Connecting Weblogging

Eight million stories in the naked city

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I’m moving on from current discussions, but to what I’m not sure. I don’t regret yesterday’s anger, but I do regret the circumstances behind it because though the anger is gone, the circumstances remain.

So many stories in the naked city. “There are eight million stories in the naked city.” Does anyone remember that? Anyway, this small story in this new naked city is only of interest to a few, and I’m not sure I’m one of them.

Yesterday’s angry outburst sounded too close to another similar outburst that went something like, “If you’re my friend, you’ll support me. Publicly.” While I welcome support from friends, public or private, when I’m down or even when I’m not, much of yesterday’s anger, and yes hurt, was directed at myself as much as anyone else. It’s difficult to come to terms with a realization that people have stopped listening to me because I shout too much.

It’s also difficult to accept the fact that there are some circles where I won’t be heard, even if I whisper: because of my sex, because of my past, because of who I do or do not work for, my age, whether I own the perfect little black dress, or any number of factors I may or may not have control over.

Bother it, their loss.

It’s summer here in this hemisphere and Winter elsewhere and we all have better things to talk about, including the first commercial aircraft into space. I used to want to visit Australia, but to hell with that – I want the moon, now.

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