it's more than just a job, this job that i have. i'm living a dream. when i was 21 or 22 i wrote about wanting to "do" feminism and get paid for it. and i do.

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i go to sleep at night in a messy bed on lavendar sheets under a blue velvet comforter. i dream strange dreams.

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my writing is largely self-absorbed, i realize. but then, i remember that frida kahlo's paintings are all self portraits, auto retratos. and then, i wonder why it takes someone else to validate me. and then i realize i'm probably over-analyzing.

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i take another sip of cheap coffee and cotinue doing electronic press clips from newspaper web sites.

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i feel myself getting back on track. in a good way. it's about time to revisit a little inner stability.

i can handle a less stable outside if i'm stable inside, i think.

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"i want more

he screams into the night

as he wipes the dying stars

falling from his eyes."

--words scrawled on a painting hanging on the wall of a cafe in san francisco. i didn't write them. but they're beautiful.

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"never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
-- margaret mead

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