Things are looking up, one could believe. Sudden inspiration to finish my essays has hit me, and for the first time in months, I know what I want to write. The domestic situation is improving, certainly, and The Great Sale is ON! Mmm hmmm. It was purifying to talk to Andy J yesterday, although what cleansed and balanced me may have been invasive to him; at any rater, I sense he was thrown off. Impulse urges me to feel guilty, but I'm not sure this was at his expense. Nothing I said was harmful; if anything, I handed him an olive branch and wreathed him in laurel. My doubts are disappearing and again I am fortified. I love you, Mike.

Fluctuating Degrees

It's not just about the weather. I want to do this, I want to do that, why can't I get paid for reading/studying? I'd love to be a private teacher, just someone who sits in a circle with people and tells them what I've learned and we can discuss it all together and learn from each other, but NOOOO, our society doesn't seem to value such methods of education. Why not? I would make one hell of a village elder, plus my quirks would be encouraged and my dreams valued as a gift incarnate. Besides, then I wouldn't have to work in a nursing home where old men get by with attempting foreplay because "they don't know what they're doing." Oh, don't they? It seems to me that getting someone in the mood is a learned behavior rather than an instinct, but what do I know? I'm not an anthropologist. I don't have that degree. The best I have to hope for is that my rants will weave a blanket of inspiration (note the "spirit" within the word itself) in someone's mind if I'm fortunate (note the "fortune" within that word and do take it in a financial context) enough to have something published. But nowadays, who wants to read something by some well-traveled and experienced girl who isn't particularly fond of standard academia? I want to quit my nursing home job and make mancala boards and sell them until I have enough money to quit my other job and travel again, but I probably need a liscense for all the selling, and I probably need some kind of crap-ass degree to get the liscence. Can't a girl just be a healer anymore? I'd heal you, baby.

Plenty.

Man alive. Enough with the pervy old men! As if it weren't difficult enough fucking through three parts of a sightread, requested hymn on some left-brained electritian's idea of a musical instrument (the Teenie Geinie or some freak name assigned to forty-key, Lego-constructed monstrosity with a foot-powered accelerator pedal in place of a damper to control volume instead of tone), I get encased in the arms of Death Breath Man whilst throwing away any hint of talent I once had. For some reason, I doubt that most people dream of getting fired from their decent-paying jobs and making up their rent waiting tables. It's okay, though, because as it should be, I bought a Tree of Life menorah, a door knocker with the head of a lion, and a perfect-condition typewriter with an extra ribbon from the guy down the street yesterday. I knew he had treasures; I walk by his blue house to check out his windchimes and grapevines and knew that someone who had the ingenuity to string a bunch of CDs together to glisten in the sun would have more where that came from.