Big Brother Julia

I loved my mother.

More later.

Welcome to Rockaway Beach, Oregon.

Mmhmm. (Just clearing my throat).

My mind, or whatever it is, whatever you may call it, drifts back for convenience's sake, for the moment and what I hope to wring from it, to days of yore, say 5 or 6 years ago, when -- without your (my reader's) knowledge -- I would spend hour after hour writing in the most difficult of veins, the kind that, if it was a small amount more wrenching would have put me in the hospital, the kind that at 3 in the morning involved bout after bout of wailing and crying so that I was sure the police would soon arrive, the kind that might draw the attention of even my deafened mother.  This fleeting thought recalls those days when I linked writerly perfection to emotional self-torture, so that only one word at a time might do for each aspect of traumatic recall that I enacted over hours in my old bedroom in the Arizona dark.

Now that I am in new environs, close to the ocean, only one state south of the places my relatives called home, I am entirely comforted in the thought that I will soon visit my Aunt Linnet in Bellingham, Washington, probably prepatory to moving to THAT area.  I feel my stay here is untenable.  I cannot let anger and pain become the accompaniments of familial love.

No one needs to become afraid because of my answers to my mind's cruelties.

I can be  peaceful; I must be strong.  For a long time I have thought I had reached my limits of both those qualities.  I look forward to a bit of freedom that I recognize as a need to fulfill and a possibility of something faintly new.

I don't really write like this.

Safety, stability and security are my watchwords.