Small Bubbles

I’ve started writing on Dirty Dishes again (inside ‘pages’, located on the last of the titles).  I transferred it into hide-mode, into rough-draft because it’s called Dirty Dishes for a good reason– It’s personal.  I’m a writer so I’m going to write regardless of what some people think and say, regardless of some nasty e-mails I tend to get from time to time.  I’m not personally going to know my viewers simply because very few people that I do know ever actually pull up my site to read, look, cook or bake.  That’s the nuts & bolts of blogging; your close friends and family (and horrible in-laws) are not going to feel the need to think what you say is truly important; much less, what you feel or work intently on doing in the way of work and hobbies.  That’s probably a good thing!  

Dirty Dishes has been pushed aside and hidden for almost a year.  My husband mentioned that he liked reading it and thought it was much better than my cooking, baking, and arts & crafts posts.  The problem is, and has been– I was afraid of those colorful e-mails I was receiving, lol.  It got to where I refused to check my e-mails even though a small percentage of– all women, just 1 man– had been writing to me to hush me up about life’s situations, and then “preaching” to me with harshness in extreme judgement.  Did I get to the point that I wanted to pull some hair out and find a can of the bluest paint to splatter, maybe mail a box of rotten chicken eggs for them to open?!– Certainly, I can dream, you know!  I can laugh about this, truly amuse myself at the comical side of it, being able to brush it off and continue what I enjoy doing– messing up things, writing about it, learning from it, growing as a result of it, and being comfortable in my own flesh.  This is my world, this funky blog that crept its way into my kitchen.  I should not, could not, now, be ashamed of the truth that is inside these pages.  There’s no ugliness in my veins when I come to terms with who has been in my pathway.  I can allow myself to be monstrous to them if I’d only let my tongue go forcefully against the wind, whipping and lashing like tough strands of hair against the most tender facial skin in a fierce gust…  or riding a motorcycle in rain that comes down like fast, hard pellets onto the face– burning anything facial.  I can be like that if/when I want to be, if I allow myself to be just that.  

This is my vent-space.  It’s my window looking out from a corner room.  It’s the oven blowing a burnt smell of black smoke from a ruined meal.  It’s got to go somewhere.  It’s human, it’s life.  I will continue to write…  

Have a great week, enjoy the little moments along the way among any stressful times that might arise.