Blog - The Whys The Where Fors And Art Thous

I've been wondering why anyone blogs, but more so, why me? It started innocently enough when Susie Bright put a photo I had taken of her, on her blog. When I read all the comments posted about the photo - good and bad - I googled myself, just for the sake of egomania. Shit, I had no idea so many people had an opinion about me or my work. I figured, hey, if people are going to critique me, I may as well critique myself.

I do know that over the two years I've been blogging, I have been more agonisingly revelatory than some would like - they'd like more 'news and features' and less 'editorial'. I've lost readers who would like it if I wrote about more dog and cat stuff....more dog stuff? Someone wrote that I was too pre-occupied with the play I wrote over 30 years ago....yup...when you only write one play, it becomes a sort of holy grail...see I did do it...perhaps I can do it again. I'm sure friends cringe at the references to themselves, and my immediate family indulges my therapeutic ramblings.

I feel as if I've had my full blown breakdown in a 'reality blog' so to speak.

After all, I think to myself, I am Jill Posener. I was almost famous once. I have achieved a certain measure of success, if not financially, then in my ability to communicate ideas and imagery. I remain, to this day, scared of disappointing all those who admire me or the work I've done. Being the uncompromising tough lesbian, not wanting to let anyone down, was an identity crafted out of scraps, but hey, it worked, right?

But inner turmoil, hidden secrets, nightmares and abuse will float to the surface at some point, a sort of scum settles on the upper layers of the soul. My desire to protect my own pride, and my family, especially my Mum, whom I worshipped, meant that survival was the act of turning that inner anger on the world, but trying to do it in a way that meant more good than harm could come of it - fighting for the underdog of all species, battling for political progress, forging a 'public' persona that both intimidated and attracted, being the 'go to' person in a crisis. And just hope the inner struggle could be kept in check, somehow.

I have had this overwhelming desire to make sense of a life lived bashing my head against emotional walls. Nothing seems to have come easy. And because I have lived out the feminist credo that 'the personal is political', I've failed to keep a firewall between the public and the private. Almost as if being 'seen' for who I am rather than who I could project is almost obsessive with me. Truth over secrecy, light over dark and accessiblity over locked gates. But why blog?

The answer came slowly, but I realise that I, and perhaps others like me, who live life in a heightened state of 'vigilance' need to keep opening the doors and windows to let fresh air in, that feeling trapped is a perpetual state of being. Writing and taking pictures keeps the blood pumping to places that might atrophy.

Perhaps my blogging career really started in 1974 when I wrote 'Any Woman Can'. It is simply an extended stream of consciousness log, my first attempt at self exploration.  It was criticised by many - and now perhaps I understand. How could anyone else know just how personal - how therapeutic - that one-act play was. The attacks hurt, no question. I rarely wrote after that. A few short essays or occasional articles in a newspaper or magazine, or Letters to the Editor. Until the blog; until I started my, as yet unfinished, novel; until the new play I have just begun to write.

Perhaps this orgy of self examination is simply an exaggerated reaction to the secrets my mother kept, a visceral sense that only when the windows are wide open, the white linen curtains shuffling in the breeze, the back door permanently ajar, the front door unlocked, the rooms clear of clutter, even furniture, the ceilings high, the bathtub placed in the middle of a huge room with windows looking out onto green and blue, the shards of discovered buried treasure all placed in a mosaic making sense for the first time.

This may sound a bit maudlin. It's not meant to be. I remember being loved by my mum in the most intense, generous way. She was one of those mothers whose protective, possessive loyalty, combined with her own history of betrayals led her to fail at the very thing she wanted to excel at - being someone I could trust. A few days before she died, I stood at the foot of her bed and rubbed her swollen feet. 'You were never the daughter I wanted, Jill', she said with a sort of sweet smile, as if somehow, the fact of my failure as a girl and daughter were all too clear.

My mum had written that she adored me, in her diary, the same diary in which I discovered her anguished extra-marital affairs. The little red 6 year diary came to me in an oversized manila envelope in 1990. Scrawled on the outside in her writing, were the words 'Not to be read until after my death'.

I would rather not wait for the secrets to be out.

Comments

[Deborah Is Great]

I subscribe. I read your posts. Sometimes I want to look away. You are a bit like a train wreck, or at least you seem that way to me. But. I recognize a kindred soul. My personal family legacy is sex, sex secrets and shame. I understand this need to fling open the doors, windows and possibly even knock down a wall or two. I speak. I say things. And still, sometimes, feel queasy at my 'confessions'. Insert heavy sigh here.

[Jill]

a train wreck huh? just occasionally I hope!

[Deb in Minnesota]

Hi, Jill
When I receive an email notice from Feedblitz for a new blog post by you, the notice always says this near the top:
"Unsubscribe safely and securely now if you wish."

When I see that, I always think, "Nope, I want to keep reading Jill's blog."

Hmmm, it hadn't occurred to me to consider critiquing your blog. I like it as it is. It reflects you and that is what makes it so interesting to me.

And it helps me think about my life and letting go of secrets.

Besos!

[nina]

I started reading you only after I fell in love with your photography. I didn't know about your blog until TOD mentioned it to me. I admit I am a bit of a secret admirer...although I guess now not so secret. Your writing demands the reader to quiet their minds before delving into it. I can't hit your blog in the morning over a bowl of cherrios... I have to make room for it. Something I will continue to do.

take care
neen

[Deborah]

Like Nina, I make room for it, in fact, I make a room for it. I savor every corner.