Biking home tonight, I saw a shooting star and instinctively wished to find--and know--my true love. I believe we wish for such things because they last and therefore are of the utmost importance. We do not spend our one magic wish on a perfect career or a material possession; we save for an early retirement and insure the tangible goods for their monetary worth post-loss or destruction; those things that are dearest to us are so because of their sentimental value, because they reminded us of love and caused us to feel it. Marriage is a commitment of two for life, and yes, sometimes the life as we know it of one person may end, despite a continual pulse, and divorce becomes necessary. I thought I had found such a commitment, or at least I had made one. I was told I had the wrong agenda. Talk about star-crossed...

Sweet Mental/Dental Decay

I seek out and submit to sweets, those things so sweet my teeth hurt. I fall for every line, every time. Rather, I dive headfirst off a firm foundation into my cavities. ("Iknowhe'sbloodbutyoucanstillturnhimawayyoudon'towehimanything")

Recovery

For the first time in some very dark ages, I feel the hope of recovering. "Recovery" is a strange word in that its Latin-to-Middle French counterpart implies other than the prefix and verb/noun today's native English speaker would automatically identify. Part of the problem is that I have been "covering" myself; doing so again would hardly help in any situation other than a dinosaur attack. Indeed, I have lived under fear of a dinosaur attack, of recurrent thoughts of my past and its ability to cause me nearly fatal wounds. In some sense, I do find the act of joining MySpace, of all saviours, one that shelters me and my desire to express freely that which I fear will provoke in my Blogger audience, small as it is (but then again, so were many of those Powerful Predators of the Past), and vise-versa. However, in embracing its original meaning, my recovery is based off of finding my identity, and I am not a lamp to be shaded! It is unfair to me and everyone else that I censer myself; I am one, as are we all. In looking at a disc of photos burned into my memory and hard drive, a collection I have so many times avoided viewing, I found myself falling back in time and, surprisingly, in love--not, as one and I would assume, with my ex, but with myself, like I knew this young woman, and I was falling in love for the very first time. As my eyes adjusted from their accustomed darkness, I was blinded by the glare of the light he saw in me, the light that used to be there. And even though I had snuffed out my flame with the suspicion he could not long tolerate the brightness, I felt it glow beneath the coals and soot enough to appreciate how he loved me in his own little way, how he is a beautiful artist with so much to give if he only knew how, and even though a few teary rainclouds haze my horizon at the memory of my wish and willingness to teach him, I can be glad of the flickering , faultering light on my way to the bonfire.

Positivity is apparent through my use of font color. Isn't it pretty? I'm waiting for Andrew to get back with a pizza. Ghana is on, and this summer may be Parisian. I spent today in the bath with a pot of tea, stainless steel, and Paula Cole. "My anger is my new best friend / Careful, I might bite your head off." I've been recently described as a tiger. I guess it's because I'm stripey. Her album is Tiger Lily, and I like that mixed imagery for myself, because it makes me seem both fierce and fragrant. Right now I'm wilted.