Nail polish makes me gay.

mom to brother in law, “easter” dinner: “He’s wearing nail polish – I’m worried that he’s gay.”

It’s taking so much not to rip her to shreds.

Besides – it’s such a beautiful blue, and goes so well with my bluefurrycoat.

mom to me on our way to dinner, as I pull the coat out of the car: “Are you *sure* you don’t want to leave that here?” Me: “Now I am.”

And now, off to be sewingslave and do what I can to help create some stilt leggings with a beautiful new friend – another thing that happens perfectly. I want to have clothes created for characters I am thinking of, and happen to find someone that knows how to invoke the magic that I want.

Strange, how things happen these days…

blahblahblah I’m done and out.


I drink too much.


Yeah. I think that is the best way to begin this. That way I won’t expect to much from myself and in turn might get more for lack of trying. That way I set imaginary boundaries for myself, and perhaps evoke the subconcious lust to surpass them.

My hair is now a deep purple. Fin, something I haven’t done for a while. A long while.
The color is different from what I remember – I remember it much darker, almost black, and I’m tempted to put some black in it, leaving a few streaks purple. Maybe.

Fuck. I;m talking about hair color. What an idiot.

For the first time I had the assistance of someone else in dying my hair, a delicious woman who catered to my whim – not a bad way to first meet a person…


Bob is back for the weekend, so I’m now sleeping in the main bedroom on a huge four post bed surrounded by crimson walls and furnitue of rich woods. An authentig Diane Arbus a couple feet away from me, as well as a number of other beautiful photographs, but none like this…


I know I should sleep. I want to – but I also want to write. I want to say everything, scream at the top of my lungs how wonderful life is even in the midst of all its challenges.
No. How wonderful this life is *because* of all its challenges. I find myself becomming the person that I have always dreamed of being, not only in the direction my life is going but in the human I am turning into. It’s all working together, it seems. In working through something that I had serious doubts that I could willingl survive, the world opened up for me. It acts is ways we at times don’t understand, but hell, when i open my eyes and see, there is a tribe based out of necessity that is lettong people ask, and as a result, get answers; I have escaped the secrets inside that I didn’t realize I was becomming; I have lost a job that wasn’t me as a result of a benefit that showed me what I was capable of, and am now using the knowledge from both to do everything I have dreamed of; I lost my home, and found such an overwhelming love in people that care that at times it makes me actually cry – and then laugh with a heart that is lighter than I have felt beyond memory…


Such a mundane writing, lacking the lustre I want to share, but still with value like unpolished silver…


I’ve rambled on hoping that this might become, but it’s only ended up words that lack in all whiy want to caress you with – so perhaps the last ones should be gooodnight, and make good dreams.

…sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open…

~ C


The bats are in the belfry
the dew is on the moor
where are the arms that held me
and pledged her love before
and pledged her love before


It’s such a sad old feeling
the fields are soft and green
it’s memories that I’m stelaing
but you’re innocent when you dream
when you dream
you’re innocent when you dream

running through the graveyard
we laughed my friends and I
we swore we’d be together
until the day we died
until the day we died

Repeat Chorus

I made a golden promise
that we would never part
I gave my love a locket
and then I broke her heart
and then I broke her heart

it’s here again. In so much of everything I have always wanted I find that there is a wanting for the everpain, the part of me that can find the words i need to let use me in order to feel oike sonething is poetry.

Why do I feel like the only poetry comes from pain? i know I’m wrong p but that has been the only inspiration I;ve ever had, and I don;t know how to write happy shit that contains the passion i feel lost without.

I have my dreams unfolding before me. I am an integral part of something i believe in more than anything I have ever experienced before, creating beauty and discovery in it’s wake. i am apparently going to me a key figure in a DVD that will be distributed worldwide. I have the incessant emails that let me offer a bit of creativity, yet without ever writing for me, to cleanse.

I feel as if I am too greedy in what I desire of myself, but perhaps the sacrifices are more than I imagined…


This IS all that I have ever wanted for me, because it continues to grow. The loss of words happens – i just need to remember how to brong them back for myself. I need to remember how to write. I need to remember how to find myself in it. I offer a bit in my email replies at times, but it’s not fulfiling to the point i want it to be…

I was given today a beautiful penning by someone else, which was enriched with tears and blisters and I love it all except the lack of words for the PASSION I have.

There must be exercises for this. if i could o=nly match how wll it was written.

If I could only find myself outside of the necessary emails again.

if only the thoughts would flow with the right words…

Am I foolish to wish for the past, when every piece of paper was an outlet? Am I foolish to wosh for the past, when the pain was so immense that all I could do was write?

There must be a medium, happy or not.

I miss writing the things that people talked about, I miss writing the things that i was proud of….

It’s the punchline. Somewhere between the replies, it lays in waiting…

I remember you.

I have buried you with my own hands over, and over, and over again

wishing you would only stay below and forgotten

so I could deny that you ever existed and pretend that i was happy, but

I saw the beauty in the flowers petals, so I picked them for you, and brought them

to your grave

in times of broken loss, in wanting, only to find you breathing again

waiting for me, hoping, looking at me as I tried to avoid your pleading gaze.

Over and over, the flowers were thrown on the ground in frustration, and you were again


I did all I could to fosake you, to be one of they who forget

so i could bury the pain with you and the blood would

finally dry, and stop dripping from my heart.


But you’re all I’ve always wanted, and even though, in time

I couldn’t believe in you, you wouldn’t die

and as much as I tried to forget you

I could still feel your breath on the back of my neck

trying to hold me again

trying to turn me around 

so that i could embrace you as well.


Yes, I remember you.

I have turned. We hold the flowers together, and through everything I have done to try to disavow your existence,

you forgive me

and this time, I let you come back to me, and we are both so much more alive

because if you had let me forget you, the flowers would go unnoticed, and if I had ever truly said goodbye to you

if my dreams had stayed buried, and just once not waited for me

we would both be dead.



I remember you. It’s good to see you again.

away and back

I need to step away. The emails are swarming, swirling around my head lifting me up and I have again left the ground. I just open up the emails and stare at them the past couple of days, answering the simple ones but not having the capacity to do more than that.

I should know better than to let them consume me like this.

I need to go for a long walk around the words of a book, get away for an evening and come back tomorrow after I wake, stretch, go for a walk and breathe.

For the first time in months, I now close my laptop without the intention of moving it. It will just sit here, silent, letting me rest…