1945 Frustrating Omissions

Saturday, August 9, 2008

I dove into the village after dark this evening. Now I have a huge bat-shaped dust mark on my windshield. It hit so hard I was surprised the glass didn't break. On my way past the spot going home a few minutes later, I looked to see if the beasty was lying on or near the road, but there was nothing. Maybe it was a vampire (unkillable, you know).

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I've been a bit frustrated lately because when I started this journal, I meant for it to chronicle the events in my life, what I'm doing and what I'm thinking, everything I come across. I wanted to be completely open.

That was all ruined one year ago, when I discovered that the biggest gossip I knew locally had found it, and was handing out the URL, and I had to move it.

I'm sort of hidden now, mostly, maybe, I think. I hope. But there are a few people subscribed through Bloglines, and a few through Google-whatsis, and who knows how-wise else, and I don't know who they are.

So I have become somewhat circumspect. I'm still sensitive to the wrong people finding it.

But it's incredibly frustrating! There are things I want to write about that I can't! The stories I have to tell! Oh, the opinions I have that I can't express! "We come in peace. Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill!"

In an attempt to give some release to my frustration, I started another journal on my hard disk, for my eyes only, where I can reveal the most amazing things. Someday, if anybody ever finds it, it might make a great novel.

I have never in my life been able to keep a secret. Everybody who knows me well knows that. When I re-found one of my best college friends a few years ago, I was floored by some of the things that had gone on back then among my best friends, that I knew nothing about - because no one told me, because they knew I couldn't keep a secret.

Maybe it's because there are no secrets** in my own life. I'm completely open. That kind of keeps me from doing anything I'm ashamed of, and maybe I apply that same standard to others. One problem this has caused is that when people hear about mild things, they assume that if I let that out, how much worse am I hiding, so they make things up. I've heard some of the most amazing things about myself, which people swear they know to be true.

[**There was one exception - one very big secret that I kept for 30 years, but only because no one involved asked. The first time I was asked, I spilled it all, and was very relieved.]

Right now I'm not writing or talking about an ongoing scam I'm watching. I've never seen anything like it in my life. The scammer is the best I've ever seen, and I've seen a few. We're talking PHD. My psycho ex-girlfriend is a kindergartener by comparison. The target of the scam is a willing victim, and won't listen to reason. There's a chance I'm wrong, so I'm not pushing it, and not knowing who might be reading, I can't "talk" about it. But it really is fascinating to watch. If it seems to go too far, well, I don't know what I'll do. I suspect that interference would not be welcomed.

Right now I'm not writing or talking about a mystery unfolding, with a hero and a villain, but no one is absolutely sure which is which. It's one of the most intriguing stories I've ever heard. One or both of them is seriously disturbed, but who can be sure which? Can they, themselves, be sure? The deeper insanity becomes, the more consistent it becomes, until it wraps around and looks like sanity. (And no, one of them is not Zig. Nor FW, either.) Every time I am confident in which is the hero, a new question comes up. If I don't chose correctly, I could get hurt.

Right now I'm not writing or talking about a dear friend who seems to be going through some kind of midlife crisis or something, which is causing a sort of absentmindedness, that might ultimately cost customers and the business. I'm very worried. All I can do is provide an ear.

Right now I'm not writing or talking about The Man, other than to note when I've seen him, and the lightest of references. He knows this journal exists, and for all I know could be reading it (one of those Bloglines or Google folks?). He says he doesn't want to read it because he doesn't want to read about "us". So that's part of my restraint - I don't want him to read my thoughts about "us" either. But there's a lot more. There are a LOT of confusing things, and confusing feelings, and I don't even know where to start. So I haven't. With anyone. Not even him, although I have tried, and every time something intervened. No one else knows anything, really, not even his real name. All anyone knows is that I'm involved with a man.

[And for anyone who has been around a while, this story is even better than the Roman story (although it has nothing in common), so you know how crazy it's got to be making me.]

Right now I'm also not writing or talking about a few other things going on, because, well, just because. I've proven I can keep a 30-year secret. I guess I can keep a few more.

The necessity is all very frustrating. This post is the proof.

Sometimes when I drive through residential areas at night, and I see lights on behind curtains, I wonder what stories are beyond those curtains. Some of the calmest exteriors hide the most horrific tales. People thought my parents were charming.

I'll shut up now. Curtains closed.
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