There are few web sites that I visit multiple times in a day. As a matter of fact there is only one that I can think of , it is a site called Secretzen.com a sister site to Postsecret.com . Postsecret was started by a man named Frank who invited people to send him their secrets anonymously on the backs of postcards. Since then he has received thousands of secrets and has published some of them in the form of books. I think there’s at least six books now.Some of the secrets are funny,some are happy but a great number are heart wrenching and sad.Reading these is an experience which is difficult to put into words. Some secrets make me cringe internally and thank what ever God there may be that I’m not the one facing that situation. I never click the back button though, I never pull away from the awful , ugly truths I find. If a person can be brave enough to share one of their deepest secrets with people they don’t know,than I will read it and bear silent witness, acknowledge their strength and determination. Even though they may never know I always tell that person “someone heard, I heard you, I care.” When I read funny ones I hope they know that somewhere someone is laughing with them. There are quite a few posts that have made me applaud, in some cases because the sender escaped an abusive relationship,or finally learned to like themselves, or exceeded everyone’s expectations, sometimes even their own. Reading the secrets is sometimes like rifling through someone’s closet when they’re not at home, you never know what your going to find and since they are not there to explain the stories behind the things you find your brain is left to conjecture. Some people may view me as slightly voyeuristic because I read these. In the end we are all human and we’ll all need to be heard by someone. This is an oversimplification of situations I realize, but I wonder how many awful things would have turned out different if just one person had bothered to “listen” to someone rather than hearing the words their mouth says.
I was given a tattoo as a Christmas present, which means I have a grand total of two. One is right underneath the other one somehow my grandmother has missed seeing the second one for the past month and a half. She saw it yesterday.I now have the distinct impression that she believes me to be a doomed heathen. I knows she will never stopped loving me but I also know that I have lost some of her respect because of the art work permanently inscribed on my arm. I cannot change her opinion, it’s pointless to try but it does make me sad. Whether she realizes it or not I am not sure what my grandmother has a tendency to view people with tattoos as people looking to start trouble. Fortunately she usually has the tact not to say so in front of someone’s face. I definitely do not intend to have as many tattoos as some people I have seen who don’t have an inch of unmarked skin but these probably won’t be my last two. So far I have managed to bite my tongue when my grandma gets on her soapbox about tattoos. One of these days however full I expect to reach the end of my rope and tell her that some of the people she has automatically classified as thugs have treated me in a more Christian manner then any of the people my own age I met going to church with her on a regular basis. So if I’m lumped together with people whose only transgression is that they have a more hands-on appreciation of art than some people then I would rather be a heathen any day of the week.
So I’m six months from 25 and I have to wonder what good it’s done, my life. My family is so accepting of death as a part of life I wonder if the lack of my presence would make much of a difference to them. I’m not about to go do anything drastic don’t worry I have bound myself by word of honor not to. Even if I were so inclined I have already been told that I would be forcibly drug back from the afterlife if I try to leave early. When you take a sociology course you are introduced to the idea that a person assumes different roles for themselves depending on the context of a given situation. One person can be friend, coworker, parent, spouse, sibling,son or daughter all within the same day. This is what Shakespeare meant when he said, “all the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” So then who am I? When all else is stripped from me because I did not choose it,what remains? I am when everything is said and done, a blue Rose girl, Cariad, and Mouse. Everything else is secondary. If life is a balancing act between the roles I play, than those three things are my center of gravity.
Photographs serve as place markers in our memories. Whether we like to admit it to ourselves as we get older our memories blur at the edges and run together a person’s whole life resembles something like an impressionist painting, with only the vague colors, shapes, and smallest suggestions of the things that they truly were. Photographs seek to hold that at bay,to hold one particular person, place, thing frozen in time, in an attempt to say to the world, “yes I was here, at this time at this particular moment in my life, at this particular place and no matter if your memory or mine fades this is the proof my existence and whether or not you know my name when you see the picture you acknowledge that I existed and that is enough.”
That having been said I am notoriously camera shy and leery having photos taken of me. I used to think I was deficient, damaged goods, not worth anyone’s second glance or second thought.So why then is the header portion of my blog a photograph? That picture was taken last spring on a day when I really should have brought gloves and is the place marker for the day when I finally got the message that I wasn’t second-rate or second-class to anyone and never would be. It is my favorite photograph and I suspect it will be for a very long time.