Rare Work

It's a unique relationship, that of the blogger and the reader. As a blogger myself I have often considered it from that side of the fence and outside of one nasty incident where a friend was stalked through these pages, it's mostly been a positive one for me. But these past few weeks I've been pondering the other side.


What I look for in a blog is easy. Easy in the famous pornography answer way i.e. I know it when I see it. My regular haunts include everything from birds to young adult lit to crafts to sex. I'm engaged by good writing and an interesting point of view (fabulous pics are a huge plus) but more than anything you know you're reading the right blog when you find yourself reflected back-what you would have said, something you had just been thinking-on your daily visit.


So it is with me and Nightmare Brunette.


First, there was this, right when I was seeking to capture that phenomenon with a word:


mamihlapinatapai
noun • a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start.
The word is from the Yaghan language

then the quote from the above entry (repeated here cause it's just so damn good):

I wanted to stare uninterrupted and touch, not because his scars were freakish or ugly but because they were remarkable. The success of his healing was astonishing. I wanted to feel connected to it, the strength and cleverness that had gone into keeping him beautiful.right

when I came home from nursing a sick friend. Yeah, it was almost spooky but spooky in a 'we're all one' kind of way. I think it's safe to say that Nightmare Brunette has my number.

Whether it's breaking my heart with this description, a description sure to touch anyone who has acted out their own sorry version:

Again, we decided it was over. He said he couldn't bear the unhappiness and while he once saw a way to make things right, he couldn't see it anymore.
"I'm not angry," he told me.
"I'm not angry either," I said, shaking my head, tears leaking into my mouth. "But I don't know how to fix this."

or this, which echoes my own complaint about adult life:

When I was about 8 or 9, my extraordinarily wealthy best friend had a birthday party. A limo picked us and several other girls up and drove us to her grandmother’s gaudy seaside home, which had a large rose garden, a heated indoor pool, and a baffling mirrored corridor which spiraled upon itself until it came to the grandmother’s bedroom. We ate cookies, played mad libs, swam in the pool, and climbed out her window onto the roof. That’s one of the ways I find my adult life lacking—not nearly enough spontaneous taking to the sky.

And finally this, which spoke to me, to my emotional basement. Me, whose first tattoo was the Chinese character for courage-a permanant reminder that I can be brave for when the fear comes, which it does almost every day:

I thought of how different I was a year or two ago, what I dreamed then and wanted and believed about the future. I didn't say it aloud but I felt the thoughts punching my chest: I should have been braver. I should have done it alone. I made so many mistakes. How terrible it is to sit with the knowledge of the ways you've made yourself less because you were afraid.

Yes. Yes. A thousand fucking times-yes.

Nightmare Brunette. Do yourself a favor and check out her site & blog.

(Adults only please)