Amy Qualls is a quilter and Drupalist based in Portland, Oregon.
best
Best-of-breed, I suppose; these are the entries that felt right when they were posted and -- to me at least -- still stand as excellent examples of why I write here.
How to say? How to acknowledge? Privacy means privacy, and thankfully I'm notable for being able to state the obvious in words that make things not so, so perhaps this is the best way to break through a multiple-month logjam of silence and say what needs saying.(Inscrutable? Sorry; this is a private message posted semi-publicly.)
There is no 'me and you,' and never has been; this funny friendship has meant many things over the years, most unspoken and unacknowledged, but there for both of us. Easter brought you back to me, reminded me of why I have Life A here in Huntsville and Life B in Atlanta, reminded me of why I think the drive is worth it and why I'm unlikely ever to have a life, singular, in one place or the other.
Somewhere, in the Official Book Of Personal Websites, there is an admonition about never creating posts for an audience of one. "The readership," it bemoans, "think of the readership!" The OBPW (a righteous tome inwardly certain of its correctness and self-worth, very British in that regard) goes on to decry those who would veil the true nature of a public piece of writing behind anonymizing pronouns, because if writing is made available online, it should be as comprehensible as it is physically accessible.
Hogwash. I've been creaking around this domain for six years now, and while the OBPW makes a fantastic stepstool in my kitchen, it's of little other practical use to me. I keep trying to run off all but the most patient of you lot; what's one more post in that vein?
If this post is impenetrable to you, then worry not and read on; it's not for you, but you're welcome to tag along for the ride.
It was one of Those Mornings™, the kind that you know are going to find you on one of those days when you aren't looking; the kind that, once fate decrees is yours, is inescapable.I left fifteen minutes earlier than I believed I needed to, but as I crossed the city to reach our compact little downtown, I realized it wasn't going to be enough. Worry caused me to push the accelerator a fraction of an inch closer to the floor before I realized something so odd and so silly that it made me laugh out loud:
What were they going to do to punish me for being late, put me on a jury?
As I made my way through downtown, carefully following the directions to reach the fabled Free Juror Parking, I called the courthouse and apologized. "I'm stuck in traffic," I said, "but I didn't want you to think that I was skipping out on jury duty."
The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled and told me to drive safely.
I've known what the title of this entry would be for two months; even though I never could quite get around to putting fingers to keyboard to bring it into being. The word "laden" whispered itself to me as fingers touched blossom, whispered to me in that insistent voice that said, no matter how long it took, the chronicle of this moment was one that would not stay wholly in my mind.
It was my seventh wedding anniversary, but the story starts several days earlier, in an airport standing next to a man who, unbeknownst to me, had a plan.
* * * * *
I hugged Jake at the airport, marveling at his ability to take a cross-country flight and come out looking just as neat and calm as he must've looked upon boarding the plane. Through a screwup, I hadn't met him on his way to baggage claim as I'd originally intended; he was already at baggage claim by the time I found him.
Life's been simple lately. Not honeysuckle simple, but simple enough.It was a necessary change. I haven't said a lot here precisely because I couldn't find the right angle, the correct approach, the perfect turn of phrase that could make it all simple and make it all sound reasonably okay. Because, the truth is, in the end, things are good.
Call it a dilemma: there are parts of my life I don't write about here because they're far too personal, far too private, or sometimes just involve intimate parts of other people's lives. Parts they're not totally comfortable with me sharing—online, or sometimes even in person. Some secrets can be quietly acknowledged among close friends, but some must remain nothing more than stifled whispers in empty rooms.
