&#034Slang in a woman&#039s mouth is not obscene, it only sounds so.&#034 -Mark Twain

Yeah, I really don&#039t have any purpose in writing right now. I haven&#039t done anything spectacular. I haven&#039t really done much of anything at all recently other than do a lot of crafts shopping and even more physics. I&#039ve written a few poems which might or might not end up on the page &#039cause well, they&#039re um… weird. I mean, they&#039re decent poems in their own rights, but a lot of people might think the subject matter&#039s strange or worry that maybe I&#039m losing it or something. It&#039s not that, let me assure you; I&#039ve always been odd. Ask anyone who knows me. It&#039s just that I get these flashes of inspiration from movies, from books, from other people, from snippets of conversations I hear as I walk across campus, from staring out the window, from the cat, from the husband, from the trees, streets, and walls…in short (too late), from everywhere. Everything has a poem in it if you just know how to look at it from a few different angles, a couple new perspectives. And well, I&#039m just too creative, too innovative to see anything from one side or even two sides. Make it have about twenty sides and that&#039s reaching the number of spins I can put on an object, a feeling, a memory or a person. Boy, a person would get dizzy if he/she had to hear about all the spins I could give them. 🙂

But poetry&#039s not why I&#039m writing, is it? I figured I&#039d just write because I haven&#039t written on the page in a while. I wrote pretty much all day today, working on notes, on poetry, on physics, on my journal. I&#039d had a dream last night, and I wanted to write about it, so I did that this morning. Hmm. Maybe I&#039ll put some of that up here. There&#039s nothing else for me to type about, really.

The Dream (or what I remember of it as I wrote in my journal):

I had this extraordinarily long dream last night. It was so vivid, so intricate…and now I remember only flashes, only vague emotions. It had something to do with either a contest or a quest, freeing people and animals while proving our worth. I say &#034our&#034 because there were many people with me in the large arena-like place, climbing walls, crawling across beams and along cliffs, withstanding blasts of water, ice, wind, heat. For all of the chaos and danger, I remained stoically calm; I remained focused. I was a fighter. I was a leader. I was a strategist. I was a hero.

There were supposed to be many quests–I&#039d say about four–that were presented at the start of the dream, but because the one part was taking so long, I didn&#039t get to the rest, even feeling in the dream that this was all right, that accomplishing this was enough for now. I didn&#039t feel like a failure. I knew that there was only so much that I could accomplish in the time given to me, and I accepted it, doing my best, the best that I could which was remarkable in how successful and excellent I was. I impressed myself time and time again because the me in my dream was confident, was strong and sure. She did not doubt that she could win, that she could save those she was charged with saving. She wasn&#039t really me then, more what I dream to be rather than how I normally am and portray myself. She was wonderful. If only I could be more like her–more like me than I allow myself as I pass through the waking world reminiscing on my dreams.

Hmm. So I am somewhat philosophical today. I think I&#039ll put that to good use and write. In writing, my dreams take form on paper and I truly am the gifted heroine of my deep subconscious. On paper, there, at last, I am confident; I am free to be myself.

Posted: August 5, 2004 at five in the early evening.