Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong (shadesong) wrote,
Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong
shadesong

A letter

(This was under a cut-tag. Now it's not. My journal, my little bits of life.)

Dear ______,

I'm sitting here after lunch and cursing the futility of trying to have a conversation with such time-gaps. I've covered the Big Stuff, I always cover the Big Stuff, but I want to be able to share the little stuff, too, without overwhelming you with random little e-mails. Even though you said you don't mind.

The little stuff. For some reason I feel compelled to overshare. I'd be boring you, I know. But snapshot: I've just recently gotten back from lunch. The heater is humming under my desk... even when it's warm outside, I have gooseflesh from the arctic chill of this office. The heater is ineffectual, though better than nothing; I've had to don a cardigan.

I wrote, at lunch. I've been writing more and more lately, surprising bits of story popping out of my hands, and I'm concerned that I'm boring everyone around me with talk of Julia this and Kieran that... but that's what's in my head now, that and the move.

The move! Oh, gods. Two weeks. Which is almost harder than two days, because it calls for strict evaluation of what we'll need available. In my head, I'm decorating my office. My space. I don't remember the last time I've had a place where I can close the door. I'm craving that. Right after volta leaves, I'm going to go down to my office and close. the. door. I'll crank up my iTunes and start unpacking, organizing. I'll have my desk in there, and my altar, and some bookcases - my pagan stuff, and my epilepsy and parenting books, the only areas of the nonfiction section that are mine alone.

And I can hang pictures there. m0usegrrl's pictures, and the little painting eilonwy sent me, and perhaps I can beg a print of haikujaguar. Art everywhere. Art and my chimes and strings of bells.

My space.

I've known all along that I needed that, but I didn't realize how much until I started doing my morning pages. So much bitterness and frustration and anger at the topic came out there, just bridling at not having anyplace to close the door, no place in my entire house that belonged to me. And now I will.

It's a cliche to say that something is a load off one's mind, but this is.

Snapshot: I'm biting the end of my pinky finger softly when I'm not writing. Nervous habit. I'm tugging at one pigtail intermittently, too. That, I've always done... if you watch my bat mitzvah video, you'll see me twirling my hair as I read the Torah.

Text isn't enough. I want you to see me. I want you to know that I don't, can't, sit normally, that I sit with my legs curled beneath me because they can't reach the floor in your average chair. I want you to know that I fidget with my rings, the three thin silver bands on my left index finger, moving them apart then back together.

None of these things are important, but I want you to see me, I want you to know me. Text is inadequate.

I will add to this later.

--'song
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