3:30am - half a can of 7-up - to clear that nasty taste out of my mouth. But should this, and the other things I ate last night even be listed? You know, as they didn't 'stay with me'?

I will say no further on the matter. I've already grossed you out beyond what you expect when you come to my fair pages. So I will take my leave now. I'm going back to bed. Talk to you all later.

November 1, 1999

"The Invasion of the Body Snatchers"

The invasion of the body snatchers starts with the sinuses, I'm sure. I feel as though I'm no more than a host for whatever has taken up residence there.

November 2, 1999

"Winning The Battle"

I'm finally winning the bug battle. The 'monsters' which decided to take over my sinuses have had their 'hit points' vastly lowered. It's only a matter of time before they're completely vanquished and I'll be back to my wordy self.

November 3, 1999

"Only I"

Two cups of willowgreen tea already in me by 6:45am, I am soothed as the tea is easing heat into me. It's a good time for a reflective mood.

Only I Just now, in the shivering morning, when I touch my nose to the mirror, what might I find? Distortions blurred shapes, a new angle on truth, or the light I'd forgotten was there? Only this morning it is different. All the paths arc around in a spiral to the center. Only I can provide the clue. I must find that deep center. JAL,11-3-99

Looking at the 'JUSTJOAN' folder, into which I've sorted all the pages and pics I've created since entering the web world three years ago, I'm surprised to learn there are 1,279 items, measuring 12.8MB. One thousand, two hundred, seventy nine items - I watched their titles flit by the other day when I was transferring files to the new computer. As I'd set the listing to be time sequential, the titles clued me to the events which the items represented. "Oh, that was the trip to Winterhaven , Christmas of last year. And that little group, that was the Renaissance Festival. And, oh, those were of the green eyed lady I drew . . ."

Just the titles alone were keys to the imagination. What a precious group of memories I've collected here! There is no award, however coveted, that can be given that equals the wealth I've assembled. Yes, I enjoy when others find my treasure box, and no doubt that motivates me. But that I've pressed those moments of time into the scrapbook of life, to perserve them against the forgetfulness that would otherwise blur them as the years go by, this one thing, revenge against decay, death, this one thing I can do to perserve what will too soon be my days of youth against the wrinkling of time, I plot my revenge joyfully.

November 4, 1999

"Here's Looking At You"

This little bougainvilla bloom surprised me from out of a larger pic I took today:

here's looking at 'ya...

November 5, 1999

"Time For A Poem"

Yesterday has come and gone, taking with it my ambitious plans for a meaty entry as well. Who knows what today brings? On off days, that thought can be the cause of an unsettling hazy anxiety wafting about my drafty mental corridors. This morning is just that 'off'. Maybe this afternoon will be more cheery.

Later this day . . .

I've filed through my tasks today. Still more yet, and some I've been avoiding. But I always make time for a poem. Today's is rather mysterious.

If You Must Was it you on top of the hill? I tried to see, but the fog was coming down. Why did I think you might have a letter, faded and worn? You would not tell me. You hold such things close to you. Bear your mysteries alone if you must, but there's nothing humble in the telling, nothing threadbare about those secrets, that a little light would not shred. Keep them close if you must, but know their clear worth. JAL,11-5-99

November 6, 1999

"They're All Wearing Masks These Days"

What barriers do you face as you try to write your own truth?

This was the query a writer's group made a week ago. Today, it burns into me. I have so many barriers piled in front of me, and they're all of my own making. How do I know what truth is? I cling to what all may be illusions of self. I like to think of myself as this wise, balanced, sensitive person. What if all I am is sensitive to the feelings of my own hypothalmus? What if I am no more than the frightened cave person, piling up rocks in front of my cave opening, so that what threatens me doesn't touch me? What if I am? How can I possibly know? I'm too close to me. I'm too close to the entity inside which says, "You're right. That which you fear, it IS bad. You have a right to be just as angry as you are. You have a right to be just as jealous as you are. You have a right."

I don't know any more. It's too easy to listen to these seducing illusions. After all, I can make myself feel better that way. And I do like to make myself feel better. It doesn't matter if it rips up someone I love. Just as long as 'ol hypo' is happy. I can sing in my cave. I can paint on the walls in my cave, and nothing else matters.

Fortunately, 'ol hypo' isn't all of me. But weeding him out from my better self isn't easy. They're all wearing masks these days, and I can't tell who is who.

November 7, 1999

"Gently, Now"

Full of thoughtfulness this morning, but calmer, for I am able to accept confusion.

Understanding is like water flowing in a stream. Wisdom and knowledge are solid and can block our understanding. In Buddhism, knowledge is regarded as an obstacle for understanding. If we take something to be the truth, we may cling to it so much that even if the truth comes and knocks at our door, we won't let it in. We have to be able to transcend our previous knowledge the way we climb up a ladder. If we are on the fifth rung and think we are very high up, there is no hope for us to step on the sixth. We must learn to transcend our own views. -Thich Nhat Hanh (The Heart of Understanding)

Gently now, I can bathe all my inner selves. All are embraced. The path of growth is there, and will be there when resting is done.

At least my inner 'id' isn't usually this ugly.

I pulled up my current quest in Might and Magic VII, and these are the monsters I'm facing. Bad behomeths, them! But I must face them if my sorcerer is to become an ARCHMAGE. I do want those higher powers.

November 8, 1999

"That Could Be It"

Morning seems to come earlier and earlier. Is this because the house is cold and dark and I don't want to leave my warm cocoon of bed? No doubt. But another new day awaits me, with all its tasks. I'm up. I'm dressed for exercising. But I'm not cheerful about it.

Later this morning . . .

Well, I've done my walk, bathed, and washed my hair. I should be ready to face the day. How come I don't feel my, as my horoscope says," . . .sociability quotient is higher than usual . . .?" Why do I still feel positively grumpy? Could it be because I'm going to have to call this customer later today and tell him, I'm sorry, but I can't do a project I agreed to do for him? I don't know what possessed me at the time, to think I could manage a heavy pool cover cover, but I did. But I can't. I can barely lift the damn thing! I hate that my judgment was so off, I hate having been wrong, and I hate knowing I'm going to piss the man off. Yeah, that could be it.

Still later this morning . . .

Well, I've delivered the bad news. He didn't seem too angry. I followed that up with a happy, 'Hello, your stuff is ready' call to another more lucky customer. I like delivering good news so much better.

That lady who was supposed to be here at 9:00am never made it. 'Spose I should roll my sleeves up and get at the work I CAN do.

Later this afternoon . . .

What CAN I do? Deep ponderings from that query. Am I really doing my best here, with these 'WORDS AND IMAGES'? Al , who has one of those discussion boards, asked his readers to name journals we'd recommend. I listed my top two, then allowed, being I lack humility, that I was partial to a certain 'WEIGHTY MATTERS'. Later, a flurry of worry - does my offerings belong in the same category? Another journaller decries 'sloppy scribblers', their 'tender (read WHINY) mourning' and 'cloying sweetness'. Have I any of that in my pages? Am I really doing my best here? Hence, this morning's poem asks:

Anything That Easy If I have grief, it won't be because of fear reaching up and clutching my throat. It won't be for the hard cold gripping my gut. It won't be for the one last tear frozen. There is a constancy of gel, a gap from where I am and where I want to be. There is a consistency of vision - down the hard line road. I wasn't always there. I've left my scattered bits strewn too far afield. And did they come too easy? Anything that easy deserves to be scattered. There is no excuse, none that matters, if the vision and the wish do not reach. JAL,11-8-99

No excuses - I need to work on that. Also on that pile of sewing. Do I too often, as Laura says, use "I can't", when I mean, "I won't"? I don't want to do this. I want to probe the limits of what really is possible. I need to know. I really need to know.

I'll think on this some more, as the pants, brown checked, ivory, and black, under my labor, become more fitting things. As the forms of green dress and the salmon coat are changed to better dimension, I'll think on this.

November 9, 1999

"It's Comfortable"

A serene mood fills the quiet corners of my mind. I've let some soft light in through my clean windows. I've dusted off the shelves, and fluffed up the pillows of my mental sofa. It's comfortable. I like it here. I'll rest here, among these things. True, that saying: Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

November 10, 1999

"Quite Jazzed

Julia subscribes to About Com's (AKA 'Mining Co') Ancient History newsletter. It was a bit of a surprise when this weeks featured topic is about Cybele and Attis, a topic to which Laura and Julia have devoted some research and several web pages. Much exultation in the household, when we saw those pages featured in About.Com's list of online resources about Cybele and Attis. It was four years ago, when Laura first began our historical website. Julia contributed her vast knowledge, while I contributed some navigation on the museion and about three images.

Laura hoped when we first began that perhaps our pages would encourage those with greater anthropological resources to research this subject in greater depth. And it appears this is happening! I'm quite jazzed!

Later this morning . . .

The smooth, sweet voice of Maire Brennan singing in "Perfect Time", and a pair of blue jeans under my hand, I had the distinct feeling someone, somewhere was sending me blessings:

Kind Thoughts There is something that bespeaks of a gift, quiet in the offering, perhaps origins unknown, but it comes, and I know it true. While I may not have been there on the day of its arriving, there is no doubt it was meant for me. I tuck the small thing into my heart and smile. Kind thoughts in the echoing chamber will find you again. JAL,11-10-99