Here's what I've discovered in the last week:
- The Farmers is reading my blog
- My neighbors are reading my blog
- The Farmer's son sat down at the computer when I walked away for a moment. I was reading Kelli's blog, "Sugar Creek Farm". He says, "Hey mom.....here's some REAL FARMERS."
It seems the party is over. I have to behave myself. My words are now subject to intense scrutiny by the Farmer. He wants to know about "intent" and "meaning". Heck, I don't want to worry about my stinking intent.
I sure don't want to burst the bubble when it comes to my neighbors. They think I'm normal. Or maybe the don't. I guess I'll just have to be myself. I don't think anything would suprise them at this point, after all I attended a wine tasting in the Queen's jewels.
I take pictures of their houses at night.
I do treat them to dinner once in awhile.
My wonderful neighbor Ed let it be known that he wasn't too happy at not being listed on the Peep list as one of my bartenders. He right! I'm sorry Ed. You're name has been added because you ARE my favorite bartender.
My neighbors had a big laugh when I had to shovel a foot of snow out of my car last spring.
They problem with people in your "real life" reading your blog is that you're no longer able to create your own reality. It's part and parcel of the internet. People can know us by our words and not by our appearance, how fat or thin, or rich or poor we are. 'm thinking specifically of someone who was a regular on a forum I frequented for over 8 years. His words revealed a wonderful person with a great imagination and playful spirit. As online friends we sometimes created alter-egos and engaged in interesting storylines. Dicken once wrote a story in which he painted himself in blue paint and danced around a roaring campfire under the light of the moon. We joined in and added to his story, rattling chicken bones and chanting at the moon.
For most of us it was an interesting diversion, but for Dicken it seemed to be something more. There was always something nagging at me about this free spirit we knew as Dicken. There was something hidden, not evil or odd, just something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The rest of the story eventually revealed itself, as stories always do. After many years of his friendship we awoke one morning to find an entry on the forum - Dicken had passed away. His wife told us what we never could have known, Dicken was very, very ill during all those years he was our friend. He was bedridden, housebound and physically unable to engage in cavorting of any kind. Only through his words and his imagination was he released to be a free spirit. Unknowingly we enabled his playful dreams to take him out of his broken body and into a different reality. When he played with us he could be young and vibrant.
I miss Dicken a lot. He taught me many things. The biggest lesson he taught me was that a broken body does not translate into a broken spirit.
If I talk about painting myself blue and dancing under the moonlight, humor me. Perhaps you could grab some chicken bones and chant at the moon.