Ramblings and Bullshit

*note when i wrote this, my “greatest”deficiency was my hearing…ignorance is bliss.

The infinite memories of time and circumstance elude me as I sit in muttled solitude.. the cherished prose of long forgotten moments now crowd together in my mind and dance in disheveled disarray with the swirling smoke from my forgotten cigarette that lays smoldering in an overflowing ash tray. The stories that have been told time and again, that have become as familiar as well worn jeans, now escape my mind to roam freely about in a menacing jumble, forcing me to ponder my mental state at the idea of putting them on paper. What a humbling predicament, most assuredly when I consider myself a painter of words.. a near deity of pen and composition.. perhaps this is the epitome of writers block.. much more dastardly than having nothing to say at all is the extreme over abundance of words.. one so intensely voluminous that I have no idea as to where I should begin. I suppose an introduction of sorts would prove helpful, maybe even imperative, and perchance open some instinctive door to the floodgates of the multitude of words that threaten to consume me. Ah, what a bold beginning I have chose! To begin my sojourn into this engulfing literary abyss with a self analysis of sorts.. one could never explain the difficulty of staring into this particular mirror, peering at the glaringly stark reflection of forgotten scars and altering experiences that are the very make up of me, my mind, and my very soul. A perplexing view indeed, this naked image of inherent realities before me, revealing my every feature in rigid reality.. even more difficult the task of lifting the heavy veils and protecting masks behind which I unknowingly have cowered, revealing in sudden, surprising insecurity my innermost self, displaying unsheathed my every flaw and whim to the harsh environments that are the stark judgments of words on paper. It is no wonder that so very, very seldom do we stare into the gaping chasms that engulf our insecurities so that they are sufficiently protected from the outside world. We have however, brushed aside the cobwebs of clandestine concealment and embarked upon this arduous journey into the darkest recesses of the hidden worlds beneath my facade, so let us forge on…

To some I am but a woman.. nothing more than a figurine to peer upon out of sheer boredom or jealousy or sexual speculation… I have to admit that I harbor a great deal of vanity that revels in this particular view, and to be brutally candid, I even find myself cultivating this mental specter in unsuspecting minds.. not necessarily for any particular gain, but simply for the profit of entertaining my rather expanded ego. I am not a particularly beautiful person to the knowing eye …. yet I do possess the ability to present myself as if I am, and for the most part am capable of deceiving people into believing it. My most favorable physical attribute, and with all probability my foremost vanity, is alot of thick long red hair,,affording me the irresistible mystery that most people and all men fathom a redhead to possess, lending to my deception of presenting myself as a femme fatale a fantastic air so complete that on occasion I almost believe it myself. I also believe that my towering height gives way to mild intimidation and an illusion of unapproachable, affording even more the simulated beauty that I feign when the mood to feel superior strikes me. With this manufactured confidence, however, I have become overwhelmingly certain in myself, almost to the point of arrogance. The deceptive sweetness of an Arkansas southern drawl only accentuates all the more the sensual myth that I allow others to perceive as who I am, thereby donning this costume of belle of the ball with such exacting precision as Scarlett O’Hara herself. In frank honesty, I privately luxuriate in the perverse pleasure of using these practiced, though fraudulent, splendors for amusement. Some wicked fragment of my innermost self derives immense pleasure from an occasional assault upon the deficiencies of the more shallow specimens of the male species who believe that they are God’s gift to women. There is a boundless delight in allowing them to believe for a moment they may prove successful in yet another feminine conquest, then trampling their overly inflated egos with chilling heartlessness. I can at least declare in my own defense that this is only a fleeting pastime, reserved for diversion in simple settings.. never utilized toward true harm to anyone.. merely a facetious hobby used as a party trick or diversion from unwanted advances. Seldom do I speculate as to why I enjoy such heartless endeavors, yet at this moment I find myself questioning why I derive pleasure from such callous actions. In general, I don’t find myself seeking to harm anyone, and believe myself to be a reasonably benevolent being. I suppose it is simply an underlying fetish of my nature, and has come to be one that I accept without remorse. Moreover, I am intrigued at the very capability of it all… to possess the ability to grasp exuded male confidence and transform it into a puddle of uncertainty and chagrin with but a word or glance. I believe that it is some inner need to expose the insincerity of ridiculous advances or proposals, and to undermine the preposterous belief that so many men harbor that they can have any woman they choose.

To many people with whom I am aquainted, I am forever branded as a callous, outrageous tom boy.. my love for cars and motorcycles, freedom and life forming a strange, almost threatening intimidation to the stereotypical image of what they believe I should be. This, of course, inspires an impression of rugged solidarity and vigorous savagery that causes many who are insignificant acquaintances to believe I am to be feared. The projected stamina, which appears at times to be an almost hard hearted veneer, is simply an armor of protection and self preservation developed through an accumulation of jading experiences over the winding course that is life itself. Strangely enough however, this quality combined with hints of feminine prowess creates some bizarre fascination in most men. I believe I am grateful that I don’t understand why… the workings of the male intellect appear quite often to be either a shallow cesspool of sexual innuendos or a flowing tide of complex, opposing mental forces, neither of which I care to scrutinize for fear of what I may find.

There is also within me, as in all women I suppose, especially southern ones, a deep seated portion of my existence that is reserved for the truly feminine qualities.. a domesticated virtue that feeds upon romance and tears, thrives in the midst of family and kitchens, the ribbons and pearls of life… the embedded weakness in my heart for roses and babies, high heels and love stories… in short, all things effeminate. This is the part of me that enjoys cooking and sewing and similar such frivolous endeavors. This particular essence of whom I am was most likely derived from my childhood and upbringing. A small but thriving Arkansas town was where I existed in ignorant bliss.. unaware of the suburban hell that burned my soul, because it was, in fact, life as I knew it. To me, the world consisted of a southern tranquillity that simmered pleasantly atop the sordid secrets of a small town thriving in the rolling green fields of the Arkansas delta. Time seemed to have copulated into a strange entanglement of modern reality and anti bellum beliefs, where blue haired old ladies still to even this modernized day and time gather on wide verandahs to can tomatoes and snap beans, swatting mosquitoes and sharing in excited whispers the latest scandals and rumors while their tea glasses sweat and the wash tubs overflowing with vegetables lay momentarily forgotten in the scorching heat of gossip and summer sun. Old men still gather in the coffee shops to ogle the waitresses, passing on secrets the wives have learned the afternoon before, embellishing them to the point of vulgarity. The good ol’ boys flourish in this down home environment, drinking and fighting, shooting guns and spitting tobacco.. their Saturday night escapades at the honky tonks and on back roads generally the main topic of conversation for the decent folks who must even still consider themselves a higher class than the rest of the population, (when in actuality they are no more grand or blue blooded than the lazy bassett hound asleep on my front porch, who at least has the decency to forsake the spectacle of behaving as if she is something she is not.) This, however, was simply an accepted way of life for all of us who existed there.. and still is to this day. I believe these small communities all possess a surging undercurrent of propriety and what was expected of women. These domesticated trivialities which are emblazoned on my very being from as far back as i can remember are, nonetheless, perhaps my most feeble trait, fading easily into the shadows of the more boisterous effects of my personality.. this I believe is quite fitting since it promotes the fairer, supposedly weaker, sex.. so often overcome by my stronger, more attuned attributes.

My greatest deficiency is perhaps, my ever intensifying deafness which i inherited from my mother, and hers before her. Though it is is obviously a burden that causes life to be a bit more difficult each day in trivial tasks, I also allow credit and even a bit of appreciation as well, since it is possibly an asset towards allowing me a clearer, quieter view of the world around me. Quite conceivably this ever expanding lack of auditory abilities gifts me with a more perfected view that goes unnoticed by those whose lives are cluttered by unnecessary noises. For the most part, I restrict my rapidly advancing limits of remembered sounds to the things I consider significant… my beautiful son’s infectious laughter.. the steady rumble of my Harley combined with the echo of the highway… the way my old man says my name… Even in the recesses of my reminiscences I consciously store more inconsequential intonations, such as the sad crooning of Merle Haggard and George Jones, the sound of rain on a tin roof, and even the mating call of lovelorn birds to be relived in my ever nearing silent future when such frivolous noises are only available to me in the echoes of my mind. For the most part I consider myself fortunate that I was afforded at least three decades before my every moment is draped in silence, my existence sentenced forever to a silence as absolute and permanent as death itself. However, I choose not to wallow in things I have no control over, nor do I often mourn the demise of my ears, so I assume this is all that needs to be said in reference to such.

The more obvious countenances of my projected image are perhaps more interesting and lean heavily upon the world in which I have evolved. I believe that quite a bit of my self inflicted charisma is based upon no more than the fact that I am who I choose to be, and am basically and perpetually the exact same person at all times. I do not believe in affecting airs, regardless of the image I may have just painted, other than that of exhuming a bit more confidence than I inwardly possess, if circumstances require me to do so. Yet is it not merely human to strive toward pride and accomplishment, despite the fabled fall that invariably comes later? I am probably straightforward and plain spoken to a fault, but based upon most experiences thus far, this succeeds in preventing misunderstandings of what I mean. It is truly an exhilarating existence to be able to transform oneself from seductress to gamine to artist in the briefest of instances. Regardless of whether this is intriguing or appalling, it is in fact who I am, and I sense no reason to change it. Insofar as my experience goes, the combination seems to be an amicable one.

If the intimacies and idiosyncrasies of the deuses or demons of fate, whomever or whatever they may be, choose to reign upon me the infinitely glorious experience of my words being bound forever upon the immortal page, I am fairly certain that this stark self appraisal will indeed be omitted or somewhat revised .. it is a vast probability that this portrayal of the inner workings of my soul will be of no consequence to anyone but myself. However, I justify this exposed panorama of my being in that it personifies the artwork, ramblings, or whatever it be considered, that I feel these blank pages beckoning me to submit. I believe that I am an ordinary person who has simply been assigned by the omnipotent forces to experience extraordinary ventures. I am a vast and varied array of contradicting people, all of whom combine to form a singular, rather complex, being… one that can’t even begin to understand itself. The mismatched arrangement of my personality may seem strange to most, but each unique persona has it’s own respective procreation and birth throughout the stages of my life. Therefore, onward we proceed…


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