Discussions with Myself

April 18- Hearing Whispers

         Today is a different feeling from yesterday in that it is not so disconnected. I think "heavy" would be the word I'd use, heavy and connected. I can hear my female spirit guides whispering. Usually I can hear what they have to say more clearly, but I suspect that they may be talking about me tonight, not too me.

         Even though I feel less scattered, this entry is going to be every bit as disjointed as yesterday's. I suppose it will read like my thoughts. I called J. today. I was so excited to talk to him because of how happy he had been yesterday, a rarity for him. In retrospect, I think I knew in the back of my mind I was going to regret how much I was wanting his support.

         It is so rare that you meet someone who resonates so fully with your own timbre, right down to that soul fiber level. It is such an unusual gift to find a person to whom you can say "I'm in that mood" and have them understand the very way you do, what you are feeling. You get spoiled by that connection and then desire comfort from them, above anyone else, because you KNOW they will actually "feel your pain." I guess that is the trouble with best friends. Inevitably there is a time when your cycle of pain and need doesn't line up with their cycle of balm and giving and that release you seek from crying on their shoulder can't happen.

         So then what do you do with your naked soul? You go into your brain-drawers and hunt down the list of "other friends" in the hopes of matching up your need with what one of them may have to give. My list isn't that long. Rare birds don't often fly in flocks.

         These are the moments when I realize yet AGAIN that I've not shown people the crazy, gloppy, brightly-colored fingerpainted picture that is my essence. So few people appreciate truely abstract art, why even invite them to my gallery? I've tried it and the bewilderment received was not pleasent.

         Maybe it was wise I chose to acknowledge the fact J.'s psychic door was closed. I think I would have told him off if I hadn't. Even with the best of friends, politics get played. I get the sense on nights like this that sometimes he doesn't get the message of the art completely either. I hate that. If he wasn't so moody all of the damn time he'd think to ask the artist what it means so he could be a proper critic.

         I'm still sensing the whispers.... maybe I was wrong, maybe they are having tea and trying to invite me, those lady spectres of mine. I should join them. Then at least I wouldn't feel so alone.

"Well-behaved women rarely make history"
-Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

         
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