Feeling:
Listening to:
Reading/Watching:

Highlights from my lakehouse journal:

My hair is redder in the greenish water. I feel like a mermaid and with no one watching I feel beautiful.

Why is it that the only men that hit on me are drunk?
Or is it that the only time I notice they're flirting with me and don't just naively assume they're being nice is when they're swaggering and blatant? If it's the latter, it's my problem, not theirs. (I've always suspected something was my problem.)

It's so weird. We didn't script this vacation, it just sort of happened the way it fell. A mutual agreement for all of us to just be good to each other and enjoy the simple things. It's absolutely wonderful. Why can't we do that most of the time? The everyday stress of live isn't that much greater, is it?

I've noticed that when I write in pen and ink instead of on a computer screen there are many more questions and far fewer answers. Something about the spontaneity of it is more unsettled and unvarnished. If my hand didn't cramp after five pages or so I'd do longhand all the time.

I dreamed about him again last night. I hate that I do that. He's a shadow in the back of my brain and I waste perfectly good vacation hours waking from those dreams and thinking about it. I always feel betrayed and broken when I see him, even in my dreams. Why subject myself to that? I want him out of my life, but some weak disgusting part of me wants to see him again, to settle things or discuss things or get some kind of closure.

I can't stand knowing there's someone out there who hates me. And that's the entirety of my problem with him.

When I stop watching for my mistakes or my glories, it's like everyone else starts. And I can let that work for me or against me. (Guess which one I pick.)

Write on, little girl
Your pen philosophy
Night ink scribbleskritch
and the shadowed music
on your lips
Listen to empty
and breathe it in, little girl
Little dreamsicle someday star
Scrawl that empty full, and
catch sleep by the tail
To fall blank and deep
Like open paper.

I dine on moonlight
A sumptuous feast
Nibbling silent starshine
Sampling cloudy wordwings
Up and up like smoke
No stronger, blacker coffee
Than midnight.

Who needs a shrink when you have a pen?

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