I'm writing in a personal journal. Kind of exploring who my writer's voice is. I hardly know it. I feel any more that I hardly know myself, so I'm going back to what I'm good at -- writing. I'm looking to find a writing group. I'm going to start blamming away at this.

I feel like I'm fulfilling a fantasy, as well as a card reading I had done a long time ago.

I'm supposed to be coming into my power and my future is me writing and giving talks. My past will give me the fuel for it, but my future will be big and me coming into my own.

I can't do that if I'm not writing so it blows people's minds, so I'm working on my skills.


Journal snippets...

purple -- a color of passion, sex, exoticisms is the color of my pen. Deep purple of morning glories is sexual -- as plants, they follow a cycle and cling to fences to grow and open and close with the light of day. They make me think of the cycle of seasons and the clinging of them to fencing and lattices which makes me think of the dark purple hue of a penis as it begins to deflate and a small drop of sperm clings to the skin after it's ejaculated.

Pale purple as in lilac blossoms relegated to a blow of water, where they work like soap to clean your hands and you show the children. You feel the intimacies of love and family in that simple act of showing kids how to eat the ends of lilac flowers and mash them into soap for your hands.

And then my favorite...stolen lavendar blossoms stuffed into my jean pocket and forgotten until every time I reach for some pocket treasure and my hands smell suspiciously like something an old English woman might find deep pleasure in the inhalation of.