I support Bradley Manning

Let him go.

Birthday journal

O wow, death doesn't change people; death makes us free of a reagan.  Reagan means one who takes money to be a brown black frack dream.  This is a way of making myself the only one who knows priests.

Priests give themselves brains to live for.  I know what I know about what I feel.  I can love without cheating the goddess of her pain.  Her pain is the lesson failing its own dream.  That lesson was being woman gave itself mother.  The dream was moments of knowledge for life.

Lastly, I resemble one person creeping toward no one.  I have made life great in the ways of being rude and flat.

Susan is here.  Nowhere is there.  I am where that reagan dreamed change was life.

I know that you think this is terrible angry bitter psychotic expression of hatred for my own life.

Really it is love for seeking where the only word that was and was not went to when the goddess said, "Good."

Thank you for knowing what it is to be one who knows feelings.

Death is not a monitor; death is not a  slim family; I am where people are when no one -- ride Julia ride -- writes of raymond.

Dear raymond:  you who blasted this Goddess swearing to be nice always sexualized my hopes for my agonies.

I said what I needed to.  You may read what you wish to believe. 

Note:  I have tried to be people in books that I read, but I am not.
Note2:  Vassals, you have failed me!

Either women have belief or they are me.

loss of belief derived from hating negative roses (people who were living to feel love).

In other words, my address goddess loud stay.

You are my address in Ecstasy.

Help me be hopeful.  I need to live or not.  I am not this good.  I am afraid to give love that needs pigs.

I am bitter and feel it is not to the good.  Flaws made in marx.  Flaws made in freedom.

Varieties of ignorance and stupidity

Sometimes there's a difference between "free writing" and writing freely.  In many cases, when I just let out whatever is there, what comes out is not very focused on subjects about which I have strong opinions or feelings and which I believe are important.  I suppose this indicates some sort of disjunction between my intellectual expectations of myself and the mediocrity that is actually there.

I say mediocrity because I don't wish anyone to attack me for presuming otherwise.  The worse problem in my case appears to be the stark negativity with which I view myself and others.  So, stupidity:  Why is it that when it hurts to be nice to people (because I am letting myself feel, and be, myself, and that is apparently inherently a presentation of something that deserves attack by most others), that I don't care about when or whether there is peace?  I suppose it is the response of anger that leads to abandoning this need for peace.  I believe that peace is the dream of home, of how (if you are lucky, and I believe I was) it felt to be in a gently cared-for environment as a child.  So, when you're stupid, and you don't understand -- and this often leads to destruction -- that there is no guarantee of love from particular persons -- though love is everywhere -- usually no one thinks there is a need to remediate this elementary misconception.  Everyone has a life that they may be struggling with in their own way.

This kind of lack of understanding, or density to reality, in my case, seems to have proceeded from fear and from cruelty that was originally my way of trying to imitate the people who were so intent upon cruelty in that they preferred to like anger (from me) than to be strong enough to give hope.  But how can a child give another child of the same age hope?

I am trying to understand what it is that makes others think that if I am poor that they can act like they are people of hope, grace, gifts, and that I am not.  I suppose this is turnabout is fair play.

As I have become aware no one is cruel without being made to be aware that justice makes a lot of pain.  Painmaking justice to me is not what human beings can or ought live with.

I know I love Susan and that somehow she will understand that I can be safe because I am home.

Now I wish to teach what is hopeful.  This is done by elucidating for people the necessity of life for good.  Good comes from life, not the other way around.  I hope someone will understand that no one is afraid of themselves because of happiness.  Rather, it is because of  making things such as anger and failure the measure of peace.

Be well,

Yours,

Julia 

What there is

Now was what one (a rock) made.

I like my own empress -- illness of poesy.

Estrogen gravely makes art.



Today there's joy; where laughter fails, omens of peace give you dreams.

Glad to ride With you.  Know your love to know your softness.

I have thought that you would take me to softness.  I know you are where my grains dried.


Laughter was nice.  I now ride because of the grave.

You here and you are my goddess.


I remember letting you say your belief was your trial.
It was that which was a life.

A belief

My object as a writer is to tell people what there is, and then listen to them tell me what I am.

Hollow Land II

I rain lightning and blood as
God's potence orbits in a dark sky.

Hollow Land

God's vagina floats above, raining lightning and blood as
The martyrs of a chosen land rise to view.

Hookers, businessmen, failures, haters, dancers, jokers walk to
Payday Advance outlets as flowers shake with insect intrusions.

Omens without laughter slide down twisted faces and
Automobiles crash into losers.

Powerless before musics of hatred, love and greed
Disappear while children cry for compassion.
.
Fearing the gigantic explosion of mucked sewers
And deadly fields of carrots and cows, I cover my face..

Bolts of cloth wrap pillars of golden pain as
God's potence orbits under a dark sky.

I won't change anyone

I am not a "dirty cunt."

I am not a pig.

I made myself ill.

Why?

I did NOT give anyone freedom from being angry.

I pressed everyone to be what was my idea of free, i.e., troubled and shamed.

How could I think that meant freedom?

Because no one said that anyone can be their own negativity.

I remember being good at life.  I thought making others safe was possible.  I cannot make anyone believe in my reasons for being this answer to my needs.

I will never know why those who may be reading this ever thought I was happy.  I was a lot of fear and pain.

Please give me freedom.

You are who you are.  I cannot change any of you.  Goodbye.

I am not that thriving or beautiful or strong.




Heck is fat.
Never listen to offers of art from a dreamer.

She gave me a dried rose

Famous

Rich women are

Best.

I don't want my own life as mine to

make a failure.

Dance with my arguments.

No argument:  Marsha was a person dreaming of life.

Casts:

Omen:

Ray Loved My Patience.

Now I don't love my reasons for being drunk as dense and loud.

I know that I am not a lot of marsha.

Andrea dealt life as lessoned with reasons.  I am roman as a rock.

Oral basing crimes in my crease (edited with fame)






Topics for further discussion:

John Brown
Southern violent

Less people are not treating themselves as needing a chaste bore.








I wish that I knew what I might write that would be something for men.  They are flowers with pain.

I know what nothing is.  I know what reasons dream of -- life and love with my own hopes.




Laughter is not the same when no one gives people life.


I don't know where I am.  I don't know what I do.  I don't know why there's my fear of a rock.

I paid my life as brown with no chafing.

These sentences are all INSIPID jokes to me.  No attached reality; only death in its cruelty needs peace.

The whole world prefers hatred.  Maybe that's me.

I rise where an urgency talked to a lump.

The lump never knew itself as a dreamer of a better life for all.

Answer:  ab
                c
                d  e f

etc.

Lack of moment is from my pain.

The pain is my knowing that crack was what made thought a failure.

I know your interest has flagged.  Perhaps if I stand on my head and say:  You were the only tribe that was me.

Collective representation -- the appearance of all in each one -- revealing that death drags pain where need is change.

I made my own failings.

As for Marilyn, you may change life, and I may make failure a mark.

Help is not where andrea sought freedom.  I remember her strength in knowing that she was placed in  pimps who preferred drugs to God.  I was making a narc into a failure.

I prefer drugs to God.

I hope She will love my life.



THIS moment's failure is from knowing woman bakes a  powerful need to be tarzan (that which knows itself as hope but not strength).

Loud is not rite.

In my mind, I have created a rite called life.  I carry out its features each and every day.

Please release me, O Goddess from my aching hatred for a raymond womanly goals.


Subsidiary to these reflections are names, being good, and being free.

Today I wrote a woman a note that made her happy; she gave me a dried rose.

Death Is Not Life To Me

Men and Women change where they live.

They make it knowledge that there is freedom.

I say that no one makes love strong: love is everywhere. making strength is being one with life.

I have what I have.  I do not need strong men to make me love them.

I am not the cruel fool that wanted change to be hopeful.

I am steeped in life.  I have found that there is beauty where life gives you a mind to love.

So, there are some problems in my thinking and in me and in what I have written.

Listen for the reasons that others have for not being free.

They don't need to be safe from laughter; they are where fear and hate give them pain.  The pain is rising in their being.  Their being needs safety so they can be loathed.

To be loathed brings peace, because it makes failure the world.

I do not want pain, or things that hurt.

Guilt brings anger.  Guilt makes everything fearful.  This is the creative life that makes anger painful.

I do not need this fear of my own life.

I take one cool rogue (me).

You are gold if you love lessons.  You are girlie if you love life.

I need to stop making these distinctions.  They are killing me.

Laughter began this wary pain.  I thought sharing love was the beauty of hope.  I have nobody to say, be true to your own being.

My being gives me peace.

Let yourself have what you believe is yours.

I believe I may have peace.

Part of me thinks joy is people giving things that are pain.  I think of the ways that my life began.

Taste and fear were the beginning of my sharing.

I loved my own plastic flames.  I wanted it there.  I wanted running for the embers of laughter.

Crack was the belief in bodies.

I did not know that anybody thought of God as strength.  I believed that no one had belief.

Safety and love are not the only needs.

Please be safe and kind.

Have your own blazing happiness.

Sex and guilt are not entrances to riches (which I call lace).

The Goddess knows my own life is here since I have been rude and cruel, I am alone.

I have good in me.  I know that if I stay here that no one will be peaceful because I am what is there for change.

This is my pathetic existence:  thinking I am needed for change to occur.  I built my pain on being away from life.  Now I have land in rest.

Ownership is taking reason away from people who are in old places.

Elder money is also cruel.

Now I am going to free this reflection.  You may read it now. 

Laughter was where I was safe, in childhood.  Now I make you love your own place, unless you would prefer to be justification for your own cruelty.

Allah, Jehovah, Yahway:  meth is flowers of their rule.  I guess you can't blame God for everything.

Hahahahahahahaha

The reason this is all so disturbing is that I felt like making myself failure because it would make anyone believe in peace.  Peace to me begins with knowledge of the pain that is teaching freedom in exchange for love.  What you get for teaching freedom is not love, it is celebration, envy and savage violence sublimated as change.

Orgasm loose math chastity.

Passion identity home.

Illness doesn't work (bring about happiness).

Sui Generis

Yes I like many measly raises
There's pain in womanliness.

I scammed referees for money.

That's my goddess, another bomb
with pope.

Illness says, gave laughter.

I say, money.



The Life

My obsessions
Tend to restate themselves
Interminably

No matter what
Venue or mode I
Employ.

So I will let go
Once again by
Peaceably writing them here:

Tension, Mazes, Likeness,
Strength, Money, Roads

Death, Cold, Blind,
Rags, Pain, Dreams

Bodies, Running, Drugs,
Failure, Softness, Masses

Of which, by my reckoning
Only these matter:

Love, Remaining Hopeful, Taste,
Mathematical People, Roses, Airships.

Blossoming with our lives,
Bringing art to mixed mantras,
We shall, with patience,

Keep memory happy
And ourselves freely willing peace.

Suggestion

Dean

Myself

I like luck.

Change.

These being maybe ill I write them that way to free my friendship as greenness allied with beck and feeling.

Chaste moments of blaming ross for their giving happiness to my father and his mother's womanliness.

I remember that if I give myself the thankfulness that I remember badly.

Decoupling intention and result:  Why strongly live for my own changes?

I need to deal with the suggestions that continually pour into me from reservoirs of the needs of other people as collected in the past which make me mother to softness without feeling.

That knowledge gave me good; now, I have pain from knowledge.  Read that as the loss that I have to give.

Chores:

I remember for myself the good things that felt like hope.  I know that when I say that anybody is who I know that they will believe that it is freely made a mess, that is to say, logged as blame.

I am apparently trying to give.

I was here to be my own laughter.  I like that.  Now it is the lambent love of rest and poetic fabulous positivity becoming easy that reaches toward my illness.

Lack of rest is not friendly.

Tie my pain to glamorous hopes running toward veils covering my tests, with the object of making love peaceful.
                                                        *       *       *
                                      [This is where I get to what I'm saying]
           


I have shouted and screamed and wept and collapsed into my own bones, not knowing that I can not feel what the Goddess made -- loved, pale, rosy, cruel, and failed -- with her champion, as home.  She did make my moment free.

Craning toward the morality I cried about, I see that it was nothing for flesh and nothing for love.

It was all about safety within my own shamanistic craft, i.e., glamor.

You can like my flame or you can like my pain.  The rest of my striving for life is here because I made it feel foreign in that I could not both be good for my love of peace (naked hate of strength and stability and change; and anger) and my desire for freedom.  No savior of my mother is able to bring beauty or art to freedom.

Apparently, once again, it is I who have made it difficult to love me.

Momentarily, a lack of being is not changing my injury.  It is knowledge, peace, and cancer that are my effort.

You are what you desire.

I desire justice.  Life is my yearning for happiness.

Loudly where justice is, I drive for change and peace.



This way is being.

Lies are looks.




I have to admit that when I write I do not always understand at the beginning where I will say. 
I have to start somehow and somewhere and I prefer flatly recording what I have relied on to start with even without explanation or a description of whatever extension or resonance these plain words may have for me to being true to what are perhaps better organized redrafts.  I think the reader can tell what is important and coherent without my drawing all the threads together.  If not, then I will simply have to return to the subject from another direction and do so at that time because I do not wish to pretend these words did not happen in this way and at this time.

I would like to know how to incorporate what are important bases of my thinking into what I have to say, without dismembering and replacing and repositioning what came to me into a smooth facsimile of what I in reality brought forth or felt was there to say.

I am not a sarcastic thug, but I'm stewing like a maniac

Today I work here in this the room I spent six years before leaving home. 

Lesbian efforts

Distance

My own changes.

I like raymond.

I told myself and others I would write a book about Janice Raymond and her atrocious stance against us transsexuals.  I believe that that which is my own is also the remnant of my wish to become strong, specifically, AGAINST her.

That is not that great.  I also know that when I made my own life the benchmark for others to follow (in my mind at least) that I caused a lot of error and useless disfunctionality for me and my friends.

That said, I wish that there was a dream that I could ask would be my own.  I don't know what is nice.  I don't know what is love.  I wish that I had my people as my life.

I don't know what is good.  If you or anyone else ever believe in somebody or something, I wish to become a way to love what it is to be a feeling.

Now obsessing with feelings has become my business, since I have no one to talk to about the matters that interested me, since I have become flattened mentally and emotionally.

Good homes make strong offspring.

Yes, I am nuts.

Emanating reasons to like rain, I am,

Julia Murray

P.S., reading this over, I know that there was a time when few of these disturbing claims were true for me.

Plum

Rusty taught what she thought was good:  that needs change life and to deny them is a painful trap.

A few needs of today:

Land, Poem, Bus.

I overidealize the past and underemphasize what has to happen now for there to be a viable future.

Vanity is a star.

Last to know, First to go

I failed "Book."

I am not "Book."

I cannnot do what "Book," the all-demanding deity demands.  There was a similar deity on Star Trek, I'm sure you remember -- something to do with smashing melons.

Therefore I will leave life safe with itself.

Love,

Julia

GOOD NEWS

My most recent CAT scan shows I have no pulmonary emboli!!!!   I am grateful and hopeful.

Love,

Julia X. (Galatea)

It was good to feel hopeful because I needed to.

I'm the one who has to take care of my body

It's better to be happy than not. 

Maybe life has being.

I feel hopeful.

Perhaps you will be strong. 

Be safe.

Lesson ten

God died because she thought men were martyrs.

I know that I cannot believe these words, because I am not a man.

Mommy, I am not kind.  I used to love myself for being happy.

Now I just want to make the world dense with blood clots.

However, you will not know anyone who will have any blood clots.

I don't understand my decision to continue smoking last spring when something told me my friends would beg me to stop.  I think I put cruelty ahead of my body.

This sucks.

Cash is not bones.  Laughter is not money.  I am not you.

Give me life or I will be another mess.

Tacky man is afraid of loss.

It's coming one way or another.

Route pain.

Secondly, I am going to have to wear a ton of makeup and possibly a wig if I want to get by as a woman.  I am thinking I want to continue using the women's bathroom, dressing room, etc.

These concerns show that I am freaking out.

I still want to get high once I'm off the Coumadin, if I'm alive.  Though from what has happened thus far, the karmic cost would be even higher than I've faced so far.

If this is about anger and cruelty and lack of acceptance, I see I will be embroiled in plenty of that.

You know it is difficult not to be sedated by estrogen.  I am becoming more unstable and angry.

Now I have to be happy because if I'm not, who will be?

These reflections show that there is a lot of tension in me.

I'm afraid of not being able to finish all my books or at least take some classes or work part time or do anything but put my "affairs" in order.

Luckily I do not have anybody as a partner or any pets or much property to dispose of.

Being distraught and in pain and losing life is not something to look forward to.

I have become maudlin, disbelieving and atrocious.

I have eaten like a pig today.  I cannot smoke or really drink.  I wish someone, e.g., my mother, would hug me, but I think my behavior is making her angry and uncomfortable. 

I have tried to understand why I am not able to properly enact feelings I know are there.  It makes me nervous to do so. 

Please just have peace.  And maybe I will find it too.

Give your loved ones love.

Even if there is no intellectual justification or rationalization supporting it, even if you cannot see the end of what you do.  Even though you will die yourself.

Do not be heavy in your thoughts or actions. 

"We are individuals!"  as they say in the Life of Brian.

Good thing there's sex. 

Rhymes that make Limes

Get Serious

Manna narc crawls to
Law's Champion.

I live next to
My cave.




Chance Occurrence

Last moment is
Green



Tapping the Man

He sick --
Tried

Revealing
Clothes

As
Cake.




Mao

The Chinese choose leaders
By acclamation.

I remember that moment when you got that brat
With her feelings.

Destiny was here;
Passing every day with

Napoleon, Hitler,
Stalin, Alexander,
Caesar.

Jinghiz Khan.

Oral vintage
makes

All verbal
play

Rape.






Sick Sex

I trundle toward the mountains
In a donkey cart.

I observe the squeaking
wooden wheels.

The crows pause
Perching

To see laughter
Graze in a peaceful mantel

Which nods its 
White racks.

Emblem-full-of-fire
Trapped in a hip dress.




Orpheus

Eurydice said,
"Don't look back."

Intercession.

Paragraph is not yes:
Stanza is dirt.

Imprecations always
Where you launched

Yourself moodily
To Babbling.

Wilson knew his Bitch.





Goat bawls in fear:
Check.




I apologize profusely to my readers for every word
that was less than art.

Four Troys to Wrap

Troy

O moment of peace,

Illness sought its languor
Momentarily
Crying for You.

I razed the villages
Making your food.

I dreamed the battles
That slaughtered your people.

As I read this note to memories,
I make good on the family.




Troy

Memories feel here
A nook where bones

Life bars grime

Dread things of
Pain

Grow where

You strike.




Troy

Or Mars

Wills his needs
Where

Zeus'
trilogies

Slap God.



Troy

Lame man
Voyaging here

Sees his Dry Life

Sinking into the Sea.




Boy

Take your place
Where you are

Chased.





I reason with you

Graft makes grooming
love mastery of bargains.

Hokey Allah


Allergan, Sinusitis, Building
Maybe I take roses to my mother's pain.

I david's best s/ex.




Craft

Allah Moans Happily
To Him where

Goats tangle lovingly;
Treated roses jar-
gon.

Maybe I love Her
Poem.

I hear it's her
God that makes me think.



Wrap

Present arms to
the Sergeant.

He knows his
Army.

Family is
Case of Grain.

Lace

Halls of Oaf

Dragging down the lives
(Maybe that's grief)
That Try bogging

The sensibility of a bogdweller

Creep.

William my Aunt Resting here.

Stapling my freedom to a laughter
Running for a rockkk.

Now, climbing the lives on each side
of the hall:

Lambert is his own moose.






Oaf Ran Her Pockets

Guilty with tears,
I ran her pain.

Tethered with race
She growled at me.

I called her
List.

Didn't you remember
The Clams that remembered
Lace?






Roses

Dread Roses,
When Your Peace
Gives Death, I
Will Build Moments.





Slip out of your mess.

You, beautiful one,
Where your veil
Lifts its dreams

To My boredom

I weird you with
crayons.

Oh my God! More "writing"!

I try to make sense of what is reason.

My message to Rusty was:

"You're not nice, you're a fool!"

It turns out I'm my own anger.

I am not my own anger.  You cannot BE an emotion.

Therefore I have made a lot of cruelty because there was stupidity that I did not like in myself.  This was fear.  I feared justice.  I knew that I had much love.  I knew I had freedom.  I did not treat myself as a woman because I was angry.  I thought no one was peaceful.

Now I can see that everyone needs hope.

I thought I was gay.  I thought I was what I was. 

Now I have my own feelings called, reasoning.

I identify my grief (fear of my own life) with love.

Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!


This means that I have to like my own strength, which is me.

I have thought that there was so much to love in me.  I did not believe aye sucked ass.  I thought that was good because it was love for my own pleasure.

Now comes happy life in making peace.


Now you can live with my openness.  Or is it me who can do so?

Many thrashings were my own actions.


I hope you can be "home" where peace and love reside.


Okay, I was exactly a brat.

Laughter about why I have taken so much time and space to say this.

Good.

You believe in what you had when you had happiness.  I also believe in what was beautiful.

I hope that there will somewhere be spirits that are beautiful as happiness.

Will dreams.

Thank you.


Pottery is love.

Contempt for women

Hell was the pain that orgies treat.
I remember that when there was God that I was another bard.

Today I know that I changed my grief from cluelessness to art in order to be dead.

I am threatening nothing:  I am referring to killing my own vision of hope.

This Goddess said to her pain:  I am your roast.

Contempt for women:  I made life a rough place because I laughed at my mother's imperfections from a sexist pt. of view.  She had little confidence (when I was still at home) apparently and did not dress with panache or as a voluptuary.

Capital is the art of paying justice to make pain fold.  In other words, using money to make the problem go away.

Boss:  I ran to Rusty and to Chelsea to make them be the ones who would be my life.  I needed to preserve this way of love -- my own changes, personality, sensibility internal and external.

Abdicate your art:  If you are making yourself the Goddess who makes you young.

Omen:  Allah sought roman craze for lessons.  What is God to those who make pain run to omens?

Answer:  Pope.

Next time I will tell you what is good for my plastic reasons.

You must not be here if you are here to be a star.

I must not be here if I am here to be a moment (of fame/power).

Death gives a rose face.

Rat trick cloud whore


I HAVE TO SAY THINGS THAT MAKE SENSE:  I CAN BE A WOMAN!

Fear I might change

There was a road where people stop to have a draught of dreams.
This road is a woman's place if there is memory.

I know that a lot of beauty is messy.  For instance, I in my dreams might say, "You are strong" to my family.  The family I know is peace.  I know that I created a way I might be so that there would be a lot of laughter.

You did like my trust.  I liked to like your praise.

That was needed in order for there to be life.

I sought your love; I sought your dream.

Your love and your dream are yours, not mine.

I give you peace.  I hope you will like a woman with her beauty.




Craft:

Gifts that are alive with beauty and freedom.

I gave a lot of myth.  For instance, I am womanly; I am drowning; I am nerd.

Down inside, I need to say what is being.  It is beauty.

Craft:





I wish to change through doing what I enjoy.  I want to read the classics of many cultures, ancient and modern and relate them to the life I know as an individual in this society that denies the usefulness of learning.  Out here there is gold.  Out here there is peace.  Out here there is need.




Love,

Julia

Peace and Religion

Life and death; death and life.

No one believes that trash can be loving.
I have known to believe that darkness cries its own moments.
These moments include:  tape (as in a mental tape or script), failings of loud bowls.

I have shrieked the need to be Her orgasm.

I am in fact a lot of effort to be rock (crack).

I am so insane in my identifying myself with what I desire.

This Goddess who knew a possible dream was loving and happy.
    
Yes I try to be a moment.  I am not.  I am here to fail a nabired (a flock of caves -- you see I use parts to personify or represent a whole -- people that may anatomically contain something which enters them).

Emperor Issues:  I need to be safe.  I am being to my own capital.

This analysis of people dealing creepiness is over.

Portion of famine.  No gruel.  No peace.  Sensible.

I read this gnome as round.  I rest here for a temporary bop.

Peace and Religion

Kindness requires love.

A Request to Richard

 I humbly beseech ye, save thy servant from the mortal pains of this transient existence; bring succour that she may not suffer unduly the rigours of punishment for the misdeeds with which, as you know, she has filled the lives of her friends and family; and allow her to retire peacefully together with the spirits and guardians of all directions at the places of reconciliation and loving kindness so graciously provided to the travellers of these planes. Anoint thy sister, Me, that at thy pleasure the Ones whom receive graciously your devotion may direct and guide her in the ways of peace, love and humanity to which from this moment she wishes to accustom herself and practise with an unguarded and pleasing dedication to the welfare of all. So Mote It Be. Julia Murray.

A Letter for Understanding and Communion

While I can scarcely claim to be a "good" writer in the sense of communicating clearly and simply with consideration for the reader meaning, feeling, event, etc., I believe that I do leave the reader with an impression that reveals my state of being along with occasionally an "entrance" into the nature of the subject matter and the universe that I and the reader in fact share.

Many times I fail to make clear that I do not feel strong; that I (often literally) am shambling around trying to find a definite place within myself to which I can commit energy, will, effort, affectionate (often an undeveloped quality) attention. 

I really really just want you who read this to know that I am writing as if I were in my final hour.  This is what I decided to do with this "final hour":  write a letter.

That said, I was trying to believe that maybe there will be one way of freedom.  I wanted that because I was wondering for a long time why it is that no one is interested in loving a pig.  I have to love a pig because that is what I am.  At least two other people who shall remain nameless have referred to me as a pig in my presence.  What effect does having the self-concept of being a pig have on me?  I feel that I do not like it.  I feel that I cannot believe that anyone would want to like me.  I really have no words for it.  Somehow you will have to know that if you consider yourself a pig then it has deleterious effects on your relationships with real people. 

To return to my question of why no one is interested in loving a pig, I can see that firstly I would give off an air, so to speak, of unapproachability because of slovenly habits.  You can certainly admit I have those.  Secondly a pig appears greedy and without sympathetic emotion.  You know that pigs feed constantly from a trough whatever they are fed.  This causes contempt in humans. 

These facts led me to consider there being one way of freedom because then I'd feel that no one had freedom.  I wished to deny others freedom.  I didn't care because no one I knew thought that freedom was anything but getting your own way.

People who are not happy are also not interested in what the stupidity of life makes hostile.  I did not have to be hostile.  I might have, for instance, decided that no one was particularly satisfied, but then that would have interfered with my personal pursuit of satisfaction.  Not that I thought that through but I certainly needed to believe that I could be whatever I wanted to be.

No one is free if I have all these feelings that I have.  I know that I need to release this pain.

Okay, so there's happiness, there's pain, there's being a pig.  I saw this as my own problem.  Now I need to make sure that no one feels afraid that I am trying to be another Process.  (I used to reduce everything to the process of production a la Marx).

This now takes a turn toward what it is that I want.  I want hope, freedom and love.

I am a child of the Goddess and of a mother who was gentle in her ways much of the time.

Now, in my mind I am making this whole letter a matter of whether there is anything that I can do to be changed.  And the only way I can see that happening is if I have love. 

The problem is that I often do not feel love when it is there, and I often do not give myself love.

I really hope that you who are reading this will say happiness is what is peaceful.  I suppose that is tangential. 

I wanted to make the people with whom I co-existed in a kind of exploitative fashion for eight years at transie house my priests, my being the superior being.  This does not include Rusty and Chelsea:  I was in relation to them as a cruel predator of thought and feeling.

This is love:  I said men are a goddess because I wanted to be loving to my boss:  Jack.

Now I know where this is coming from.  I am trying to make everyone know that my father dreamed that I was his  reason to be.  He could not conceive that his pain did not apply to everyone.  He had pain about his failures and his mother dying young, and no doubt was angry at the universe for no reason that I will ever fathom except he needed his place in a world that is free.

Now I will say because of this fact, I love family as a way to be a moron, i.e., dreamy, free, studious, good, adolescent.  I changed my own life without knowing that I had to be my answer. 

This is getting into philosophical territory.  I cannot be an answer to myself.  I have already said there are no answers.  So, what does this mean?  I really think that I feel like creativity makes this world safe.

I can only be creative in this moment by knowing that the Goddess has a lot of love.

Her will is:  (My will must be):  girl, be free.

Plea is for patience.  I am learning this is what is strong.  I also must know hope.  (Not because I want to must I, but because it's part of the life I chose.)

Maybe this letter is simply a way to begin understanding that someone ((Me:Julia)) is a hallowed rope of womanhood.  That is:  I capitalized on drugs.

Money and patience are not peaceful when made into shame and cruelty.

I guess this is all:  shadow self/bright self.  My bright self  made me know my own freedom; my shadow self made freedom know me.

I love this dream.

I am what I am because there's streams that carry people's lives and I am facing the wrong way.

Does anyone still have a boat to merrily row?

Hallow, Home,
Tallow, Loam.

That's my being.

Happiness Death Pain Rusty Rose

I have never thought that there was beauty that felt groovy like a base called omens.

Omens remember what poems are.  I have so much foolish anger.  I don't know why I think of feelings as safe.  I have been crazy and that is so painful.

This is what I have been making hopeful:  a lot of reasoning (rationalizing), peace (numbness), and cruelty(fear).

I was poor when I knew change.  I was cold when I felt peace.  This coldness is hate of my dreams, which are:  love, laughter, and peace.  I hate these because I am a woman who is:  fearful of my own needs, which are:  beauty, softness, hope, (what am I suppressing?) (what is life?) home (strength to grieve my life).

I never thought that I was good to people because I was not pain.  I WAS happy when I was 4.  Other kids were to me rough and dangerous and caused fear and embarrassment and a knowledge of contemptuousness in me.  People seemed to me determined to prove their fearless desire to destroy barriers to their own pride.  Now I am the person that I felt was cruel.  I hate it.  I need to make this place hopeful.  You can not OWN bodies.

I love the way that home is the only way to be what is strong.  I suppose I need protection.  I would also like to give protection.  These knowledges only make me want to give love to that strength which needed my beauty.  Who was that?  The one who was cheating my feelings of love by giving life to my failure.  Who?  That is my estrogen (girl, you are trying to be stupid).  You are poem of hope.  By "my failure" I am trying to say that I am below the place that I was when I thought I was free.  This is hurting me because I am truthfully hopeful.

Please just tell me what it is that made your li(v)es safe?  And mine hateful?  I am not the only one with hope.  I am not the only one who is changing.

I retract my assertion that I am life to anyone without being strong for my feelings.  These are:  I am chasing pain because it is the only way to be creepy to my friend.  I am tired of this.  I am not the only strong (not strong) failure that ever existed.  I thought you were the person who would be safe.  I am cruel because of my own hatred for blustering peace (netherworld dreams of failure are the only way to be safe if you want to make others die for their actions.)  I am not interested in doing what was the only argument that was anger:  my need to be a failed pagan.

You who are reading this must know that I was your failure.  I failed you and myself because I was wrong about that woman who is that hopeful person with good in her life.  She is a free person.  I am sorry I thought otherwise.  I was the only person who would be cold because of that cruelty of being  mothered for my laughter.  I knew what Goddesses are.

Let it be:  I am girlie in a way that is peaceful.

You are safe.

This is nearly unreadable.  I apologize.  This is how I make myself alive.  Perhaps ha! I will return to it later and make it understandable.

It hurts to be bored.

Depression in Writing

 Write some happy words:

Morph, Crust, Open
Wizard, Round, Party

Gambling, Moments, Claps

Aphrodite, Afterhours, Affiliated


Happy Three.

Obatala

Oshun

Osiris

It's sex that changes urgency to happiness.

I remember when I wondered what love was.

I need to be the person who cares that I have been looking for.

I have given this my home.







How world draws openness:

By grieving its answers.





This pain was raised to feel good.
I taught life it was needed to be happy.

I have loved reading.  I have loved brass.

The tension is:   What does the openness please?

I saw I in you.

I saw you in I.

Love is when there is dream book (not true) entitled:  death gives [blank]

I want to change books.  The grave is known.  The drugs are cruel.

Laughter does itself with change, answer becomes fun.

I lived to take my argument (death) to plug it in its ra??

Drag it here.  I'm a rap called r??e.

Tell me why.

I run to my life as a mess.  I run to my life as a chapel of marsha.

I wanted that jargon to be effortless.

Lay my poem in the trees.





Illness just wants peace.  Illness is the anger toward my princess.


I want a lover who believes in me to say, "Yes, you are beautiful," and live.

Ovary comb gore drawer change is  making dreams live.

I will never know why I love my reasons for feeling home.

They are:  grief, peace, trees, soft craft.

Floors dream like champions crave feelings.
I take feelings by making myself feel.

I feel glad of my reason:

What would it be like to let go?

Popping the cracking change with laughter.

thank you for making my self easy.

I am having fun torturing all this out of me.

Can I please stop?

Lesbian girls change race to reagan.

Orgasmic life is needed.  I remember that rambling groan.

Words:'

Lore, Mother, Craving, Us, Move, Dream, Chase, Pope And Grieve.

I hereby abjure any love that is fear.