This weekend was good for me.
The sunshine, the breeze, the blue skies, the smoothed out clouds.
Sunday afternoon alone in my bed, napping after a languid self-induced cum.
I was also offline all weekend long, thanks to Northpoint/Telocity.
I was jonesing for choice packets, but actually it was good to give my hands and eyes a rest.

My recent despair lately has me running back to the Anais Nin diaries.
Looking for guidance, for absolution in her bible of multiplicity.

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May 15 1919
It's a little difficult to explain what I have been thinking about the last few days.
I have been living in a strange world, in an attack of reverie, with a change in my character which astonishes me a little.
This is the result of the long hours that I spend alone thinking, I suppose.
I couldn't write because when I tried to discover what I was dreaming about,
I found only a bottomless chasm the depths of which I couldn't sound.

Last night it was hot and I was leaning on the sill of the open window in the living room. Then my imagination got the better of me. A single idea had taken possession of my dreams, a thing I had never, never thought of, an emptiness that I had never felt. I was alone and something was missing. It wasn't the love of my mother, my brothers or the rest of my family; I knew that I wanted someone very strong, very powerful, very handsome who would me and whom I could love with all my heart. It is an image or an idol that my dreams have created and that I am searching for in mortal form. Does he exist? And there, under the starry sky, the smiling moon, face to face with a horizon that doesn't go further than the end of the street, with my head in my hands, I sent a very sad prayer into infinite space: Love me, someone!

I don't understand it all. I had never been aware of that immense empty space that can only be filled by a Shadow that my mind has created, that my dreams have given a soul.

Then, with a calm smile, thinking no doubt of all the novels I have read, I took a large armchair and set it very close to my chair, and looking into the eyes of the one that my imagination placed there, I talked with him.
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The past week filled with in-the-moment moments, of showers of exploding stars,
sparklers in my synapse, deep relaxed breathing,
wonderful moments of springtime selfishness.
I have a hard time holding on to those moments though.
They seem to evaporate like streaming media.

Lately I have felt my age. A vulnerability and confusion of youth. Always in identity crisis.
My mature, sophisticated, cynical grip slipping a little. Plagued too much by self-examination.

Discussing something totally unrelated with Hugo, he himself says to me:

"You've got to choose whether or not you care about something, instead of spending all this time
and emotion struggling as to whether or not you should care."

Heavy and meaningful words to me, piercing through.
He has no clue.

In his arms again though, I am loved and warm.
I do not feel sexy or desirable.
But I do not feel unattractive or
not good enough either.
I am just me, not even all of me, and for him that is enough.

Fuckable does not always mean beautiful.
And sometimes the arrangement of my features in my reflection looks distorted to me.
When I am walking by in a storefront window, hand in hand with Hugo,
I am not the same woman.
I am transformed into a domesticated creature,
some kind of wife-like thing,
always in mute acquiescience,
carefully navigating Hugo's temper.
Now more than ever seeking to preserve these precious halycon days of spring.
How long will this good weather last?
Before it starts to thunder again?

It is my energy, my desire, the action potential that's been building inside me in that secret place,
the box where the freak has been resting, been dormant, been waiting, been imprisoned; therein lies the fuel that allows me to live out this dual world.

FOR MADMEN ONLY.

My most fervent wish of the moment:

To escape to New York or Canada,
either immerse myself in the City
or seclude myself on a farm.
Cry for a whole day.
Drink mushroom tea.
Induce cathartic brain enema.
Pick flowers. Drink coffee. Sing.
Write write write write write.
2 weeks sounds good.
2 weeks to cleanse and strengthen.
To unburden and recharge.
To write and write all the live long day.
Find a lover or two or three.
Play naked.
Smile again, freely and all the time.
Indulge all my personalities.
Give all the girls a turn.

How can I make this a reality?

I get scared here you see.
I've been struggling to emerge from this coccoon for awhile.
But everytime I feel like I've eaten a little more of the exoskeleton away,
I feel the cold new air on my wet and naked shoulders
and I want to squirm back inside, to hide again, gestating and unready.