“She is, her comrades tell her, full of romantic error, for what she defines as cynicism in them is merely “a developed sense of reality,” She is almost too willing to say, “I am wrong, I suppose I don’t really understand the principles,” and afterward she makes a secret truce with herself, determined not to surrender her will to such expedient logic. But she cannot help feeling that she has been betrayed irreparably by the disunion between her way of living and her feeling of what life should be, and at times she is almost contented to rest in this sense of grievance and a private store of consolation. Sometimes she wishes to run away, but she stays. Now she longs to fly out of this room, down thee narrow stairs, and into the street where the houses lean together like conspirators under a single mottled lamp, and leave Braggioni singing to himself.”
Flowering Judas; By Katherine Anne Porter.
One day I hope to tell ALL my stories. I hope to watch them blow around in the clouds without embarrassment. Some will glide, some will roar, but none will be asked to hide. None will be confined to specific colors or volumes.
I hope for this because, sometimes, I hesitate on my memories.
Looking back on times when I have I have allowed myself to
reveal sacred parts of me,
when I have
acted out of full-hearted conviction…
I recoil in recollection.
I recall my actions and project onto myself—a screen of weakness.
Often it is because I can no longer identify with the emotion that filled me in that hour. If the motivation is fuzzy—left behind—is it difficult to sustain the action.
I hate the recoiling, because it means that either, one, I have legitimate regrets in me, or two, and most often the case, I have forgotten how it felt to be who I was in that moment. For surely if I could still feel her passion, I would understand why she exploded, why she spoke out, why she flew away.
Instead, flinching, I avert my eyes from her boldness. Her overflow is unsettling to me—it disrupts the accepted atmosphere of safety and half-hearted maybes. And because of this, I see her as dramatic, desperate, and unnecessary.
I shrink back in accusation; I become my previous mockers. I become those who have never seen my world. I echo the sounds of my Father.
One day I hope to tell ALL my stories. Some will glide, some will roar, but none will be painted with invisibility. I hope to remain full of youth, longing, and conviction, to let these three combine into a fire unashamed. I hope to convey that I am this woman.