When you’re the littlest kid, you develop a certain skin. It’s sculpted through years of fighting with shadows, desperate with desire to be a unique individual. Legacies precede you, for better or worse, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Little Frayer. For the longest time, that’s who I was–little sister to both Margot and Megan. (Yep, we have the same middle initials, too, if you’re keeping track.)
Frayers we all are, but I got an extra helping of the built-in, ‘I CAN DO IT MYSELF, THANK YOU’ attitude born from being the youngest. Marissa Louise Frayer, goddamnit. That’s who I was and wanted to be. Well, thank fuck for everyone I know, because that’s exactly who I am. If you’ve met me, you know I’m not very good at screaming my name from rooftops, at puffing up my feathers to show my pretty achievements. I take up space on this earth, sure, but I’m quick to make myself smaller so others have more room. Although I’m getting better with age, I’m still rather helpless at asking for help. Yes, my hands may be full but don’t bother opening the door for me; I can very easily open doors with my feet.
Based on my lovely introverty traits, I probably shouldn’t be a successful freelancer but because of you and you and you and you and you and you (on and on and on), I am. I didn’t even go two full days of being unemployed before I met with my first freelance client, based on a friend’s kind referral. Needless to say, life is beautiful. I sleep past 5:20 every day. I get to feel the sun penetrate my skin. I run in graveyards to say too many goodbyes in my own way. I get to see all of my friends, not just the ones employed by IKEA. I tend to my baby plants. And I’m a happier partner to Karl.
Basically, I’m a better Marissa. Louise. Frayer. If I’ve learned anything in these past two months of striking out on my own, it’s that I’ll never be alone. And I’m not fighting with shadows. I’m just dancing in the background, helping things along. It’s ok if you don’t notice me. Sooner or later I’ll make myself known. Probably by tripping on my own feet. Yep, that’s very me.
In Sweden, every day is associated with at least one name, if not two. Back in the day it had something to do with celebrating saints and important people, but now not so much. For those who still care, your name day is like a teeeny tiny mini birthday. You maybe get flowers or something small. Needless to say, there’s no name day for Marissa though apparently there are 83 women registered in Sweden who actually use my name, too. Haven’t met one so far.
What then, would I call myself, if I got to choose? What I would call my business? No part of my name means anything in Swedish (why would it?), except for all the cursing variations you can take with MF. And Swedes don’t use motherfuck-in/er/ah as much as Americans. Instead I went with something that played more with both languages to convey my specialty: Communikonst. It’s the art (konst) of communication in this crazy Swedish/English space I’m in. It’s as close as I’ll come to naming a child anytime soon, unless there’s a puppy in my future.
As I welcome Communikonst into the world, I say once again, loud and clear: tack och thank you.
Now go play on the website if you haven’t already. Next blog time won’t be so delayed and it’ll have photos. I keep forgetting to show you those. Clicking me will get you nowhere. It’s simply evidence I’m alive.