If I am a woman with secrets does that mean I am no woman at all?
Some might say that it means I have come into my own. But why? Why is the lie more honest than the truth? Are we really that far removed from the truth as a whole that it has now fallen into the realm of the surreal? Is the latch onto truth with all its messiness is so intimidating we avoid it so completely? And why if the lies are not mine do I feel they affect my womanhood so completely?
Maybe it is the pain that has altered my womanhood-or that has made me a woman. I do not know-today I feel there are no answers, only questions. Let me know if you have any of either.
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this is a space where i think. out loud. so to speak. welcome.
itching to...
- revoke the last statement. get the great dane and at best be able to throw a ball with it in the city somewhere without breaking my landlord's window like last time.
- have a great dane. a grey or sable one. and then have him teach me to run.
- get my house THERE. i am so close.
- read the private lives of pippa lee
- see Nine with Daniel Day-Lewis
What is the best new word for lunch/dinner?
worth the time
- on love ~alain de botton
- when things of the spirit come first ~simone de beauvoir
- the bog oyster: history on the half shell ~mark kurlansky
- fields of play: constructing an academic life ~laurel richardson
- einstein: his life and universe ~walter isaacson
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