Posted by: tlboehm | March 1, 2014

When Life Lies to Your Heart

There’s that quippy little Facebook graphic that says something to the effect of “we have three lives. Our public life, our private life and our secret life.” Facebook of course being the Akashic Record of kitsch theory I find myself contemplating the awkward dance I do through the hours that form my blurred sojourn to oblivion.

I was perhaps a decade on this planet when my Malibu Barbie spent less time in her Love Van (complete with orange pop out kitchen area) and more time sailing through the sky, communing with pom pom dogs and leaving mod hair Ken in the square pink fold out casa with that creepy toddler from the Sunshine family. At ten years old there was no secret to my life that played out on the frost covered grass of the school yard. First a horse with a blue mane, then a swan (juniper branches down the back of my shirt for wings) a stint as Lucrezia Borgia, and dreams of veterinary practice and an A frame lodge on a quiet lake.   Reality however is a socio path, swinging at the fragile glass surrounding your precious dreams with a titanium alloy baseball bat. And I found my future suddenly pelted over the fence. Just like Barbie, I was incapable of flight without a Deus ex machina. She’s in a box now and so am I.

Sad fact is, life is full of quippy little lies in the form of happy words to live by. If you work hard enough, eat your broccoli, stay in school you can do/be anything you want. If you can dream it you can achieve it. Life is your oyster. Unfortunately those adages don’t divulge the pigeon hole  bubble testing, the demographics of failure, and the toxins in the sweet flesh you’re sucking off the half shell. When you’re finished retching up your toenails and etching your desperation into tiny ovals with your number two pencil you suddenly realize you’re destined for somewhere between mediocre and “ruh roh Raggy” on the bell curve of your limited life span. The summation of your blue maned, evergreen winged destination may be a thousand square feet of flaking adobe, outfitted with one tiny bathroom, variable electrical current and a scourge of junk elms that throttle any plant you attempt to coax from the desert dirt. You’ll find yourself overwhelmed by fifty hours a week of pure chaos crunching numbers to the cadence of behemoths in the next room dropping two hundred pound weights in rapid succession and blasting “Party Like a Rock Star”  ad nauseum. You’ll pray over two grown spawn you can’t afford to send to college, you’ll pray over your ten year old car with the cracked window glass you can’t afford to replace and the tires that always seem to trade off being a little low. You’ll try to blot out the thought that your husband is ten years older than you and your dual scraping for existence isn’t covering any plans for your future.  You’ll dismiss the pain in your thumbs – you’re a desk jockey for God’s sake. The space bar is an extension of you.

And in the middle of it all someone sadly enamored with your petty penned meanderings will witlessly tell you “Oh Em Gee, you’re a writer.” And here I am, picking mental juniper berries off my flesh and whinnying under my breath. My life. It’s no secret I am dissatisfied with coasting through the rest of it on autopilot.  I want the work of my hands to echo the cry of my heart. There are novels on my hard drive. There are poems in my soul. This dance, albeit awkward, is set to music that waits for a hand across the strings, touching the keys, the exhalation of life to give it voice.

In the middle of survival, I simply don’t have the luxury of time to devote to my self-absorbed delusion of writerdom. The only option afforded people like me (which is probably 98% of the creative world) is to either give up and give away that box of Barbie’s – or storm the castle and take the keep by force. Guess where I am? Releasing the catch on the trebuchet. In my hand’s my Barbie’s can fly and I am going over the wall – hanging on to my precious dream for all I am worth. Seriously now. The only thing between this mare and a blue mane is a little bottle of indigo dye from Sally’s Beauty Supply.



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