[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Sunday, June 6th, 2004|
|Writing exercise #2
I remember when my bicycle was my most prized possession. i was around 10 when I got a blue three speed. i got a bell for it, and a basket...and it opened the world up for me. I was a painfully shy child, always staying close to home, didn't play with the neighborhood children unless they came to my house to play with my brother, and venturing beyond the street we lived on was a frightening thought to me, unless I was walking to school or to piano lessons a few blocks away. Once I got my bike, however, it was different. When I was sitting astride that big, blue bike, no one could touch me. I could ride all the streets of our neighborhood with little fear, exploring and seeing parts of town I hadn't known existed. The bike was my friend, my protector, my steed. As I rode, I became someone else...someone who felt important and brave. One of my favorite games was to ride to the end of our street and pretend to be a jockey on a fast racehorse, preparing to be released from the gate. When the gate opened, there would be none as fast as my mighty runner....my feet pedaling furiously to the other end of the street.
For several years, I lived on that bike. I would hop on it the minute I got home from school, weather permitting, and would live on it during the summer months. We took it with us when we moved to Oklahoma, but my spirit for riding left me, being in a strange new town, new neighborhood, so it mostly stood in the yard with the other bicycles, unused. One day we came home to find them all gone; stolen, never to be recovered. I haven't owned a bike since then.
|Wednesday, June 2nd, 2004|
|Writing Exercise 1 - 10 minute description of my desk
I sit at a desk that I literally saw for the first time at the side of the road. A woman was selling an entire set of furniture and it was one of the pieces. It reminded me of my grandmother's old desk which had been handed down from her to my mother and then to me. It stands about 2 1/2 feet tall and has been painted with a green wash-type paint. It has one long drawer in the middle, with four drawer on either side, the smallest being at the top. The drawer pulls are a copper color, faded from much use. It is a comfortable, homey desk, with rose-covered paper drawer liners that have a quaint smell of an age gone by.
The top of my desk, however, tells another story. The desktop, of course, holds my monitor, speakers and mouse. I have a black gel wrist rest to keep my hand from getting sore. The keyboard rests inside th open middle drawer, putting it at the ideal height for typing. To the right of the monitor, I have a small clear glass container which holds various writing instruments along with a pair of scissors; several bottles of vitamins, a half-full bottle of water, a half full coffee cup, and a bowl of leftover milk from breakfast this morning. Along the right edge of the desk sits my cd drawer, with several cds sticking out, and a black desk lamp sitting on top of it. The purple mushroom my daughter made for me also sits on top of the cd drawer. Between the cd drawer and a speaker there is a stack of catalogs, papers and cds that were left there, waiting to be put away.
To the left of the monitor, and along the left edge of the deak are more papers and various items, such as a suede leather change purse, an old cell phone, a pair of socks I bought for mother and a plastic bendable Pokey toy. There are also three dvd movies back behind the monitor, leaning against the speaker.
Directly in front of me is my notebook, with a pen, a bottle of enzyme pills and my son's cell phone sitting on it. Taped to the monitor itself are pictures of my daughter and her friend, Heather, and Richard Blom, in Englad. On top of the monitor, from left to right, are a deer molar, a tiny toy robot, miniature train model, colorful candle holder with the candle all burned out, three micro machines vehicles, and my webcam on th e far right.
It's not a fancy desk...but it does what I need it to do, so I think it's pretty nifty. Current Mood: anxious
|Friday, May 21st, 2004|
Why is writing ...putting my thoughts into actual words...such a chore? I know I'm good at it and if I were to pursue it, I could likely make a go at it...so what am I afraid of? What is holding me back? I've never had a sense of ambition...never felt a strong desire to accomplish anything, but I'm so tired of feeling like a failure. I could say that I never had anyone to *mentor* me...never had encouragement, or an example to follow..but that's a cop-out. I don't have anyone to blame but myself. I have to realize that I *do* have something to contribute...that my opinions and thoughts are as valid as anyone else's, even if they aren't original. So...my goal for the summer is to write, write, write....and to take better care of myself. More sleep, better food, vitamins, etc...and even a bit more exercise. Current Mood: restless
|Tuesday, May 11th, 2004|
Okay...day two. A good friend told me that writing is an art which needs practice, so here I am.
I've been thinking alot about friendships lately. I don't seem to be able to keep a close one. I don't know if that is by choice, or if there is something about me that eventually drives people away or causes them to lose interest. I have someone now who is angry with me. She was one of my closest friends....but she is a very dominant person. She usually says what she feels and doesn't hold back...and because I'm so easy going, I normally don't let her bother me. I usually let her words slide off of me. Occasionally, though, she says things which grate on my nerves, or outright hurt my feelings. I expressed to her how I felt; that she had hurt my feelings...and I told her why. Her response has been to stop talking to me completely. I'm being stubborn and waiting for her to decide if she wants my friendship, or if she wants to just walk away over something this childish. I guess time will tell. Current Mood: anxious
|Monday, May 10th, 2004|
Sometimes, I wonder if perhaps I'm holding on to the memory of the pain because I do not want to forgive him, because forgiveness would be tantamount to accepting what he did. It has been over two years..yet there are times that the memory becomes real again and I feel my breath catch in my chest, remembering the depth of the betrayal again. It is not the fact that he is now with another person...that pain has long since subsided. It is not that I want him back, either. I can freely admit to myself that he was not the one for me...that he and I would not have been compatible in the long run. Oh, but when I did believe, how I believed. My passion and love for him were like none I had ever felt..my belief in him was total. He was the first person in my adult life in whom I had placed total trust...in whom I believed and held to the notion that he believed in me completely. I allowed myself to hope...in him, in the future, in everyday life...that what I had searched for had finally been found. Not the fairy tale..no, I gave up on that years ago. He was, as I had been led to believe so cunningly, the one person I could call my partner, who wouldn't walk out on me and leave me swaying in the wind. The one person who would stay by my side through it all, and love me as no one else had. These alone are not the reasons I cannot quench the memories of the searing loss. No, if I could write that these things were mere illusion on my part, or unrequited love, then I could put myself down as a fool, reprimanding myself for my silly schoolgirl views and move on. It is not that easy, however. He knew what he was doing...even encouraged it. He worked to prove himself to me, knowing what I needed him to be and striving to become that to win my love....to gain my trust. I believe, at least for a part of the time, that we loved genuinely and honestly...but when his heart lost it's beating for me, he did not have the bravery it took to walk away from me honorably. My discovery of his lies, and transferrence of affection to the other was no less painful than a vivisection; and that is what he has left me with. In place of the love, there now resides a gaping hole; emptiness which possesses the same intensity as my love for him, with the added touch that only vacancy can provide. In his selfishness, he damaged a part of me that will be long in repair. Forgiveness cannot fill this void, as it did when my marriage ended. An epipany cannot be brought to light through Don Henley, or the gods, telling me "the heart of the matter" and that the only way to move on is to just simply forgive him. What he took from me, and subsequently left in it's place is now a part of who I am. It has seeped into my soul, tainting the child in me, making me hard and cold in places that were full of life, beauty and innocence before. I can strive to find a cure, to see if perhaps I can regain part of what I allowed him to take with him when he walked away; but a part of me is forever lost to him. That is why I cannot let go; he has something which does not belong to him, yet I can never have it back. We are cruelly joined. Current Mood: restless