Be in love with yr life
I AM at this moment in time, very in love with my life. I’ve never felt so wild and sensual. I’ve never felt so free and creative before. I see everything for more than what it is and am not afraid to “out” my romantic nature. People say not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I think (and often say) “Fuck that. What’s the point of hiding what is real inside.” If I get hurt, then I know that I tried. If I am loved, then at least I will leave this life with a smile on my face. I am passion personified. Why would anyone want to restrain me from who I really am? I need to be free to love and experience the beauty around me. It’s who I am. It’s who they fall in love with. When they try to deny me, I am like the Selkie that will do her duty but constantly try to find her pelt so she can return to who she really is. It took years to understand this about myself and accept this fact. Now that I know it, I will never go back to being who anyone wants me to be. This freedom has opened me to the beauty around me and I do not get sad anymore.
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
(Aside to Dani aka Sako Terachi aka Heesica aka my Wingman: Last night. Port. Olives. Cheese. Then chocolate. Snapchat hilarity!) I believe Kerouac has something here. Out-there-drinking demands too much of my responsible side. I am, after all, someone’s mother, daughter, sister, colleague– I belong to as many people as I love– I never really seem to get much out of it because I am always aware of my behaviour–my mind stays fixed in the situation at hand—the environment of what-will-people-say– But home-drinking lets my mind enjoy the free wandering up and around the many levels of my mind. I write from somewhere wild and unrestricted. I go. I feel. I act. I write. I love. I hate. I cry. I laugh. I live. Then I feel sick. I can be weak without anyone looking on. I can embrace the ugly as well as the beautiful.
“Submissive to everything, open, listening”
Just as I left the Tube station at Camden, my ears danced on the various snippets of conversation of the people who moved about their daily routine. They all seemed to know who they were, what they were saying, what life was about. Determined, strong-said and bountiful with existence but dead inside all at the same time. Little snippets. I need to include little snippets of conversations that the people had as they went this way and that in the bowl of human soup that was the entrance to the Underground.
“Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy-“
I have nine journals and two diaries. None of them completed–Some of them with fragmented ideas, ramblings and ideas that tease me. Some have nothing in them at all. All of them like some secret vice—like a stripper doing her dance but not allowing me to touch, leaving me aroused yet unsatisfied. But I love them. I am drawn to them. I get angry and walk away. I leave them. But I come back…often when I should be doing something else…when I should be attending my responsibilities. And the feeling is utter bliss of the luscious dancing images the words give me…