Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory



I’m trying something new. I’ve set a timer for fifteen minutes and I will write until it goes off and it will be posted. I find that I am very much a perfectionist with what I write, not that it’s bad to care about content and form, but it’s keeping me from posting. 12 minutes and 53 seconds left…

Today I am heading over to my local “Poly Meet and Greet”, or Poly Munch, or whatever you want to call it, which I organize. To tell you the truth, I am frustrated and a little burned out. I live in an area that is very conservative, but still I think that there are more polyamorous people out there that I’m just not finding. I advertise it on Fetlife, as well as a local Google group. I don’t know exactly what else to do… Maybe an ad somewhere? Don’t get me wrong, it’s always good to socialize with the people I know, but I would love for this serve as an outreach kind of event. I may need to get some help with it, another person to be in charge of it with me might help. It’s not a tremendous burden, it’s just the publicizing and the feeling of responsibility that I’d like to dilute a little.

This week will be my birthday. For the first time, I’m feeling my age. This could be the extra stress I’ve had lately…or I could just be truly getting old. I’m grateful that I’m not a grandmother. Yet. Special Man and I are spending next weekend together, and I’m really looking forward to that. It gives us plenty of time for both having fun and being quiet. This past Friday he was able to stay overnight, and he was so tired that he fell asleep very, very early. I crocheted and watched Arrested Development while he slept next to me. It was comfortable. But I did miss being engaged and talking. And other things.

There’s the timer. Happy Sunday, friends.

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About a month ago, I was referred to on another website as a “blogger”.  Oh pish posh, I thought, I’m not a Blogger.  That sounds kind of serious, like some kind of commitment to have something to say, all the time…  I’m just fooling around a little…

And then, a few days later, it hit me.  Holy fuck. I’m a writer.   

Every day I write.  I can’t stop.  I wake up in the middle of the night composing sentences, and I speak these sentences in my head, as I lay in bed, staring into the dark.  I have a voice, and I have a hundred stories to tell.  Sometimes I think if I can’t write, I will implode.  These stories and sentences will become heavy and dark as they melt together into a mass of tangled words that will never come out.

When I sit down to write, I go into my head and pull out one of these sentences.  I watch, as it appears in front of me, like a magic trick that only I know.  I choose the words, the rhythm, the flow.  My power is in words, and these words are gloriously mine.

When I was a young girl, there were things I knew, without ever being told.  I knew that there was so much more to me than anyone thought. I stayed quiet and good in the world, even as I was screaming in my head that I had something to say.  I knew I had a voice, hidden underneath all of the rules and restrictions and expectations of a false perfection that had been assigned to me.

Today is my declaration of intention.  I’m a writer.  And writers write.  I’m not afraid of it any more.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”   ~Ernest Hemingway