Dear Diary…..

As I moved from one mountain cottage (aka shanty) to the next, an old journal was unearthed.  I was an avid journalist up until fairly recently and, for the most part, consider it to be a healthy and fascinating thing to engage in.  There is a certain level of embarrassment/awe that comes up when I revisit the older ones.  In the ’95-’96 book I was head over heals for Ayn Rand and her “Objectivism”.  And my words reflect it.  Clearly I had ready access to a thesaurus, I’ll just leave it at that.  I’m sure I was a real joy to be around.  Holy, holy.


So, this particular volume that I found was solely based on my first grown up love affair.  It starts around 1998, somewhere between high school and the real world.  I took it to the bar last night, lurked in the corner booth, drank vodka, and hopped on the time machine.  Below are a few of the entries that brought me the deepest moments of pause.  There is a rawness and hope that I barely remember.  I look back on that time as a hazy story that happened to somebody else.  It felt real nice to be reminded.


July 9th ’98

Determined sunshine, strange inconceivable perfection between us.  Once given to the dance, always slated to being the dancer.  Quietly following the dreams in my head, while joyously living out his.  Trying to build a crystal hallway around his mind, where within, his fantasies can hold feasts.
Today I am lurching, swinging high and swaying low.  I am becoming my own heroine by defeating our snarl-toothed demons.
Took his picture under the cherry tree with sun and wet grass- his imperfect perfection, my heart saturated with awe.
I’ve often looked upon you with interest beyond adoration.  I’ve dissected your beauty until I found the center.  I have many times watched you sleep, felt your night cloak setting in.  Seen your muscles twitch and your lips form dream words.  I’ve looked when others turn away.


Sept. 30th ’98           I am waiting patiently for him.  Earlier I searched frantically for him, scratching at my eyes and making vows of wicked medicine.  It’s vanity, mania, loneliness, this hunger for a man.  It moves me to starvation of Ethiopian proportions.  I miss him in my days, minutes like holes in the sky.  Our nights go quickly, spent boldly by lovers rich with love.  Our days, the ones we wrench from duties greedy hands, are captured by sunlight and burnt into the sand.  I want so much from this.  I am a woman ablaze.


Nov. 12th ’98          When I think about love, images of death defying acts for the cause fill my head.  Tall men in coat and tails balancing on distant peaks, howling at the moon for love!  Pale addicts injecting lawless love into a thirsty vein!  The weather worn faces of loves flit through my mind in militant succession.  I dazzle at what lengths the imagination bounds, all in the fury of love.  In real life, love is a secret, my fears, the closet that contains it.  I love like a rich man with cancer, spending dollar upon dollar on precious life.  Yet the canyon between what I feel and what I expose contains a river as wide and fierce as winter.  So odd, the picture of me on one side and him on the other, the rivers path carving into the sides.
Sometimes I hold him and think about our love, our canyon.  And that speaks the pain I cannot.  I wonder whether my imagined definition of love is as fearless as I had thought.


And much later….

Jan. 12th ’00

Good bye my love.  I’ll remember the whisper.


And much, much later….

Nov. 27th ’12            To look back on these pages is a bit heartbreaking.  How deeply I believed in love!  How flowery my musings!  And now there is an older, more complex women in her place.  I wish I was sitting across the table from that girl.  I imagine her knee taps and her fingers drum an antsy cadence on the Formica.  She would probably be peeling the label off her beer.  I’d ask her about her day and maybe she’d tell of Short Sands, red wine, salty surf bodies, and a dog, then a puppy, now long dead.  And constantly buzzing around her, the three most important girls in the world, Mandy, Elisha, and Camille.  And one boy, _____.   If I were to ask of the girls, she’d flare up, “Deeper than blood!” “A love that will last forever,” She’d say.  “No stronger bond!”  And the boy?  She’d blush and burn.  Squirm in her seat.  “Him.”
So much has gone and come since then.  The love that came after was, in fact, much deeper, in a way.  But this first love had such a hold on my heart.  So much so that when the hand was removed, the heart went with it.  How I loved then was so ravenous.  I wanted to eat him alive.  I wanted his soul in my stomach.  And I did it.  I ate him.
There is no real reason to look back with regret.  That girl was vibrant and full of love.  And this woman is strong and smart.  Comparing the two will leave you wanting.  I do wish I could go back.  Be less angry.  Be in less of a hurry.  Be more mindful of how perfect it all was.  But at least now, I can remember.  And that feels wonderful.

Mind Bottled: Part One

I love lists.  Sometimes I make one just to remind myself to make one.  Of course, like all card carrying procrastinators, I get to thing one and then it’s SQUIRREL!  And off I go.  That doesn’t’ change the fact that to make a list makes me feel all buttoned up and organized.  I have been wanting to do some reviewing for y0u and since I am about a year behind on the new new I will just hit you with my list of…….



1) The Abyss- the James Cameron flick made in ’89

After I got used to the suffocating feeling I had from the constant under water scenage I was able to get on board with the story. I am confident that most of you have seen this so I will spare the footnotes.  It was formulaic only in the most entertaining of ways and in its innocence it spoke to the most basic of truths.  We are taking a giant shat on mother earth and we should probably knock it off.  If the movie had been made now I reckon that the underwater lifebeings would have went through with the washing away of humanity.  Would you blame ’em?

2) The concerts I went to this last month: Mos Def and Devil Makes Three.

Easy like Sunday evening.  A consummate pro at life.

There is nothing as powerful as being at a show with a thousand people that know all of the words.  Goose bumps the entire time.  All despite the wet blanket beside me that looked like she would rather be at home watching dancing with the stars or the bachelor.  I wanted to shove a banjo down her throat.  Instead I just sang all the words in her ear and danced like my boots were on fire.

3) Soft Core Porn Disguised As Earnest Cinema (i.e Spartacus/Trueblood/The Tudors, etc.)


You won’t believe me but I promise you that this show is surprisingly fleshed out and compelling.  There is nothing wrong with dipping my history lessons in a little sugar, is there?  A friend once asked me what I saw in t.v like this and the only answer I had at the time was an echo of my dad, “because I said so!”  The bigger truth is that I like titillation, loosely drawn historical themes and drama, together.  I can glide between genres of music with some semblance of ease so why not with celluloid?  I have sat through enough indie swill to earn the right to oogle some roman flesh.

4) National Geographic

Our world is blessed to have this stunning and diligent documentation of all the wonders in it.  I am always inspired and bettered by what I find in its glossy pages.  Hopefully the aliens find NG instead of People when they come to check us out.  I send out a giant thank you to everyone that has been involved in this institution.  May we venture to be interesting enough to keep you superstars busy.

I found this amazing tumblr account that is operated by a fella that scans all his NG’s for our viewing pleasure.  Peep it for some eye and brain food.

5) Nostalgia. Perhaps I am underwhelmed with the new or maybe as I age (like a fine cheese) I find comfort in the familiar.  Who knows.  Maybe its old De La tracks, high school reunions, or a dab of Obsession for Men on my pillow. Whatever it may be, I likes it old school.

Oh hells yeah!

To let it all go.  Me, SoCo, and my girls.

I used to write him a letter a week when I was eleven.  Lost Boys is still in constant rotation.  I wish that someone had had the sense to encase him in amber before he hit 17.

Alright then.  Stay tuned for Part Deux.

Love Allways,