we’ve grown so close in just that short time.  I pour my heart out to you, and you tell all the intimate thoughts of my soul to random strangers who know nothing about me.  I can tell you anything, unless it contains profanity, references to excess consumption of alcohol, or anything indicating who I really am.  You never criticize, never judge, never tell me my hair looks a little flat, never ask me if I’ve gained weight (never do that, by the way.  I will stab you with a fork, right in the comments).  You’re always there when I need you, and I just want to tell you, my blog, happy Valentine’s Day.

Renoir's painting of cabbage roses, Roses in a...

Image via Wikipedia

These roses are for you.  They symbolize the flowering of our relationship, though they can never smell as sweet as the feeling you give me when I see your hit count go up every time I look at you.  What we have, you and I, is the most stable relationship I’ve had in years.  It’s a testament to what you can do when you work patiently at being there for each other every day, keeping the lines of communication open and making sure you express your thoughts and emotions.  I promise I will always take care of you, dear blog, and I know you will always accept me for who I tell you I am.

 

Christmas candle

Image via Wikipedia

I want to take you out for a walk on a moonlit search engine and get you a fancy new domain name, maybe one of those ones you actually pay for, but I know you’d prefer to just have a quiet, candle-lit blog entry here at WordPress.  I know you’re not one for vain adornments and blog badges, but I want to give you this special, intimate evening, just you and me and anyone who happens across this blog entry, to commemorate our time together and to tell you just how special you’ve become to me.  Though we’ve been together so short a time, I can’t imagine my life without you.  Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

The Little Blind Girl

P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day to all my readers, too, you filthy voyeurs!

P.P.S.  No offense meant…