I’m liking writing less. The freedom I fantasize on the page, to far-off castles and who I become diving headfirst through a rainbow, is a locked box. No matter how hard I bang and dent it, and beg the locking-of-boxes gods for an admit-one ticket, that playfulness is not for me.
I was uninhibited last night. Seated on the squishy couch, a strong cosmopolitan creating a mini whirlpool in my brain, and the manager, the overseer, the one who studies my behavior, took a nap. To the front stage came Jaclynn. Witty. Vibrant. Crude. No one pulling back at the reins. No side whisper, the back of the hand blocking my mouth movements in judgment. To blast away the controlled polish, the never-good-enough and never-have-it-quite-right punched out on the time clock. And in their absence, the cat away, the mice did play.
I like my mice. They’ve quite the showmanship. Three furry white ones with top hats, tap shoes, and canes. I can’t tell if they’re blind or not, so they’re a blend of the Three Stooges, Chaplin, and Steve Martin and Martin Short. They’re on. And that’s more than okay. They don’t have to make sense in their movements; not every choice has to be a crowd pleaser. But when they’re there, the permission to be authentically oneself, present, and on the ready is given. On the edge of one’s seat, two fingers on the pulse, a rhythmic nod and sole of one’s foot tapping.
There’s a wide-open throat gurgling down the water. Keep it coming. The reservoir is stocked to the brim, and it’s ours to greedily slurp from.
The longing to be seen in this way is deeper than anything else. To be unmonitored, unprotected, and real. To trash the expectations, to dismantle the not-enough, to slow the fuck down and be seen.
It’s our right, after all.
Our mother fucking right.
Love, Jaclynn
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