Sunday, June 12, 2016

Somewhere In My Files is a Short Story I Wrote Called "Moth." Moths To Flames. I Am Shaking My Head.

It has been my nature for most of my life to attract eccentric individuals. I usually love the company, but somewhere in the early 2000s a witch friend of mine (yes, I collect eccentrics) did a spell around my house to keep the crazier of eccentrics from my home. Of course, that was Louisville, and I didn't have the magical barrier when I moved back to Syracuse and now in Stratford.

Long story short. I told Chitunga it is his official duty to now look out for me and to say, "No. You're not helping that person. I'm protecting you. It's in your best interest to leave it alone and send them on their way. In the long run it will behoove you if you listen to me. Draw lines. Say no. Resist. You must resist."

I will write in code from this point on, but let's just say that I spent 8 hours yesterday unboxing and sorting through ghosts. They weren't ghosts, per se, but they were memories that someone left at my house under the guise that they were something else. I said I could store the items in my basement, but then the items were left to me, and I have to deal with them. So, now I'm working through ghosts and they aren't mine, but from my reading between the lines, they are heavy ones from several decades ago. Human beings are strange creatures and somehow I get duped by them every time.

Back in the day, Alice used to say, "Moths to the flame, Crandall. Moths to the flame." I've always contemplated what she's meant by this, and my only interpretation has been that since I tend to be vivacious about this life thing, others who are more lost (and dead) inside simply find me. They play a game with my energy and sucker me into believing truth that is far from it. While they crash and burn their wings, I'm left with the bright light and the dirt. The story teller in me loves the wackiness, but the work-a-hol-ic in me doesn't have time!

I wrote a short story for my students in Kentucky about a kid who I never met, who wrote me letters about his life on and off for 4 years. A student encouraged her friend from another state to start writing to me. The more I read his letters (remember letters?) the more I realized how self destructive he was. I fictionalized his character some, and then did a "what if" scenario playing on his stories to write a story for myself. I called it "Moth" and I believe I should find that story again.

It's not the point, though. The point is that I need to purge myself from the crazy. I've been good about it for a while now, but sometimes I have lapses. This week, the moths are fluttering around my head. I'm not happy with myself for allowing them back in my attic. That is why I told Chitunga it's his job now to look out for me and to say, "Stop."

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