2002Feb03
[date corrected, was 2002Jan]
So reading still annoys me. My socialization issues (aloneness in the group) cut to the core of writing and it’s meaning. If I write to myself, what’s the point. Seeing people I know doesn’t fill me anymore and I find myself wanting to spend more time with myself…. Writing myself out on paper. What is this leaving behind? And if I occupy an apartment, my studio space, what is it but just a hole filled by something with a hole in it? Harnessing the void feels selfish, though it’s the source of creativity. Leticia. She guards the most empty cavern in my heart. She’s become my strength, threatened by any other woman. I feel held by her, so her absence makes me feel crazy. A red tailed hawk circles overhead. It’s riding a thermal, not hunting, and I’m sure it’s come to tell me something. Ever since I took that feather it’s as if I’ve given the universe permission to conjure up a family for me. Why can’t the hawk just tell me who my mate is? I am an eagle. I am ready to build a nest and hunt. Leticia wants a big city life and I support that, but I’m happy here. When I exude that, I attract that.