A Devil of a Thing

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Rumors that I am an ogre may be greatly exaggerated.  Then again, maybe not.  I wrote my last entry and shared how I felt about dirty laundry that involved people who would have preferred to keep the laundry out of sight.   There has been some fallout.

I was hurt and angry and wrote honestly about how I feel.  I do feel disappointed and no, I don’t think my expectations are unrealistic.  Did I want to slap a few people upside the head verbally?  Yes, I did.  That stuff about the pen being mightier than the sword. . .I didn’t have a sword so I took up words and started slashing.

There are two sides to every story.  Most of the time there are a whole lot more than two.

I wrote about my feelings, feelings that are raw and messy.  The kind of feelings not everyone wants to talk about much less feel.  When I write but fail to ground my writing in my human experience, something essential is missing. . . maybe it’s my voice.  Not everyone will always appreciate what I have to say.  Some times I may even use words to go after someone.  It’s not an unusual response when I’m feeling hurt.

When feelings aren’t acknowledged, aren’t talked about, aren’t claimed as our own, they fester underneath the surface and cause trouble later.  I should know.  Festering feelings have plagued most of my life.

In a moment of hurt and a desire to pinch back a little, I wrote.  I apologize.  I should have been more sensitive to others’ feelings.

In my defense, I say only this:  There should be no question about how I stand on this issue, how I feel.  I served it on a silver platter.  Okay, so there is a lot of corrosion on the edges and it really  needs polishing, but it was real and raw and genuine precisely because the lack of real and raw and genuine leaves me feeling empty and weak.  It is as if my soul has been sucked away in the night by an invisible incubus.  When I say incubus, I’m not talking about the rock band.

Incubi are male demons who prey primarily on sleeping women.  Wink, wink.  I looked up the definition just to be sure.  I often doubt myself like that.  I discovered that good old St. Augustine thought the reports of trustworthy persons would validate the incubi existence.

He wrote: “”There is also a very general rumor. Many have verified it by their own experience and trustworthy persons have corroborated the experience others told, that sylvans and fauns, commonly called incubi, have often made wicked assaults upon women.” Augustine (410), The City of God 15.23,‘The City of God’ (Wikipedia, April 23,2012 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Incubus)

But I digress.

I’m sorry that things are the way things are.  My disappointment, no matter how public or private won’t change a thing.  My disappointment is raw and real and genuine.  I need to hold it for a while.  It is mine and I must make peace with it to save my soul from being drawn away from that which is most essential to who I am… not the disappointment itself but the experience of it.

I write about it to find my way around it.  I lie down and try to sleep with it pressing down on top of me like a demon in the night.  It fills my life with metaphor and figurative language and insane references to topics I’d rather not talk about. Ever.

I was wrong to write without concern for those I felt had wronged me.  Not a helpful action but a real one.  I’m not always right but I hope that I will always have the courage to write about the raw, the real, the genuine.  I’m saving my soul.  One word at at time.




I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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