Ruby Slippers

I started sifting through some old journals earlier tonight.  I was somehow inspired by the beauty of someone else’s past to revisit my own and seek similar aesthetics in the overdramatic musings.

Strangely, I did.

I’m home.

Back Sleep.

I had a really vivid dream last night.

I was with both of my parents and my cat in a small apartment-like hotel room.  There were closets full of possessions that didn’t belong to my family and windows that opened wide enough for Snoopy to creep in to the open world and explore.

But the dream mimicked an almost familiar horror movie.  A serial killer lurked in a nearby, if not attached institution;  my father knew him.  The man had apparently haunted him in the past.

A gift wrapped book of Chinese philosophy slid under the gap in the front door, which if you crept low enough would expose a view of the ill-lit hallway.

I was afraid to sleep, attempting desperately to keep Snoop close and away from his exploration.  My mother watched my father.  My father was resigned.

The rest is hazy.  I know the killer attacked.  I know my father fought back valiantly. I know people were injured and lost their lives.

I know, that the whole time, I knew what was GOING to happen- as if I had “seen that movie before”.

I’m dreaming.

I think I’ve finally caught up on the sleep i’ve lost over the last 6 months.

I think I’ve finally found my voice again.

Metal.

I’m made of metal. Not a wussy metal like aluminum that will bend with little force, or a cool, hip metal like mercury.

Nope.

I’m made of steel. Mid-grade steel.

I’ll stay strong under a fair amount of pressure, won’t rust or age too profoundly.

But I’m not unbreakable.

And when I do break, I take the entire structure down with me.

Things I want to do before I die:

* travel to Tibet and Bali

*learn to meditate correctly

*truly practice compassion

*write the novel that defines my generation

*perform a groundbreaking role on stage to critical acclaim

*take my parents on a trip

*slow dance in the rain

*read 1001 great books

*forgive myself, the way I can forgive others

*love myself, so that I may love others

*go back to London

*live without a “to do” list

Girlfriends.

I don’t think I have ever really appreciated the girlfriends in my life until now. Even when surround by a myriad of beautiful women, I was the one who preferred to hang out with “the boys”.

It’s a taken me 28 years to truly crave a feminine presence and grasp on the wisdom, comfort, compassion and joy only other women can bring. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been close to my mother that I didn’t crave other woman’s companionship; maybe it’s because i am and have always been a tom-boy.

I’m going through a break up right now. It’s a situation where the feelings are still there; where I still crave the other person intellectually, emotionally and physically but where I (we) know that furthering a romantic relationship wouldn’t be productive for either party. It plays out to a fair amount of heartbreak, a little bit of conflict and an emptiness difficult to quantify. While I come out of the relationship with goals for myself and a drive to move forward, I still find myself seeking…

I’ve been seeking advice, shared experiences and companionship that only other females can give. And while in the past it’s been offered, I’ve never appreciated the true value it inhabits.

It’s not having been hurt by men, or being sick of them or resentful. It’s finally being able to listen…not listen…to hear what these incredible women are telling me.

Maybe it’s the women who are now in my life; where previously I have been surround by few like-minded souls, I now glory in creative, intellectual presences that stimulate me and make me want to laugh, cry and grow. I find myself planning all girl vacations, lunch dates and wine nights with the ladies.

I’m grateful.

Erasure.

I joke about my addiction to social networking. In fact this blog was created in an effort to release facebook and myspace’s collective hold on both my free time and cogitation.

But when someone that I love, deleted the pictures of us off of his myspace, it felt like I was being deleted.

Like the memories meant nothing.

Like all they were worth, was forgetting.

It might sound shallow or immature, but in my mind it’s even more severe than destroying sentimental letters, significant gifts and returning borrowed clothing.

The separation and all that comes with it is public. You no longer CHOOSE to share your happy memories.

Not that it matters what other people think…

But really, what did you expect from someone who finds text a reasonable means of break up? (me, btw. me.)

adoration.

…is easy. But so unfulfilling.