+ self

im getting rougher with them wonder will this be me when i am mother? the answer comes no. i know that it is no. they are -me and +she. baptised in the contaminated water of feminism and me me me. tired though. i have learned a thing or two... writing glass window separates me from the musty haired do-gooder hippie with the mickey mouse voice doing his part standing in his place on cue perpetually ready for action... it isnt that i belong to ireland more than ireland belonging to me inspires chortles amoung the group while I stare out and see joyce right through his words they label it truth set it aside bury him in the graveyard of their minds and i see the truth in the words and it comforts me to know that i am in communion with true great spirit... plath reminds me that i should work work work though i cant stop reading her. wanting to defend myself to strangers on the bus who see me with these books tell them that i am only trying them all on not looking for a source and i have read so many but they dont care while i do nothing but care.
talking to her today i get so much out what is it about become so practicaly passion tempered by rationalizations though i think mostly honesty.
we never get to our full moon these days but i know its still there, with its white bone hood...