15 years I've been at this poetry/writing/art/photography/spoken word thing. And for various reasons, not the least of which was a complete psychotic break that lasted, off and on for a few of those years, I haven't made any headway. I got my first compliment on a spoken performance since I stopped reading live 13 years ago, today. Rhonda Timony called "Rage Rover Rant" "damn good".
First goddamn compliment (or complaint) about my readings of my work. And it doesn't escape my notice that it took a good hour of post-production to get to the version she heard.
"But Cydniey, you have friends here, followers on twitter, a daily journal online that you've been keeping open to the public for 15 years, surely someone has said something along the way?" I hear you intone.
No one says nuthin. It's like I'm supposed to just know. Kind of like how I've always just kind of assumed I was moderately attractive. No one ever told me, but no one ever confided that I was ugly, either, so I went with the positive side of things. My entire ego is made up from the world's collective silence. I am, literally (and I hate to use that word, but it fits) a figment of my own imagination. Created with no input but my own desires and ideals. It's fitting, I guess, since I live in a Google construct. Paradise. Nevada, indeed.