From B.A. to b.s.

Gandhi recommended being the change you want to see in the world. It's an exceptional idea and I'm constantly aspiring to it. But it's not easy. I suppose this is true of most worthwhile endeavors.


Today the fragile optimism I was tending crashed to the floor when I saw that my creative strategy for making some bucks is not going to work out as I'd hoped. Given the situation I'm up against (that and the rock made tending the optimism difficult), it seemed like a brilliant move to advertise my editorial services, with a focus on my experience editing books, in the area papers. I know there are some very well-off people in this area writing their memoirs and metaphysical mumbo-jumbos who need someone with the skillz to tweak and polish their words before they submit it to publishers, and Doug works with someone who advertised himself in this way and successfully attracted writers and wannabes who paid him well for his efforts.

I have been giving myself pep talks about my competence as an editor and my abilities to effectively market myself as a freelance editor here (as soon as we can afford to place the ads) so that I can begin to network myself once my hair is cut so that it doesn't need to be hidden underneath an old bandana anymore (out of shame, I choose to hide this raggle-taggle mop that hasn't been shaped in ages because we haven't had the money). But today, while scanning the classifieds, I discovered that a woman with a Ph.D. had beat me to my plan, her ad for writing and editorial services placed neatly in the middle of the last classifieds page. I felt like someone had just socked me hard in the gut. I cannot compete with a Ph.D. in English.

True, the college I attended is one of only two Iowa colleges that made the cut for the 2005 U.S. News and Report college guide. To that, I lobby a "so what?" I've got a B.A. in English (that I snagged by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, courtesy of repeated bouts with depression) and just a year and half of solid, demonstrable editing experience under my belt. True, I've helped friends with their writing since high school, but that's nothing to brag about to someone who wants to get their book in print. (But to toot my own rusty horn, a friend of mine recently asked me to help him revise his personal statement for law school applications, and after I'd done my thing and sent it back to him with lots of comments, questions, and suggestions for revision, he told me I was a rock star.) I realize my emotions are coloring my perspective here, and maybe I'll feel differently when I've had some time to process this, but right now, I am lost in a labyrinth that keeps changing every time I think I've discovered the right path out.

Patience, patience, but for how goddamn long do I have to keep being patient?

I'm not mentally clear enough to focus my thoughts any better than I have just done. How I would dearly love for this day to be over. But I can't sleep and my mind is stuck in a feedback loop, sending me deeper and deeper into spiral. Something is sucking me under, and all I can do is thrash and inhale water.

If only I had gills.

So, baby, do you like it raw?

I've figured out what's wrong with my blog these days. I assume no one is reading my writing, and since that's the assumption, I have no one to (conceptually) write for, so I cannot find an appropriate tone or flow. Add the grim reality of me not conversing with anyone but Doug (with rare exception), and you have a recipe for a voiceless woman.

I know that my voice gets stronger when I'm writing an email or pen-and-paper letter to someone. So if anyone out there wanted to a good dose of who I really am, below is an excerpt from an email I recently sent to my mom.

It doesn't get much more intimate and real than this, folks.

Dear Mom,
.
.
.

We went to a meeting of that poetry group last month, and I was sorely intimidated by two of the featured poets. I've always wanted to slam but hadn't really seen anyone do it live. Until then. I'm trying to motivate myself to focus on getting my material up to snuff so I can get up there and slam it down the way I know I am capable of doing, every bit as much as those middle/upper-middle class poets were doing. So the intimidation and outrage and need to be known for Who I Am is stirring me up toward that end. I just need to get out of my own way. The thoughts don't flow when I'm emotionally constipated, and then all that does come out is a shit-bath of emotional frenzy, which doesn't always make sense.

So I'm re-introducing myself to women writers I respect who tackle the issues that tear away at my sense of myself and non-existent social justice. The personal IS political, and rereading outspoken feminists who have channeled their pain and sense of social and personal displacement into their work is incredibly self-affirming and motivating. Once Doug goes to bed tonight, I'm going to attempt to put myself into my poems in a new, revised way. Because Mom, I want to introduce some people to what a Fury, a real Hysterical, Hell-Bent, Overemotional Female has to say about things. Poetically.

This has turned into an email that may frighten you. Don't let it, because this is good. This is evidence that I am back and on fire, on fire with a zeal that has something to do with this yang energy that bounces around inside of me seeking release, finding none, giving me these bloody headaches instead. This is a good outpouring, and I assure you of that as I assure you that what will make all be well is unleashing the power of my lyrical voice in some capacity, an empowered capacity, a more mature, wisened capacity, a raw, succulent, vibrant capacity to feel and be known for who I am, not who I try to be for everyone else's sake. This is Mars and the animus and the holy, righteous indignation and rage of a woman who has been powerless to stem the flow of patriarchal disorder against herself and those she loves most fiercely. This is me dealing with the melancholia that laps and drips and stirs and heaves and bends in upon me and my ability to live according to what I know, feel, and believe.

This is me being your daughter--the daughter and the granddaughter and great-grandaughter of Italian women who struggled so hard, so very fucking hard to survive and pass a freedom they'd never tasted, just dreamed of, to me. To me. From you.

So I take it. Breathe it in. And I will speak with it.

Fiercely and truly,
your daughter
of Pluto and Mars

Another old poem (in revision)

Nothing Lost that I Can't Find Again/Baby, You Ain't Atlantis

I am a woman
a creature of the nighttime
in the daytime
I prowl and track the inbetweentime
When the new moon emerges
to blur the edges between
life and death
I am reborn.

Like the phoenix rising from the ash
I claim a dirge for my lullaby
coming before your altar like a resurrected sacrifice
where my gaze mocks you, and my desire,
it churns.

I'm on my knees to my god
knows why this happens to me --
he loves me not when her mercury's
rising--funny
how I've always tried to transcend
the coldness of the world
held in your one clenched hand
looks warm there and sweet
and laughing lines cross my face to face again
it hits me how your eyes hold me in a trance where only
beautiful visions fill my mind
seems to be losing its clarity again
my gaze returns to meet you
where I will not go anymore.

This woman wants to be a tree
but trees need roots
to weather the storm
lashes out of your mouth
says I'm only a persistent vine
creeps up your leg and to your place
yeah, baby, you know the place where
the rootless vine finds
like wine to me, you are so full of spice
no, girls aren't made of everything nice
to see you again
it hits me how your
eyes hold me down like those damned
elusive roots I lack. But in the springtime,
baby, in the springtime
when the moon rises and the sun sets
and the moon sets and I rise,
remember me, remember me.
Roots grow.

Allow me to explain

Okay, tantrum over. I'm not sure how long I'll be sticking around here, but for now, I'm sticking.

I intend to prove that you can remove the shit you're painting over by using a very specialized, intense type of paint.

What puzzles me is that no one ever comments. Early on, there were a few, but it seems that those people decided they'd also had it with Blogger. They're gone. No updated posts for me to read and two cent.

So I am confused that my profile views keep increasing, but no one ever says a damn thing. I'm guessing these viewers are folks who think I'm a nut. Worse, an uninteresting nut who wallows in the refuse of her past. If that's the case, so be it. If you met me, you'd believe differently. Of that, I am sure.

Since I've probably failed to say anything remotely interesting to potential readers, let me direct your attention to Ursula K. LeGuin's book The Dispossessed, and this quote on page 301 (paperback version):

"You cannot buy the Revolution. You cannot make the Revolution. You can only be the Revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere."

Here's to being the Revolution.

Enough

The past few days, I've been marinating on a few things related to me, this blog and blog culture.

* I don't really like blog culture all that much, and I don't really like Blogger. Blogger has failed to update my profile statistics (way more than 16 posts here) and update my recent posts, and I don't know how to fix it. Nor do I care enough about this shoddy journal enough to try to fix it.

* I am tired of the content here. I've done my best to make this blog into something more reflective of me, but I have too many negative associations with it, and it's futile to try to make it into something better. I mean, you can paint over feces, but the feces will always be there.

* I've let my friends know about this project, but none of them have taken an interest in it. I know, they're very busy people. But I've decided that they really don't want a window into my life, so I'll stop trying to provide it. They want to know, they can email me.

* There are just bones here. . . bones I will reanimate somewhere else. Maybe I'll feel differently about blog culture when I don't hate mine.

Stretch out.

Rough Draft

Below is the first attempt at reconstruction of a poem I'd written when I was still living in Decorah. It was a fairly good poem, and I submitted it along with some others to a local arts magazine. But they didn't publish it. Instead, they selected another poem that they horribly mangled and printed. I was mortified when people started complimenting me on it at the public library where I was working. I tried to graciously accept their compliments, but I was a deer in the headlights behind the circ desk grasping for a way to seem pleased while inside I was screaming in protest that it wasn't MY poem they'd read. I didn't know how else to handle it, and since my life was falling apart from the inside out, the botched poem was the least of my worries.

Anyway, back to this attempt. The poem was saved on an ancient computer I owned, but one day the damn thing refused to boot up. I didn't have the money to have it repaired, and it was a relic anyway, so I ditched it when I moved, willy-nilly, to the Southwest (along with everything else that didn't meet my importance/sentimentality criteria--most of my possessions weren't fitting into my '96 Geo Metro).

I have let go of a lot in the way of material possessions in my life, which is really easy compared to the process of letting go of the emotional, spiritual residue from the past, in terms of painful experiences and foolish selves. I've found some aspects of myself that I am trying to tease out again and reclaim.

This morning, shortly after I climbed out of the shower, some lines from this lost poem started running through my head. It was a thrilling moment. I'm still in the process of trying to recreate it, though, as with the rest of my life, so please be kind with your assessments. It's really rough and disjointed, and I'm hesitant to post it, but I need to see it up to help me get it right. Once I do, it's going on my list of poems to slam. (I am convinced that I need to get up there and try, really look that fear dead in the eye and go "booga-booga!" to it. Whenever I watch, I know that I could do it, too. But the material's gotta be good, or uh-uh.)

He said that only he knew what lay beyond Capricorn
beyond Capricorn
but I also know
because I am there
beyond Capricorn
near the edge's murky tip
in the droning lullaby
stuck in the lint trap of the dreamcatcher
where nightmares and boogeymen are caught
in the echoes of dissonant wolf cries
where the wind blows and the baby falls
in a briar patch outside the cradle

My grandfather also knew
and he passed it along
a hard knowledge to carry
in the legacy of my blood
and like the pump of the hot thing
pushing this blood through veins and arteries
it moves me and it's a righteous movement
my movement is a righteous movement
I said
my movement is a righteous movement

A revolution is contained in my blood

My grandfather drank steady
of the violent melancholy in his Irish blood
helped move me here
and now it traps me here
past Capricorn
his unlove
that keeps pushing me off
the balance of the moment
paused, looking back
from somewhere near Capricorn
to Adam and his sons
who keep me bound here

Silence Alive Only in Memory

The walls here are thin. So thin that I can hear the people next door having normal conversation, the CDs they play, the movies they watch. The sharp click of their heels on linoleum.

I know way too much about my neighbors.

If they didn't work out of their apartments, it wouldn't be such an annoying problem. If I didn't have such uncanny hearing, it wouldn't bother me. If I had a car, a job, and a life, everything would be different.

Then there is the construction issue.

The noise here is grinding loud and maddening. Day in, day out, the house across the street becomes more and more erect, a giant penis being stimulated by generators and drills. The noise starts at 6:30 a.m. and doesn't break until 2. Then it starts up again, relentless.

We moved here to escape the urban wastelands of civilization. Yet civilization followed us here, and the noise penetrates my sensitive earlobes--some, the low bass tones that only cetaceans can hear, and others, so audible they assault the senses with a brilliant vulgar clarity (and glee)--fondling and pricking my three tiniest bones in a constant reminder that silence is a commodity more precious than time, more useful than money, and for me, a creature who crouches inside the spiraling hour glass of progress, being crushed by the ceaseless count of the sands, the sound of silence is crucial. But this sound has become so expensive that a poor working-class slob like me cannot afford to buy it.

I cannot find the silence of my childhood, and I never thought I would miss the simple rhythms of sound and life in the Midwest. Iowa, you tricky whore, you convinced me you didn't want me--that I did not belong with you--and spat me out, an exile, casting me away from the fertile prairies and cornfields of my youth. I never thought I'd miss you.

Oh, how I crave the smell of that good Iowa dirt, the smell of it after a rain.

One day, maybe you'll take me back so that I may be the ivy on your cornfields again.



Postscript: This came out rather rapidly, and I'm still not sure if it makes sense. Since it flowed out (for a change), I'm letting it stand until I can approach it with a fresh perspective. (This is my sketch pad. Caution is not welcome here.)

Good Reads

I have been filling up on some great words lately, words that are helping to create different realms of thought for me. I've been saying I need to get some new thinking going on in here. Initiation sequence begins:

Shock Treatment by Karen Finley (brilliant monologues of the controversial performance artist)

The Women's Book of Creativity by C. Diane Ealy, Ph.D. (self-explanatory, invigorating)

Succulent Wild Woman by SARK (if you haven't heard of SARK, you may want to google her)

Black Elk Speaks

Thinking Class: Sketches from a Cultural Worker by Joanna Kadi (elegant, passionate essays)

random bits of poetry and prose

lyrics by The Tragically Hip


Good shit, Maynard.

'Night.

Filthy Animals

Remember the scene from Pulp Fiction where the two gangsters are sitting in the diner discussing what constitutes a filthy animal? Samuel L. Jackson's character maintained that a pig was a filthy animal, which is why he wouldn't eat pork. Know what? Pigs are actually very clean animals. Hog confinements are what's filthy, and if you were confined to an enclosed, dirt-filled lot and fed genetically modified Monsantoed food that gave you the shits, you would be covered in it, too.

I enjoy hiking at a national park down the road. Every time I'm hoofing it back in there, though, surrounded by the smells and sights of what is pure and sacred to me, my reverie is interrupted by all the trash scattered every few paces. People are the filthiest animals. In effect, we shit in the tub and refuse to acknowledge the turds floating around in it or how disgusting we are when we get out and don't fish our dookie out.

Once upon a time, I made a promise to this Earth to help take care of her as best I could. Today, instead of fighting a losing battle with my warring emotions (courtesy of Moon in Cancer and my hormones), I picked up a long stretch of trash, abbreviating my mission when my gigantanormous sack was too heavy to tote. It felt great to pick that foul shit up--another small step in the right direction for me.

So I'm trudging along, muttering to myself intermittently about how disgusting people are with this full trash bag slung over my shoulder and its stench wafting into my nostrils, heaving it down every so often to toss something else in and refill on the intoxicating scents of this area. At least five pick-ups passed me and kicked up dust during this mission, but no one inside these off-road vehicles returned my smile or even acknowledged me. Not a one of them stopped to ask if they could help me haul it out. And it's not that I was expecting a hand or some kind of recognition for my efforts; I was just creeped out by the blank stares of passersby, like I was a convict doing hard labor or some bloke doing my community service hours--someone to be shunned. I assumed that the people passing me were fellow nature lovers, friendly folks if nothing else. But evidently, I have yet to develop an understanding of the people in this area and because of this miscalculation, I felt like a great green alien with giant suckers attached to my forehead instead of a dusty bandana.

Were these the people who unceremoniously toss beer cans out of their trucks? Were these the tweakers whose drug paraphernalia I picked up as I successfully kept myself from gagging from the nefarious scent still attached to them? Meth stinks. I'd heard so, and now I have first-hand knowledge. Junk food wrappers, fast food containers, beer cans and bottles, soiled clothing, condom packages and crack pipes. What a nice sampling of the interests and activities of the local litterbug population when they're outside at night.

I still feel good about picking up that shit. I just wish people would take responsibility for themselves and respect the elements and forces that make life possible and beautiful on this great twirling blue planet. Why is that not second nature?

Perhaps a subject for another time.

Slow Motion

Bright Spot

Shaved my legs today
a momentous occasion
put my body in the sun
rode the wind
became my sweat
listened to the noise, absorbed
its chaos
felt holy
and hungry
and alone.


x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x


What Do You Mean You Don't Have A Backbone?

My spine is a caterpillar
of uncertain dimensions
and strength, maintaining
this form through force
of will alone, a slinky
that has forgotten itself
warped from too much twisting.


- + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -


What the hell does guild the lily mean?

And why is it, if creativity is natural to everyone, that mine will not flow?

The worst thing is when you're trapped in a cage of your own making and you realize that this is so and accept responsibility for your situation, but are unable to dismantle the damn thing. Or you manage to get out of it and discover that you're not free after all, just in a bigger cage.

The best thing about today: I read an article about dolphins creating shapes in the water OUT of water. Or out of water in the water. Whichever way makes more sense. It was a nice way to begin the day.

Negative Horsepower

Regarding my blog entries: there are few notable things that happen in my life from day to day. This is partly because I'm recovering from another sojourn in the underworld, and partly because I've recently moved and am adjusting to Rural America again--a huge change of pace from the twirl and whir of the city. Since I spent my formative years on a farm in rural Iowa, you'd think it'd be easier to swing back into this saddle. In some ways, it is. But in a big, bad way, it's overwhelmingly hard.

The real humdinger is the isolation factor, which raises the level of difficulty into the realm of Jack's beanstalk. I don't have the ability to get out and meet people unless I'm driven somewhere (although I am going to start accompanying Doug into town as soon as I'm able to fall asleep at a decent hour). I am unable to find work up my alley, even if we carpooled, because the small town closest to me, where Doug works, doesn't offer much. Yep, so I don't have a car to drive . . . even though my father has had an old car of mine he's been promising to make some repairs on and sell for me for, oh, the past six years. Uh-huh. That's right. Six fucking years. The car that started having problems around the time I started to experience depression is half a continent away from me. It still belongs to me, but I can't drive it, or go out to get it and drive it back here because I don't have the fucking cash.

My dad has evidently decided that I am on the bottom of his priority list, somewhere down near the procrastination list, but lower, around the "if I avoid it, it will go away" list. I will have to leave this subject for now because I'm starting to really want to throw something. And I'm tired of crying today.

I am effectively grounded in the boondocks. When I'm able to focus on the beauty of this area, the relative silence and great openness fills and calms me, and I am in love with my life. It's just hard to maintain that feeling. Control may be an illusion, but it's an illusion I'd love to have some more of.

The car I used to drive failed to pass emissions testing in Phoenix, so I was unable to renew its registration. That was a bad discovery. I flew into a rage after finding out because the car was already in need of major repairs I couldn't afford; my mechanic had gone so far as to warn me not to drive it outside of the city because it wasn't safe. The failed emissions test was that fabled straw the camel doesn't like to talk about, and I ripped the passenger's visor off and broke the glove compartment, beating on the dash and thrashing and screaming like a madwoman all the while. Luckily, I wasn't driving. But I suspect my fellow motorists got quite a show as I flailed on the passenger's side.

If my mom has not gotten rid of the little red menace, I should be able to transfer the title to my name and register it here, thereby avoiding the emissions issue (no emissions testing here). It's still not safe, and I'll be spewing pollutants into the air, and it will still cost money that we won't have for at least a couple of weeks, but at least I'll be mobile again. Since mobility has historically been crucial to preserving my sanity and stability in BFE, I'm hoping that both of those big little-ess words will return and give me back my life. I'll retire and replace it as soon as I can afford to and hope that the Earth understands in the meantime.

The Revolution Starts Now

The above title for this post refers to a song by Steve Earle, a musician I'd never heard of until Doug played his latest CD for me. He's something of a country rocker with a real gritty, grassroots sound. This song is a great anthem and call to action:

I was walkin' down the street
In the town where I was born
I was movin' to a beat
That I'd never felt before
So I opened up my eyes
And I took a look around
I saw it written 'cross the sky
The revolution starts now
Yeah, the revolution starts now

The revolution starts now
When you rise above your fear
And tear the walls around you down
The revolution starts here
Where you work and where you play
Where you lay your money down
What you do and what you say
The revolution starts now
Yeah, the revolution starts now

Yeah, the revolution starts now
In your own backyard
In your own hometown
So what you doin' standin' around?
Just follow your heart
The revolution starts now

Last night I had a dream
That the world had turned around
And all our hopes had come to be
And the people gathered 'round
They all brought what they could bring
And nobody went without
And I learned a song to sing
The revolution starts now



As some of you know, I love Eric Francis' astrology website, Planet Waves. (Actually, describing it merely as an astrology website is a major oversimplification on my part.) Since Eric's on holiday for two weeks, I have been reading the posts of the Political Waves editor/mediator, Jude. Her post today got a small fire burning under my bum. Wal-Mart burn.

In the past month, Doug and I have twice slunk into Wal-Mart (a Supercenter, no less, which made it even more shameful) because our collective wallet has been very thin and we had some immediate needs: the first time, a mailbox and a shovel to dig the hole for it, and the next, glasses so Doug could actually do his job without straining his eyes all the time (he'd lost his a few months ago). Pressing needs, both of them. I had the hives (well, not really, but I felt hive-ish) both times I was in there; even so, I noted how friendly all the employees were. Exceptionally warm and folksy. I understood why Average Jane and Joe shop there and why Average Jane and Joe work there . . . still despised it, but I understood because I was in the same dire situation, needing more for less. The war between opposing points of view was strong.

This morning, I read Jude's post and article link on Wal-Mart and reaffirmed myself by taking a small but nonetheless meaningful step toward declaring what I stand for as a human being. And I wrote this:



Dear Wal-Mart and Wal-Mart Customer Service Associate Reading This:

I am leaving you, Wal-Mart. I am leaving you because you are an abusive corporation, a thing that manipulates, hurts and neglects the America I love. You think you have consumers by their purse strings, that we depend upon you to provide discounted items we need to live. You think that, because of our financial need for you, you can get away with putting profit before ethics. Mr. H. Lee Scott, stop neglecting the needs of your employees and rationalizing this practice with poorly manufactured rhetoric! It's not okay to shaft your employees so you can continue to sell cheap goods for a maximum profit. Surely the world's largest corporation with a 2004 gross income of 256 billion can figure out a way to take care of its employees while still being a profitable retailer. Until you step up and become the General Motors of the 21st Century--an employer that supports its employees with a decent living wage, affordable health care and humane, respectful, equal treatment--I vow to boycott you, and will continue to encourage others to do the same.

CEO H. Lee Scott, Jr. may not care about you, Customer Service Associate, or your family, but I do. And I realize that Mr. Scott doesn't care one bit about me withdrawing my consumer support. But I, together with many others, care enough to stop supporting Wal-Mart. I also care about all the family-owned businesses being hurt, run out of business, by Wal-Mart Supercenters erecting themselves in every small town they can ram themselves into. I care about people before profit, about families barely getting by because of Wal-Mart's unethical business policies. I care about the needs of the many before the pocketbooks of a few.

Abusive corporate policies hurt American families. Take heed, Wal-Mart. Take heed.

Sincerely,

Jaimie O. Dunn


That was the way I resolved my Wal-Mart moral dilemma. Now maybe I could have said it better, but I said what I felt compelled to say. The point wasn't the outcome, but getting past feeling helpless and infuriated, drawing on my power to act, not merely contemplate. I did something with my outrage and sense of powerlessness. I executed the directive of the yang energy that bounces around courtesy of my anger-laden liver, and I let it out. I released it. And it felt good. I've been outwardly very yin and inwardly very yang, if that makes sense. I'm still trying to integrate the animus, you could say. You could also say I'm feeling very Mars lately, or Martian, depending on the day.

I've been caught in a post-modern, existential headlock for a while, not believing that anything I do is going to really make a difference, so why bother. Not knowing what to believe anymore about anything, abandoning the causes I used to champion, just trying to get by without getting crushed. I guess I'm feeling more powerful lately, more passionate about life on this planet, including my own life. This was a step in the right direction for me. My sister's right, there are always alternatives, and my power to choose them is on the rebound.


Things here are gradually improving. I get overwhelmed sometimes, but I am doing the best I can do and trying to surrender the rest. One foot in front of the other. Heavy doses of The Daily Show and Real Time with Bill Maher. And movies and books for stimulation and escape. I'm keeping busy and working on figuring out how I'm going to make more of a financial contribution. Without a car. In rural America. More about that another time.

Doug and I went to a poetry reading last month in an old mountainside mining town full of bohemians and other interesting people. It was in a huge art gallery. Very interesting. I've been looking at my poetry with a new eye toward improving it so I can get up during the open mic section and perform my stuff, too, confident-like. (An aside: this blog does not contain much of my poetry, and most of what's currently on here is b a d, baddy, bad, bad.) Doug's got a reading scheduled for May 21st (he works with one of the coordinators of the poetry group). I've been reading some women writers I find very inspirational to motivate me to address the topics I feel most passionately about, bearing in mind that the personal is political. As my emotions even out, it helps me to write more clearly. I've noticed that a lot of my poems are lines of emotional frenzy that don't necessarily flow in the way I'd like them to. There's a fine line between abstraction and crap. I am trying to approach it with a critical eye while keeping the emotional ignition points strong. If that makes sense. Trying to find a mental/emotional creative flow. I have been incubating some ideas and am trying to find a clearer lyrical voice to express myself with. It is freeing . . . when I'm able to force myself past my fear and do it.

Speaking of fear, haircut missions are not my favorite excursions. My story is I don't much like confronting myself with the beauty industry and my own image complexes. Especially when my body's out of whack. I'm working on re-applying what I learned through acupuncture, and it's helping. Slowly.

Eclipses bring you some helpful insights? They did for me. My mission is to take it and do something with it. And it's working so far. It's pretty full inside here right now, and that is a blessed challenge and refreshing change. Taming the dragon is hard, but rewarding work.