Before I Lay Me Down

Il est tard. Je suis fatiguée. I should write first thing in the morning, as dedicated writers do. I was born in the era when writers never wrote in daylight or sober or smokeless, and though I've abandoned the latter two, writing after dark still feels more natural, fatigued or no. In a few weeks when I've closed my business and return from the mountains, the new writing life will be more consistent. These posts, as it's turning out, are more exercises to find 'my voice' than anything else. The voice is found, but is reluctant to expose. And the theme, the heart of what wants to speak, is not vitiligo. The theme is exile.

My father is more supportive than critical of my closing the little art and antiques business after ten years, an unheard of record for this Gemini.
His own hopes and dreams for me, his first-born, were hugely disappointed. But at last he accepted that even if I wasn't conservatively ambitious, prominent, rich or famous, I could sustain myself in the world, without signing a contract with it. This eased his fears for my well-being. Plus, without actually saying it, he loves that I write. Sometimes I think he sticks around just to see my Book, hold it in his hands, written, published and distributed as books are--aren't they?

I haven't told my old dad that publishing is not, has never been a goal or dream of mine. He is frustrated when I say I'm writing on the internet. This is worse than Greek to him. He wants something tangible, and I want to please him still. But not in the old parent-child way, I just love to make him glad or happy. We send each other wonderful letters, and this helps.

Even if I do publish, it will be self, and maybe about twenty copies from the one original. A hand-made tome of words, images, drawings, my beloved black-and-white photographs, quotes, bits of hair from beloveds, lipstick kisses and coffee spills. With the words in whatever tongue is connected to memory or to present at the time of writing.

The cover will be made of old leather, wood, or an ancient brocade. Or something beautiful I haven't thought of yet.