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It's no secret that I am a fan of Fred Poole. I'm in process of reading through one of his blogs. I thrill and get inspired when I read Fred's work. I feel a freedom in my soul to continue the quest of discovery, the discovery of my own life and how to express experiences as I know them.
I recently wrote a piece from my drug daze when I was 15 and 16; it is very much how I recall it. It is vivid in my mind, like when David asked me with his glassy eyes, "Carol, do you want a peanut butter sandwich?" and I wasn't able to respond. The cottages too are vivid. About a week after writing the piece I recalled the lady's name that rented those cottages, Mrs. Green. At least I'm 95% sure. 95% is pretty good.
Yet when I read the piece aloud in the memoir workshop, it sounded unreal. But it's not. It is like someone else's life, someone other than mine. But it's not.
I struggle when writing about my family; I want to protect and I have done so. In one piece I don't name my father and brother regarding certain events from my youth. Instead I use pseudonyms and don't even mention that they are my "brother" and my "father," but rather "relatives". I guess it's part of the process of coming forward. Sometimes, I think another person would deny my reality; but I know those things happened, though they were never discussed. My father is deceased; my brother is not.
Yet if they were to write about me, I would not want them to protect me. Perhaps I'm odd that way. Perhaps I have been silenced for so long, that I'm kind of at the other side of the pendulum. I really, really don't like silencing...of anyone.
This morning I read Fred's piece entitled "WRITTEN WORD 17: Bad News in the Family." I want to be able to get there, to write what is as I recall it. I mean, I do that now; but sometimes it is quite a struggle. To know what to write about whom in my life and how to reveal such...and whether or not I "should."
Yet in the end my writing is about me, not them. It's just that paths overlap, intertwine. Aye, it is a dance. Sometimes a Tango. Sometimes a Shag. Sometimes ballet. If only we could all learn to lead, all learn to follow, all learn that mis-steps aren't necessarily a disgrace; all dances are not pretty.
Pseudonyms; I've figured a way to create pseudonyms so that the names are not completely pseudo.
Pseudo, what an interesting word.
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