Why is it that the voices inside my head get to pick and choose what actually escapes through my mouth and I don’t?
Yes, I know technically they are my voices and I am a grown woman with the ability to speak which I often do to the dismay of some folks who have to listen to me ramble on about how the barking dog complaint we received recently is on the edge of satanic irony given the fact that I had been overhearing rumblings of an updated animal control barking nuisance ordinance for weeks just outside my cube in order to tighten the regulations against noisy dogs. I often wondered if my young coonhound would rise to that level. Apparently someone thinks so.
Clearly, I can talk all day long about the woes of having to drive a car that not only do I no longer love, is completely unreliable given the fact that it is a $1123-crap-shoot as to whether it will start every time I turn the ignition and that I actually feel shame about being seen and heard (don’t get me started on the squealing brakes) behind the wheel.
I can also extol the virtues of any given beautimous, smoochy leather handbag produced by any number of cool designers I currently covet – Isabella Fiore, B Makowski, classic Francesco Biasia and Michael Kors – until I am nearly shaking with desire to go out and buy one with money that I do not have and would have to take off my kitchen table by stealing away from the grocery budget.
However, when something comes up that I perceive will create conflict, possible discomfort (for me, more so than others – let me be honest about that) or an extra effort on my part to remain positive about whatever I have chosen to speak and hold my so-called “ground” – my vocal cords become paralyzed in such an anti-miraculous way.
Does this make me shallow? Too terrified of my own inner terrors? Worthy of getting to speak at all?
My writer’s block broke and I’ve been writing a bit. Not blogish, but vers-ish – poems, sudden fiction and maybe other stuff.
And, oh, yea – want to do more.