Love Letters #15

Damon Ludwig was the love of Alex’s life.

Of course, she did not tell him that. She barely looked at him, barely glanced in his direction when he greeted her. Covertly she admired him, though.

Damon Ludwig was the boy next door. Of course he had to be; Alex snorted at the ironic cliche of it all.

She couldn’t help herself, though. Damon was a very handsome lad, but it wasn’t that, really. She knew as well as the next person that just because somebody was handsome doesn’t mean they were very nice.

He was full of energy, is how she would describe it. He was constantly on the move. Lifting and carrying and bringing in mysterious logs through the front of his house. She would hear his mother berating him for getting mud and splinters all along her newly washed floors. She knew he made things out in the back garden shed, which had been converted to a personalised workshop. He made chairs and carved ornaments, most of which his mother lovingly displayed around her house.

He was funny. And laughed a lot. His laugh was swelling, coming from deep within him, so you knew it was genuine.

When he wasn’t carving, Damon was reading. He read everywhere. In trees, behind bushes, on the garden wall, lying precariously with his solid edges spilling over the sides, in his carpentry shed, on the gentle slope of the roof of his house.

And when he wasn’t reading, he was mowing old Lady Redmond’s lawn down the road or clipping the hedge for Mr Mason whose fingers were riddled with arthritis. He always had time for everybody, and with a cheerful smile he would help them. Sure, sturdy and confident.

She watched their faces when he left them; always smiling. It was like he was the sun and he left his glowing rays wherever he went.

She loved him. But of course, she would never tell him that.

She would carry on in her silent Alex way. Watching when he wasn’t looking, burying herself in her studies, taking care of things as best she could. Her little sister Lem was always in and out of the house next door. She envied her her childish confidence. She would come back with tales about Damon and even though Alex pretended to be nonchalant and dismissive she wanted to hear every detail.

 

Is Your Blog ‘Personal’?

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The fact of the matter is, I don’t think I would want my mother to read this blog.

I’ve talked to my mother about this blog, and about blogging, but she hasn’t expressed interest in reading it, and I have never offered to have her read it. I have written things here that she might not completely understand or might disapprove of, and, unknowingly, because I am writing into the bottomless void that is the internet, I have been very honest with myself here.

This means that if people from my everyday life were to find this blog, I would feel a little vulnerable and laid bare.

The reason I am writing this now is because somebody from my real life has found this blog. They kindly let me know they found it, and apologised for reading it because they knew I would be mortified. They assured me they didn’t read any further when they realised I might not like them to read, which I appreciated greatly.

I did feel a little shaky and suddenly not so comfortable.

It’s funny.

It’s like somebody found my personal diary. But this isn’t what I would call a personal diary.

I feel exposed and as though somebody has looked deeper inside my emotional exoskeleton. Which is an odd feeling to have because this is a public place so anybody, really, can see it. Except I am probably assuming that nobody I know will see it, therefore allowing myself a little more freedom of expression. Isn’t that peculiar? That I would tell complete strangers things I wouldn’t dream of telling people I know?

Obviously I removed a post. It was a post I was a little dubious about writing because it really did come from a deep, dark place inside me and I am not comfortable about having somebody I know come across that.

I guess this was a niggle for me. It still is a niggle for me. I contemplated changing my blog, but the reality of it is that I don’t really want to start a new blog. I like this blog. I have been blogging here for two years now, and the empty ‘New Post’ place has become a place of inspiration and literary brainstorming.

What do you think about privacy and being emotionally honest? Do you share your blog with your family and friends? Or do you do what I do, and keep it to yourself, as it is more ‘private’ (ironic since you’re posting on a public domain!)?

Oh, hello, stranger.

There is a woman next to me eating a tuna sandwich. Well, I think it is tuna. I can’t be too sure. You never can, with the wide variety of sandwich fillings these days. What happened to good old cheese and tomato? That washes down well with coffee.

This lady is sad, folks. Her face is flushed, and she pulls a tissue out of her coat pocket to wipe her eyes and nose. She also stares vacantly out the window for a while, and her shoulders slump as though the weight of the world is settled on them. She holds herself close to her heart, her knees inwards, her chest bent in on herself, as though she is curling up like a desert leaf to hold herself in and protect herself. Her posture suggests she might be nervous or uncomfortable.

She has a slim notebook in front of her. The cover is black, with green drawings all over it. She is left handed, and writes with her hand bent over her sentences. It is not a way I could envision writing. Her bag is purple, like space, dotted with stars. Her hair is shoulder length and curly, and she wears glasses.

Her eyes are sad, and I want to go and sit next to her and sprinkle some joy upon her day. But I don’t know how to. What would I say?

Hello, I noticed you look sad. Wanna talk about it?

Hi! I’m Lenora. I love your diary.

Oh, hello. Look at these pictures of cute squirrels I found on the internet.

Good afternoon. Do you think you could take a few moments to talk about our Literary Lord and Linguistic saviour John Ronald Reuel Tolkien?

Hi, I really like your hair.

Hello, ….

The possibilities are endless. But none sound remotely right.

Oh. She has put her coat on, and off she goes. Mayhaps she wrote all her sad thoughts in her diary, and now feels relieved to carry on with her day.

Perhaps she wasn’t sad at all, but had hay fever.

I wish I talked to her. I want to know what she has to say.

I don’t know how to talk to strangers though, without seeming like a creep, or uncommonly odd.

Well. Maybe next time.

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