I wish I were ...

I wish I were Lila (लीला), but I'm actually too scared to write that post.

Actually, that's a lie. I did write that post, but I'm too scared to publish it. It doesn't make any sense — even to me — so ... well, it's just too scary and weird for me to face right now: that maybe I actually am Lila, and my 'wishing' for it is just my desperate grasp on the Maya (माया) of what I think is 'my' identity.

And Lila, "the dance"? It was supposed to be this joyful, carefree thing, and instead it came out all ... `phfina. *sigh*

So I wish I were ...

What?

Do I wish I were a wee Irish lass back in old Éire? Do you know, `phfina, what kind of life that would be? I mean watch that Mel Gibson Scottish flick. I mean it was Scottish, not Irish, but do I know the difference? and was there any between living conditions of Scotland and Ireland at the time? No.

I would be a pale thin cold hungry barefoot girl who's exotic black Irishness would be a magnet for only one thing, that is if I weren't a gypsy anyway, wandering from place to place, persecuted everywhere. And where would I live? In a 'hut' which was more like a lean-to or a teepee with a central fire pit which we would all sleep around on the ground, bundled together for warmth, which of course would make my bundled partner more than a bit eager and what would I do, say 'no, thanks, you're not my type, and have you brushed your teeth?' And if I did tell him that, what would he say, besides: "Ha-ha, all you girls say the funniest things!"

That is if he could manage that while he's busy getting getting it into me before he comes and then immediately falls into a contented sleep, and leaving me what? grateful that I have a bit of warmth next to me and inside me?

And then nine months later, it's harvest season, and, well, here I am a fourteen year old girl, and I've ripened nicely myself, and it's time for me to bear fruit, right? And that's it? Year after year? Cold, tired, hungry, sick?

And then there's άσπροτριαντάφυλλο. Yes, she's an Anglish, not Éirish, but still the Vikings and Gauls came across the Channel, killed her family, raped her, and brought her back to the Continent to be their slave until the Romans came along, and said, "hm, she's pretty. Okay, guys, let's not kill this one just yet ..." and brought her along with their legion to the delegation in the Hellenistic isles.

So if my life were ordinary, I'd be in a cold, leaky hut working day and night just to be able to feed myself and the others in my ... what? "Village"? That's almost a too civilized word for a group of hunter/gathers eking a living out of the bog they are in, burning smoky peat for warmth. And if my life were exciting, it would be ended on the tip of a Nordic spear, either the steel kind or the fleshy kind.

And before I was like, "Oh, woe is me, some girl said something mean to me! Oh, boo-hoo!" But would I rather be her? That girl one- or two-thousand years ago, who would look at me now and probably die, just die, at all the gifts and blessings I have.

I mean: coffee?!? a hot, clean drink to keep me warm in my warm place of work were people don't come up to me to steal the food in my hands or to steal the innocence of my body, but come up and say 'hi' and give me a smile and give me money. And then I have a blanket on a raised, cushioned platform (which is called a 'bed') and I have water magically transported to my body for washing, which I do more than once a life time, once a day, in fact, and it's heated? And I have time to read and to write?

And I can pout, oh, my stuff is so hard to write! or oh, my stuff is just hack work!

But what did J.K. Rowling say, living in a friend's basement with no money and three kids? And how about that woman who wrote the Hunger Games, year after year, writing with some small appreciation from her few fans (sound familiar, `phfina?) but so totally eclipsed by Steph, she probably more than a few times thought: what's the point, and hasn't this been written before, and besides, I sell books, but who cares?

You know: like me with my thoughts, looking at all these great writers, and looking down my nose in a bookstore at writers of sci-fi or fantasy writing their 'first book in the trilogy' that looks exactly like a Tolkien rip-off or another pointless sci-fi book or, God! Not another romantic vampire novel! Isn't the market flooded already!

I mean, people are already tired of vampire parodies!

And now it's zombies, and what next and who cares?

And why should I write my chapter when it's fan fiction! of a tired genre, and everything I've said Sappho and Rushdie and Kundera and Austen and Kafka and Salinger and Solzhenitsyn and Gaiman and Zelazny and Palahniuk and DeWitt have said much, much, much better.

I wish I were great.

But all of them, the greats. I mean, God! Rushdie has a price on his head and he can't be seen without the fear of not only getting killed but getting those around him killed. And Kafka? Lived misunderstood (Max Brod anyone?) and died in obscurity, and the whole time, probably thinking himself a sick, twisted fvck for thinking the thoughts he thought and for the words he wrote — my spiritual twin: Kafka. And Austen, writing and writing and writing, the same story, over and over again, mildly popular, so that she could get just a little bit of money to buy sugar. How hard that must have been! Doing what she loved, and ... mildly liked for it.

And when they achieve that greatness, that fame, oh, the price they pay for it. Some of you know what I'm talking about, publishing your story, or your chapter, or even your review, and suddenly you are under the spotlight, and hundreds, no, thousands of people are waiting on your next words, and suddenly you are in the spotlight, and scared to death, scared to death of saying the next thing, because it might be the wrong thing, or it may just be the meh thing, which, for me, is so much worse.

I wish I were ...

What? Something different? What different? 'Normal'? And don't you dare challenge me on that, asking the platitudinous 'but what's normal, `phfina?' You know what's normal, and so do I. And I know I'm not normal. I'm just too fvcking smart for even trying to pretend at normal, middle, wholesome America normal normal.

Do I want that? Obviously not. If I did, I'd so be there and be that. Do I want my roots of a little celt girl in her little celt bog, with no choices in life of where or how she lives and who fvcks her? 'Gender preference'? Good luck with that one. Homosexuality doesn't develop first, civilization does, 'cause without civilization, you have to band together to survive and women are property and spoils to be used when their masters desire it. "Free spirit will-o-the-wisp"? Selkies? Nice dreams and myths, but reality is cold, hard and unforgiving.

And what if I were something different, or somebody different? Who would I be? Kristen Stewart? We're actually about the same age, right? (Shocking to know she's just a couple of years younger than me!) How did she get there? And now that she's 'there,' is she happy, with all her stuff, and all the paparazzi and how many interviews each day where she has to answer the same questions, over and over again, and not say one word wrong, and if somebody asked me some of those questions, do you know what my answers would be?

Yes, you do, you read about them in the "parade of angry thoughts from hypersensitive b!tch" that is my blog.

So she can have her life, and I can't even wish for her perks, 'cause her perks only come because she's willing and strong enough to endure the daily grind and torture that is her life. Just like Steph. I mean, stalkers and everything!

And if I weren't me, where does that leave you?

If I weren't me, I would've never have touched you with my writing, would I? Just as if you weren't you, you wouldn't touch the people you do, being you. I know. I see people I cannot touch, being touched by you. I'm one of those people, did you know that? If you were me (as maybe some of you wish you were: "oh, I wish I were as smart as `phfina!" "oh, I wish I wrote as well as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I were as brave (brazen?) as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I had a heart that felt as deeply as `phfina's!" [no, you don't; God! no, you don't!]), then, let me tell you, there is no way you would've touched me as you do. When I'm being me, I just can't stand me: the little snivelling strange self-righteous stuck-up smart-@$$ b!tch that I am.

If you were me, do you know how many you wouldn't be able to touch? including me? So I'm glad you are you, and please, be glad you are you, too.

And ... well, Miss Dispenser-of-free-advice, I'm ... (God, this hurts) glad I'm me. I'm glad I'm me, now, here, writing my fvcking sh!t stories that still are just good enough to touch your hearts, and to give you hope, just like Jubal Harshaw, dictating his self-proclaimed maudlin crap (that he wrote daily, and loved to write daily) for instantaneous and vociferous consumption by his adoring fans.

Hm, does that mean I get my own harem of deliciously sexy secretaries to take dictation the instant I shout an imperious 'Front!' and to give me back rubs — and more! — when it's past my bed time? oh, the possibilities!

*AHEM!* [I have no idea! where that errant and spurious thought came from!]

*rolls eyes*

Where was I?

Oh, yes ... so I'd better start living — and writing — like that's so, that I'm glad I'm me, and that I'm glad I'm writing what I write, because the truth of the matter, my dear girl (my muse has this funny voice: she sounds just like me), is that you chose this life, and, if you looked really hard, you love this life, you love that your words touch others, and that you are of service to others, and that what you do actually helps others, giving them a better day and happiness, be it in your writing, in your smile, or in one cup of coffee at a time.

So, deal with that, Miss I-wish-I-were ... deal with that you wished yourself right here into the D.C. area and that you are the authOress of more than a few stories, and you love to write, and you love what you've written and are writing. Deal with the fact that you are living the life many girls could never dream of wishing to live, and you are living that life.

You chose the stage, you chose the song, the audience is assembled and looking to you expectantly, filled with anticipation of another delightfully sorrowful solo from our sweet little nightingale, so cut this moaning hemming and hawing crap and sing your song only as you can sing it.

*sigh* yes, ma'am.

I don't so much mind my muse being so right about everything all the time, but her self-satisfied smirk as she delivers her smug sermons can be rather trying at times.

oh, and, mais, bien sûr, seven days, alcohol-free.

That's not accurate, either, is it? Nothing 'sure' about it, although it is reassuring, and anyway, I'm not 'alcohol-free.' I think about wanting to drink every day, so I'm very much 'alcohol-bound' in my thoughts and in my mind, so 'alcohol-free'? That's a lie; it's more accurate is this: 'It's been seven days since my last drink.'