Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Like Sunday, Again

"Write whatever you want. Who gives a damn what anybody thinks?"

Mr. Gryphon and I are sitting on a vast greyed out beach. The sand is the color of slate with flecks of black, the ocean the color of cold steel. The sky hangs pewter above our heads. The red blanket we are sitting on looks like a pool of blood in all this grey.

"I worry too much. I reveal too much of my own stupidity in matters of love, Mr. Gryphon." I have just finished reciting a post I did called "Triangular." It's about, you guessed it, a love triangle.

"That post is real and true," he says not looking at me. His feathers ruffle elegantly in the wind. "The best writing is about truth even if it's fiction."

I sigh. "I know, I know." I examine my chewed up fingers.

He looks at me finally, his great yellow eyes a comfort. "That post is as real as The Coda, Miss Turtle, as real as the story you wrote about April where we all kill each other."

I trace my finger in the sand before replying. The sound of the sea rolling stones as it rushes up towards us on the shore is another comfort to me. "Yes, it is, but I didn't post any of The Coda or the story of April on this blog and I doubt I ever will."

"So why not be content with leaving 'Triangular' off this blog, Miss Turtle?"

"Because I love it so much. I went straight for the jugular on this one, holding nothing back. I was exhausted when I finished it and it still brings me to my knees when I read it."

"Then post it. Just do it and don't look back," he says.

He's right, but I get all worried. I shouldn't be saying these things here. I shouldn't be whining. I shouldn't be exposing my starting-to-heal broken heart like this all the time.

I worry that all of you, good folks who come here, will think I'm a nut case because God knows others feel that way about me.

Mr. Gryphon and I say nothing else. A blinding spotlight of white sunlight lands on the sea as the clouds open up. It looks like an angel is about to drop out of heaven carrying a divine horn. It better not be Gabriel. If it is, he better not blow that horn.

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