Why

Why do I do this? Why do I bare my heart and spill it all out all over the world?

"The less said, the better." Said my mother. Often. I obediently, and prudently, closed my mouth. I listened. Closely. With intent.

I was an only child in the neighborhood, the youngest child by a decade - so, in effect, I grew up alone. I talked to myself, to entertain myself, to practice for social situations - not successfully. I lived my life inside myself, my only refuge, my only psychic safe place. But, damn, I was lonely. I had no illusions about the reality of my imaginary friends, nor my poor aptitude for making real friends. Books were a great solace, so I read a great deal, omnivorously. I daydreamed, always peopled my inner world richly.

All my life, even as a child, others have taken me aside, and told me secrets. I listened. Sometimes I judged, usually not letting them know I disapproved, because I wanted to hear more stories. Not that they sought me out for friendship, only a listening ear, a stranger to bounce their anxieties on, a safe confessional without comment, and without any need for absolution. And I kept their confidences. Even after they did not.

In my work, I know intimate details of other's lives, I know more than their own families, in one narrow view. I listen, and do not overshare my own stories. A mention, to elicit more from them, but always aware that, it is all about them, right then.

So, when I come home, I babble. Not breaking confidences, but to iron out the puzzled creases.

I started these essays to tell my stories to a friend, whom I did not wish to bore. And what you see, what she saw, was the trail of how my mind works. This is the shape of my brain, the curls and meanders, the sights I have seen, the realizations I have stumbled over.

All those who come and read are welcome, to whatever they can glean. But, I write this for Moira. And when I know she isn't reading, is "turtling", I tend to write less, here, and send her juicy emails directly, to spur her to write back. I write very much to her taste, to entertain her, to shock and amuse her. She has very good taste.


The writing has taken on a life of it's own, and beckons me on, with the promise of another tale. I cannot be silent, refuse to shut up. The more said, the better.