I keep crying tears that won't fall. Instead they ache my eyeballs and moisten my lids. I also keep rubbing my belly in a clock-wise, small, circular motion centered on my navel because my tummy, arguably the most sensitive piece of me, is acting up.
I have irritable viscera and eyes that refuse to cry when things get deep, personal, difficult and real.
It is like I'm hardened and overly sensitive at the same time. Fitting, I'm the overthinker, worry-wort, fantastical-thinker of my family brood.
I'm three days into my multicultural literature class, the class that I have waited fifteen months to take, and I can't read introductory material without feeling like my tear ducts are stopped up.
Everything is telling me, pushing me, encouraging me, calling me to write...creatively. Everything.
(Right now the tears are falling.)
But something keeps telling me now is not the time. Hold off. You still have literature to learn. You still have academic papers to write.
I love writing those kinds of paper. Academia.
But now, with fatty tears streaming down my cheeks I crave writing my heart. I imagine if I had the means and the knowledge to tattoo words down my arms I would.
What ever would I write, doesn't matter. I would make it up on the fly...a quilt of words, cursing my viscera for being sensitive and reflective, praising my eyes for finally letting the tears fall, thanking my hands for being warm and rubbing out the tears in my belly before painting my arms with the words.
This is me. This is what I do all day, everyday. Write words in me that I want to live.
When I let them out, I talk too much and I'm sure the receiver of those talks often ponders if they should continue friendship with me or if they are family...continue calling me.
I don't care.
If you eat garlic it gets into your pores and leaks out in your sweat, urine, breath. I used to take garlic cloves, chop them into quarters and swallow them for immunity. My tummy was stronger then. I hadn't birthed kids or been awakened to me yet. For a day or two I would smell garlic all over me and speak garlickly words.
These days words ooze out of me, but I rarely record them. I give them away in conversation, in class, in local-long-distance phone calls to my mother, brother, auntie, to text messages and iPhone to iPhone speaker calls to E while he balances failing school district budgets, to the kids while they still want to hear my life lessons, to class mates who probably wish I'd shut up...to everyone but the paper.
I talk everything but the prose and poetry I should be talk/writing on screen.
Truth to tell, it sucks and is wonderful all wrapped up in one. I am grateful and sad. Thankful and frustrated. I understand and am confused.
Family lore is that I didn't start talking till I was four, maybe five years old. No words. Granma would tell me often that she thought I was a "mute." (That's the old black way of saying deaf.) Auntie tells me I didn't say a sound. Nothing. I don't care that I talk so much, these days. I am quite fine with the over-talkative woman I've become, because I know one day I will just write.
I will be four again and go back into my shell, but with the ability to express what I observe. I sort of remember those days. I remember always watching. Always. Watching. Always trying to make sense and sort out life around me.
E would tell you not much has changed. I'd agree.
I spent a great portion of last night editing pictures to share. I'm excited to share with you wonderful, wonderful, women who so kindly shared with me yesterday that you are still here...reading my words. I have class this evening and a few assignments to turn in and end of school year schoolwork to turn in to the kids teacher. Oh, and some very needy squash plants that need an hour's worth of time watering every day. I hope to upload and post them tonight or tomorrow morning. They are of the new art journals I've made...and an update of my garden.
Until then, here is a sneak peak into the first art journal that I made. The outside cover is horrendous. I hate it. The second that I made is equally ugly. But this first spread, I love. It is honest and true. It is real. The next set of books that I made, which I spent almost the entirety of last week making are a lot better. They have not been written in yet. This post should have been written in there...but I wanted to share my heart here first.
Thank you for your continued friendship and love. I love you all back. ♥