Category: Just Shelley

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Most webloggers post links to interesting tidbits or other weblogs, inserting comments as appropriate. Other webloggers post notes to their blogs about events in the day — writing to a diary in the sky. There are funny weblogs and mad weblogs and work weblogs and awards weblogs and so on.

And then there are the ones like me, who drop everything in your lap with the ease of the clumsiest of waiters. I’m blue, you’ll hear about it. I’m sad, you’ll hear about it. I’m mad — well, we already how much you hear of that.

With me, you’re all peeping toms, except instead of peeking through a window and seeing my naked body, you’re reading my weblog and seeing my naked soul. On a daily basis, I scrape part of my existence off, and serve it to you on toast made of cosmos and thinly stretched wire. Shelleymite.

Good, now that the squeamish have left, we can get down into some deeper talk.

I walked along the beach tonight as sunset folded into the darkness and thought about the funny directions my life has taken, and the directions it will be taking. I thought about my decision to move to St. Louis and what that meant, and I knew that this was a path I’m no longer meant to take. My direction lies elsewhere now. I’ll make my home as best as I can in the shadow of the bridges.

I thought about my writing and my weblog and about you, who are reading this.

And one final thing I thought of: I will no longer celebrate my love of life and my delight in people by allowing ugliness on this weblog. I may write of things that aren’t pretty, and I may be shallow or twisted and I may burn and I may laugh and cry or pontificate and tease and joke and a host of other things — but I will not allow ugliness on this weblog again.

My guarantee. Not to you, no offense. To myself.

Shelleymite — tastes just like chocolate.

Update: And all my regular weblog readers are going “Yeah. Right. We’ve heard this before. Pull the other one, Shelley.”

No seriously. I mean it this time. Honest. Cross my heart. <edit />

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I was looking at my posts this evening and I asked myself, “Will I ever grow up?” I’m not a young girl, I’m a mature woman. I should be elegant, classy, say witty but urbane things. Exude sophistication.

Ha!

I love to fly kites! I love looney tunes and laughing out loud at movies and old black and white sci-fi movies and speed boats and going to Disneyland. Yes, you read that correctly, Disneyland.

When I travel I don’t go shopping or to gallery openings, or out to expensive dinners at night. I spend my time walking the streets of the cities I visit, smelling the smells, and watching the people and listening to the voices around me. I eat from street vendors or little cafes with outdoor seating.

In my apartment, I have an simple, elegant black couch with the back covered by a beautiful silk scarf hand embroidered with orange and rose carp that I bought at a Chinatown street fair. Now, that’s class. What do I do? I hang Marvin the Martian pictures above it. And there’s a big Marvin the Martian pillow right next to the carp.

In my kitchen I have The Lady of Shalot by Waterhouse on the wall — right next to my refrigerator covered in magnets. Really tacky magnets.

Did I mention my lava light collection and neon Marvin next to my glass scuptures and crystal clock?

I should be dressing in Armani suits by day, and in slinky black dresses at night, with tasteful diamond drops in my ear. I should go to elegant parties and engage in witty repartee. Embed quotes about great literature into my writings.

Instead, I’m dressed by LL Bean. Complete the picture. (Though I do love Armani, just can’t afford it. Wouldn’t mind a slinky black dress come to think of it.)

Well, if I can’t have elegant or sophisticated, I guess I’ll just have to settle for fun.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I am in such an ambivalent mood this morning. Maybe the orange is getting to me, also. Maybe it’s the story I wrote last night. Maybe it’s the emotions that have run behind the scenes via email this week. Some of my weblogging friends have been hurting, and that hurts me.

Did you know that when you forgive another, you give a gift to yourself? Just a thought.

Anyway, the fog is in the Bay today, and I’m going to go for a walk.