“Words began to appear in English and to make some kind of equivalent. For what satisfaction it is hard to say, except that something seems unusually piercing, living, handsome, in another language, and since English is yours, you wish it to be there too.”       Robert Fitzgerald

When Sandy asked me to write the introduction to the “special project” I thought it would be easy; I mean, what woman has a hard time expressing why she is attracted to certain men? I guess this woman does because I’m finding it difficult to define much less explain and put into words. It is something of a mystery isn’t it? That attraction thing.

Right now, as you read this, I have a pimple the size of Texas hanging out on my cheek, probably because I ate an entire block of sharp cheddar cheese in a 48 hour period.

I still love myself.

Right now, I am writing this instead of getting dressed, hair wet, breath smelling like coffee and morning halitosis, because I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’m scribbling it on the back of a receipt, because I forgot to charge my computer last night, and because I can’t find my notebook.

I still love myself.

Right now, I’m 30, and I live in my friends’ spare room, because I am too much of a location commitment-phobe to sign a lease, because I’m gloriously scared of losing my freedom in a normal job, and because I’m afraid if I stay in one place too long I might become bored… or even worse, boring…

Dear River,

I want to tell you a story about your dog, Zoe. We found her cowering at the pound. She wasn’t barking like the other dogs. She was simply laying there, looking up at us. The tag said, “lab mix” and she was slated to be killed in a week. We fell for it, thinking we were buying a lab.

She is not a lab. She is a pit bull.

As Zoe grew, we came to realize the pound had lied. I was scared. I felt irresponsible for letting this type of dog into my home. All of the stereotypes, preconceptions and worries filled my mind. Should I take her back? What would people think of us?

She is the definition of disenfranchised. When first time guests visit we lock her in her cage, not because she is dangerous, but because of unspoken fears. She receives wary glances from strangers as…

My friend Gavin was telling me about a conversation he had with some Dutch colleagues. Gavin, and his compadre Georgina, find that the sheer volume of work they are confronted with on a weekly basis is just un-doable within the confines of a normal 8-hour work day. So they regularly put in 10-hour days at the office. And another couple of hours at home picking up emails. This causes all sorts of problems: they’re tired all the time, their spouses feel ignored, they don’t want to go out at night or over the weekend and they lose touch with friends.

Hmmfff…”, said their pals, “In Holland, if you were to work like that we would think you were not coping.”

“Am I”, he wondered, “not coping? Or am I doing more than I should? And if I am doing more than I should –  what should I stop doing? And…

No cute rhyme or mystical mind-wanderings, just my thoughts on the price of FREEDOM – your freedom!

Just as our ancestors fought for freedom from a tyrannical empire and gave their lives to have their voices heard, so we must continue to fight the fight of freedom for our PERSONAL selves.  You know that many have died fighting against the British empire, fighting against “taxation without representation”, for women’s rights, for civil liberties, for human rights of all people, and so that other people could be free from monster dictators, but do we think (in this same light) about the men and women who have given their lives to be free from a TYRANNICAL SPOUSE or parent?  A denigrating boss or business associate?  And what about the physically and mentally challenged who fight every day for the independence of movement or thought?  There is sacrifice all around us.

The eyes of a broken soul watch

In her dark curls

A headband of nightmares glitters

thousands of wilting flowers

Twisting

Turning

Like splintered snowflakes

they drift in empty sounds

The eyes of broken soul wait

Her presence

an anxious shadow

that whispers darkness

into vacant atmospheres

The eyes of a broken soul yearn

a velvet cry that creeps from the corners

of an ancient dream

Thick fog moving from dead winters

Fractured stardust gathering

on soft, pallid hands

The eyes of a broken soul hunger

for stolen sweetness

melting between shattered lips

diamond skin and jasmine bones