I am a jester, where is my hat?

The mind is a wonderful, terrible thing. I often get lost in the maze of my thoughts, and I’ve mentioned this before. There is a different mask I don dependent upon the audience at hand. I often find myself in awkward situations where I feel lost and ill at ease, introvert tendencies beg to shy away from the limelight.

I either withdraw completely of feel the need to ham it up. I rarely ham it up, I’m not all that good at it. I have great one liners, but that doesn’t suit the hour long conversations around a dinner or at a birthday party. You can’t exactly walk away when you have to keep an eye on your kid, who happens to be oblivious to your discomfort. A child is the most demanding audience of all.

So here I am. I am a jester, where is my hat?

If I cannot run it on, if i cannot go live and keep the masses entertained then I close in on myself. I withdraw to the background amidst the crowd and blend into the woodwork. I reiterate, I am a self proclaimed extroverted introvert.

Life does demand social interaction. A writer needs to extend outside their comfort bubble and “phone home” from time to time. An independent writer has to do this way more often.

As a mother, I try not to be anti-social towards the parents of the children who co-exist with mine. I have mastered the art of non-verbal conversation. I nod, blink, shrug, and a host of other physical and facial cues to keep the dialogue going. Oftentimes the other adults are so involved in their own discussion, they don’t notice that I am not engaged. It exhausts me too much to involve myself. I spend all day reacting, guiding, leading, performing during my regular day job.

My children, my biologically born babies, understand that I need to decompress for at least fifteen minutes when I get home from work. Mommy needs quiet time. However, these little minions also help me pull out of my own chaotic mind. I can get lost inside, to the point where I have to remind myself to blink. Blink. Think. Blink.

It can be exhausting, and at the end of every day I have more trouble turning off my mind than my body. It makes for some interesting, colorful, emotional, at times turbulent, dreams. My poor husband often becomes my soundboard for ideas and although he doesn’t always follow, he doe listen. At times he reminds me that whatever makes sense in my mind to me, sometimes needs a little more explanation out here to others who don’t think like me.

He helps me keep my feet on the ground, and a smile on my face. Writing is what soothes me; it allows me to unravel the threads of thoughts that try to smother and overwhelm me. At the end of the work day, mother day/night, and wife life I am still me. I get to remove the hat, and just sink into my bed with a journal, pen, and some tea. I reflect on the moments with eyes wide open and I try to paint a canvas with letters instead of colors. My words, my poems, my ramblings are my gallery art pieces.

I am imperfectly perfect.

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It was enough…

(fiction)

Every day this little piece of shriveled manhood threw taunts in her direction. His flaccid face and adult acne were not abrasive, it was his lack of manners and decorum. Who comes to the royal kingdom and insults the royal court? Apparently he considered himself immune, that or he loved the taste of foot. Rancid thoughts clouded his lackluster eyes, and he still saw his past visage in gleaming surfaces and mirror reflections. A man whose vanity was thick enough to choke on. She prayed he would choke.

Verbal waste spewed forth from his lips around the dinner table, and everyone laughed with false cheer. She fumed in silence, for decorum was a mantle all too heavy upon her shoulders. She longed for the day she could toss manners aside and throttle his fleshy neck with two hands. She would need two hands to encompass the circumference of that tree trunk.

Violence was a play all too familiar in her thoughts whenever she was in his presence. Him along with all his twittering sycophants were not yet banned from the castle. The queen turned a blind eye, so long as the discussion of bylaws occurred and the parchment was filled with the appropriate information. Once she ascended on the throne, she would reenact her favorite scenes of the Red Queen.

A new parliament was in order, time to clean out the cobwebs and burn off the pestilence that clung to the seats of those hypocrites. For the moment, she breathed. She focused on breathing. Him and his leeches would not force her to reduce herself. A moment of turmoil is worth it. She could not jeopardize her opportunity. She could not risk her moral ground.

Oh the historians were always biased when reporting the on goings of the knights at the round table. Once again she ran her fingertips across the scars on the surface of her section. The wood was marred with knife wounds and sword markings. This was not a room for intellectual discourse alone. The anger roiling in her stomach was proof of that. If her sword was at her side, a weighted length of fine steel and iron. That weight would fly despite her delicate wrist. Her father taught her well. The present queen, so insignificant she had not yet garnered a title, would only sit another year. Then, she would make her father proud and become the Silver Queen.

She would become a queen of truth and justice. Lies must be purged from the kingdom. Her sword would be her symbol, her weapon, and her strength. This jester, a disgusting soul on the velvet seat to her right, would be the first to go.

It was enough.

My Opinions, my ramblings: Social Media

I sometimes feel over extended on all the social media platforms I am attempting to keep updated. I have fallen in love with the platform for Instagram, it has been a great tool for sharing my poetry and adding to those who enjoy reading my work. I’ve also come into contact with a variety of writers, artists, readers, and more. Instagram was where I first dipped my toes into intrepid waters.

It has become the central focus, but I have also expanded into Tumblr, Twitter, Goodreads, BookBub, Amazon, Google+, LinkdIn, Pinterest, Facebook, Wattpad, and here WordPress. I’ve even attempted Scribd, Etsy, Sell on Etsy, and Kindle.

Yes I know, it is a lot. I look more at my phone screen throughout the day than I should. I’ve thought about pulling back, but I hesitate. I am a tiny fish in a massive, whirling vortex of stimuli and information. I am my own advocate, and I want to put my name out there. I want my writings to be in the minds, hands, and screens of others. I am a self proclaimed extroverted introvert. I want to reach out to others who might connect emotionally to both my prose and poetry.

And I am not the first, nor will I be the last, who struggles with the poisonous addiction to social media and apps. I try to conscientiously put down the phone in social situations, so that I still make direct eye contact with my friends, family and acquaintances. If I am lost in the glow from my handheld screen, I try to remember to look up and appreciate the silent company of my loved ones. Even sitting outside while I contemplate my next post, tweet, photo, or blurb makes a world of difference. The sky is still above us, and the ground is still beneath us. We do not exist in a 3×4 inch technological device.

Today’s world does demand some sort of social media interaction in order to maintain contact with friends from across the lands. And in this hustle and bustle life style, its easier to post an update that can be simultaneously seen by a crown of family and friends.

As a independent author and creative soul, that cannot yet cash in a mega check, free promotions on social media are too tempting. For now, I will continue to scale the landscape of internet, never forgetting that an outernet exists.