April 07

The journal is a peculiar relationship with you, with the world, with the cyber ether, with myself.

Online journaling is always going to differ from journaling that is for one's own eyes only. I've given up with the illusion that what I write here is -just for me-, it can't be, it takes too many other people into consideration all the time.  Ethically I have to respect how my ideas, thoughts, feelings and discourse that involve other people in my life, close and peripheral, effects them when expressed here.  

I also can't help but be aware that 'the audience is listening'. 

I think though, the bottom line, is it works for me.  The fact that people come into this place where I express and store my thoughts and feelings, inspires me.  It helps me to sit and examine what is going on for me, day in and day out.  Granted, sometimes I pay light lip service to it, but over all, you being here, reading... me... helps me to focus, and to motivate me.  Thank you.

It's a quiet day, I slept for ever, and when I finally dragged myself out of bed to the computer, I kept the lights off in the room, and just watched the heavy rain on the deck for a while.  I love the sound of it, that, and Dr. Phil blaring advice from the TV in the background.

I dream weird.  I had many dreams last night, like I usually do.  The latest dream, the one that kept me trapped under the duvet until 2:30 in the afternoon, seemed to last a couple of weeks in the dream time.  It was post apocalypse society, and I was a 6 year old boy living with a much older brother and mother and father in a lone gypsy type family.  We would travel all the time, moving every few weeks or days to a new camp spot, empty houses in suburbia with secret caches of canned goods hidden from other survivors.  My father's trick of pouring the readily available stocks of concrete mix over a shallow pit filled with supplies to make it look like an old deck or walkway off an abandoned house - when really it was a little safe, a vault of food waiting for us on our next pass of our never ending migration for survival.  My dream ended when our family was surrounded my an angry mob of a Christian cult, killed the rest of my family - we did practice dark arts - but spared me, in exchange for my very willing and elaborate detailed confessions and persecutions of the evils my parents underwent.  Playing the victim, in order to continue to survive, in my dream, it was what I was taught, do anything, just survive.

I thankfully awoke a 33 year old woman, still wanting to survive, but not willing to sacrifice integrity for it, with a loving husband who feeds me oatmeal or a smoothie in bed every morning.

I tried to tell the girls that were over for my last photo shoot that the stain on the sheet was from oatmeal milk, and not from wild passionate love making, but I'm not sure they bought it.  I think people think my bizarre life is just a wee bit more exciting than the reality.

Not cum, just oatmeal.  Not voodoo practicing gypsy caravan's... just going to head out to the mall and look for sales on fat girls clothes.

Which is why I've got to wrap this up.. only a couple of more shopping hours left to the day!

 So thanks for being here, again... Like I said, couldn't do it without your ever watchful eyes.