Secrets, Rejection & A Plastic Jesus

I found a very excellent book at the bookstore called "Secrets." A man named Frank put it together, based on his blog, Post Secret. People send in artful-ish postcards and disclose secrets. Many are quite powerful. One of the first notes said "I don't like sex," mounted on an Calvin Klein ad close-up of a man's crotch. Others were about suicide, cheating of various forms, and events people regretted, or felt they should have regretted. I found myself drawn to the book, as I do have quite a few secrets myself. Despite my efforts to be open here, there are certain matters of which I am so ashamed, or so confused, that I choose not to write about them. Or maybe I do write about them, without realizing it, when I write stories or poetry. I am never been able to express my state of internal isolation: I approach, then balk. My first attempt, thirty-five years ago, failed, and the rare efforts since then failed as well. I could write a book about that, but it would probably not be of particular interest to other people.

Today is Christmas. My parents accepted an invitation to come be Christmas Jews with us, but then decided to go to my brother's home instead. This is the second year in a row that they committed the same blunder. Even when reminded of the gaffe, they chose to go to my brother's house, since his family is usually less available than us. It is a new low to be ditched, not by a friend, but by one's parents, for a sibling. It is even lower when the faulty parties - Mommy and Daddy, as it were, do not correct the error, but choose to keep the second commitment. My mother occasionally reads the blog, but it is my blog, so I will say whaddevah I wanna say. Perhaps my parents will write into the Post Secret guy, Frank, and tell him what exactly they are thinking: the firstborn really is the favorite? Our house is too small? They have better food? Daughters are more loyal and so ditching them is not a hazard?

Other secrets I am not keeping: I am in a genuine, actual panic about the state of both my hair and my face (if I am not pretty, what the hell am I?); I really wanna cigarette; I would like to have more sex but I am fundamentally shy and remote; I am not as smart as virtually everyone I surround myself with, so I often have to 'cover,' I have a vast amount of affection for people, and that embarrasses me, because often they like me, but they don't quite adore me as I do them; my former therapist, who is a world-renowned, much-quoted expert, said a lot of personal stuff to me and I sorta knew it, but I was flattered until I realized it was wrong, and I, well, I gotta stop there because the others just aren't coming out.

One more thing: there is an inflated plastic, bigger-than-life sized Jesus about two miles down the road. Not a secret, but rather an example of something that never should have been let out of the bag.