...quiet, about a lot of things...

For Sunday Scribblings the prompt was inspiration... How do we garner it's favor?

Much has been said these past few months about the laws of attraction. While I am not a big believer in "the Secret" marketing extravaganza, I do know that attraction is of vital importance to inspiration. I just don't think it's a circus dog that you can train to jump through hoops. It's a force to be reckoned with, a master. Not the mastered.

As a younger woman, I was a somewhat flirty girl. I was also extremely shy. Huh? Opposites attract, even in one skin. Good girl, bad girl...Madonna, whore. These are not new ideas.Aren't the young years when we seek to shed the molds we have been pressed into by parents and school and peers? So, I smashed all of the molds and made some sporadic frenetic choices. I have been both reckless and a recluse. Clashing life themes. Costume changes. Wild dashing between heroine and villain. I spent a good part of my early years trying everything once...well almost everything.

Inspiration comes when you start to tire of the smorgasbord you have made of your life. You look at shoes that always made you feel like a hooker, and pinched at the toes..and you toss them. But you remember the party and the way they made you feel wild. People can be collected the same way. As bad as this sounds..discarded in the same way too. I have a recycle bin of acquaintances...and so does everyone. We all search for the right fit. We all pare down our wardrobes. We all ruthlessly edit.

We are all ruthlessly edited.

Then some where in the middle of this deconstruction and weeding, I tucked away the things I truly was. I folded them in my pockets. I wedged them between my heart and my mind. I built them into long towers of character,sturdy spiny rods of belief. I emerged. Me.

But that does not stop the fascination and attraction to things that are not me. I find poems in voices that say things I would never say. I find stories in wanting things I do not want. I find fever in an clear remembrance of a grasp or a tug. I am excited by allowing the attraction to things I do not want in bed next to me. But I still want...I still want.

And what to do with all that want? Push it from one place, lower in nature, to another...and use the fire it brings to write.

Turns out, I am still a horrible flirt...but now I flirt with the air. I flirt with memories and alternate endings. I do this from my bedroom in my very real house, holding my very real family, and sheltering my very real life. I know how I want things to be...but I will always be attracted to the notion of possibilities.They are always welcome to stop by for a visit. Come in for a chat. I love to hear their stories. And when nothing is left but the crumbs, I will bid them farewell, and safe travel...I will close the door, and bolt the lock, and climb the stairs towards home.