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2003-04-14

Rekindling a Love Affair with Myself

ďThe important thing is to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could be.Ē Ė Charles DuBois

In the Church of Whatís Happening Now in Florida yesterday, a female reverend said to an audience that included my father that ďjournaling is a wonderful way to promote insight.Ē Dad said that he thought of me, and the fact that Iíve been journaling ďreligiouslyĒ for about 9 years. I like to think that I am an introspective woman, I question everything about myself when I write. I question everything I think and feel when I write. Itís the only way that I can know myself, the only way that I can hear my true voice. I havenít been writing enough lately.

Iím not talking about this journal, this little update, this little exercise for my fingers and my brain. My JOURNAL, which runs through the pages of three separate books, is everything I am, good and bad, haughty and raw, and at times, effervescent and tragic all at once.

Yesterday, M.s. reminded me of a strand of thought that I intermittently grasp and twirl with the fingers of my mind. My automatic writing journal (another journal that spans the length of two more books) was nowhere to be found. I couldnít grasp onto the strand, I couldnít even focus on one word. I couldnít see it, I couldnít feel it, and this left me pensive with nothing to mull over. Like a thirsty baby with no breast to latch onto. I didnít know what I thought about commitment and love and excitement and jealousy, insecurity and confidence. I hadnít written about it in months, I need a pen to hold onto ideas like that.

I wrote for a bit later in the afternoon. I could have written for days. Thereís so much going on in there, so much that I want to get out, that I want to make sense ofÖ Iím going to have to break out my automatic writing journal, because my friend, myself, the me that knows me better than I know myself, the me that has watched me grow and change for the last nine years, shouldnít have to be burdened with my random philosophical conclusions about the mechanics of love and the morality of life. My journal gets to hear my opinions and judgments. My journal gets to hear the final decision made after all of that automatic-writing banter. My journal knows everything that is ugly and pathetic about meÖ and still, its pages open for my pen. Now thatís love.

As for that strand, Iíll get back to you. After I write it out (which will take longer that I am allotted for a morning update), I may share some conclusions. Oh, but my update! Here I am, after a morning deposition, tea, clouds, meetings, incompetent lawyers and phone calls with clients, and I didnít even think to tell you about my weekend.

Suffice it to say, M.s. looked hot with a thick chain locked around his waist, matching the lovely chain collar around his neck. My sister had a good time with us downtown, talks with Dad, fabulous meals, dim sum, new restaurant, M.s.ís cooking, movies, new friends, parties, old friends, and an orgasm here and there, a smile, a laugh, a slap, a scratch, and overall, Iím pretty fucking happy. That should do it for now. Iíve got to get back to work.

"A person desperately searching for love is like a fish desperately searching for water." - Deepak Chopra

-Barbarella

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2007-05-19
NEW SITE!!!!

2007-05-16
Links and Update

2007-05-09
Two Links

2007-05-06
Yes, Even MORE new pictures

2007-05-06
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Rekindling a Love Affair with Myself 2003-04-14 10:52 a.m. ďThe important thing is to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could be.Ē Ė Charles DuBois

In the Church of Whatís Happening Now in Florida yesterday, a female reverend said to an audience that included my father that ďjournaling is a wonderful way to promote insight.Ē Dad said that he thought of me, and the fact that Iíve been journaling ďreligiouslyĒ for about 9 years. I like to think that I am an introspective woman, I question everything about myself when I write. I question everything I think and feel when I write. Itís the only way that I can know myself, the only way that I can hear my true voice. I havenít been writing enough lately.

Iím not talking about this journal, this little update, this little exercise for my fingers and my brain. My JOURNAL, which runs through the pages of three separate books, is everything I am, good and bad, haughty and raw, and at times, effervescent and tragic all at once.

Yesterday, M.s. reminded me of a strand of thought that I intermittently grasp and twirl with the fingers of my mind. My automatic writing journal (another journal that spans the length of two more books) was nowhere to be found. I couldnít grasp onto the strand, I couldnít even focus on one word. I couldnít see it, I couldnít feel it, and this left me pensive with nothing to mull over. Like a thirsty baby with no breast to latch onto. I didnít know what I thought about commitment and love and excitement and jealousy, insecurity and confidence. I hadnít written about it in months, I need a pen to hold onto ideas like that.

I wrote for a bit later in the afternoon. I could have written for days. Thereís so much going on in there, so much that I want to get out, that I want to make sense ofÖ Iím going to have to break out my automatic writing journal, because my friend, myself, the me that knows me better than I know myself, the me that has watched me grow and change for the last nine years, shouldnít have to be burdened with my random philosophical conclusions about the mechanics of love and the morality of life. My journal gets to hear my opinions and judgments. My journal gets to hear the final decision made after all of that automatic-writing banter. My journal knows everything that is ugly and pathetic about meÖ and still, its pages open for my pen. Now thatís love.

As for that strand, Iíll get back to you. After I write it out (which will take longer that I am allotted for a morning update), I may share some conclusions. Oh, but my update! Here I am, after a morning deposition, tea, clouds, meetings, incompetent lawyers and phone calls with clients, and I didnít even think to tell you about my weekend.

Suffice it to say, M.s. looked hot with a thick chain locked around his waist, matching the lovely chain collar around his neck. My sister had a good time with us downtown, talks with Dad, fabulous meals, dim sum, new restaurant, M.s.ís cooking, movies, new friends, parties, old friends, and an orgasm here and there, a smile, a laugh, a slap, a scratch, and overall, Iím pretty fucking happy. That should do it for now. Iíve got to get back to work.

"A person desperately searching for love is like a fish desperately searching for water." - Deepak Chopra