Everywhere, there is the tears that keep needing to be shed. My inner child 'Charlie' begs forgiveness for what he doesn't understand, and even the Gods outside need to be forgiven. Everywhere, it is tears. I have soaked kleenex after kleenex, and think some better catharsis might be necessary.

Everywhere, it is like this. There will be no easy joints to this message, no easy passageway, one thought to another. It is a twisting maze, one that may amaze, and one I have to write about. Because there will be no sleep until I do. None at all. This thing needs exorcising.

It may all come up to some planet square another, moodiness predicted, or my hormones out of whack because I should have bled Sunday and now it is Tuesday, and there's nothing predictable about THAT any more.

Unpredictable, chaotic, 'not perfect'. Aiiiii-i-i-i! I am 'not perfect'. The floors a mess, the toilet needs cleaning. I wasn't sure if that bug I saw skitter when I turned on the light to get some milk was only a cricket. Maybe he was a little fat around the middle to be a cricket. Oh, God, I am not perfect.

I am not ever going to 'be perfect', either. My inner Charlie can stop crying for what he doesn't understand. He is an innocent in all his childlike ways, wild though they may be. I am the wild one, I won't be easily 'tamed'. Don't think I need it anyway. So, yes, the thirst will be too ferocious, the house too messy, the blouse stained, the hair disheveled and any number of other things you might have observed.

I don't care. I am not ever going to 'be perfect'. I don't have it in me. I will be writing wild verse while the bugs are plotting rebellion in the corner of the kitchen. They really shouldn't be rebelling, there's such a lot of food droppings to keep them happy.

Say to my 'antonominian soul', ''You don't follow rules because you CAN'T,'' you might. I'm not perfect. I am not ever going to 'be perfect'.

I just want to make that plain. I'm going to embrace my inner child anyway. I'm going to tell him he can cry all the tears he needs to, I love him for each one. I love him for each joy, each horny thought, each savored sensuality. (And these are the things they call 'adult'? Well, Charlie IS twenty two. He just acts like a child.) Who cares. I am not perfect. I am not ever going to 'be perfect'.

I'm going to cry these tears until I get them out of my system. Then I will tell the women with perfect houses . . .

. . . No, I won't say what I just thought. One of those perfect women with perfect house might be YOU, dear reader. If you are, I salute you and all your perfection, your color co-ordinated this and that, your perfect, spotless floor and all that.

But do you write poetry at 1:42 in the morning? And do you love your inner child? And do you give yourself permission to cry? We need these things, too. You might not be able to eat off my floor, but you can read my poems and maybe they might make sense to you.

Do they? Or am I just pissing in the wind? Another brazen effort by that shameless hussy . . .

. . . can't be TOO shameless, or I wouldn't be crying these tears. My inner child wouldn't be feeling small and weak and soaking my pillow. But, as I said, I am not perfect. I want to blow this concept of 'perfection' sky high. Send it a bolt of electricity, chop that illusion up into a million little pieces . . .

. . . and I know I am just another overwrought woman with hormones gone whack. But it's okay, for I'm 'not perfect' and I don't bloody care. I'm smiling now, and I don't even care if it's a 'sane' smile. I'm smiling, and I may be working through my redemption despite myself. To redeem myself, I claim all those aspects of myself, my wavering mind, my wandering judgment, and my crying, sweet inner child at 1:48 in the morning. Nothing else much matters at this point.

It's 2:13am, and I'm really smiling. I just sent this up to the web (minus this paragraph) and then went to see my horoscope:

Current Cosmic Conditions
The predominant transit for today
October 28, 2003
EXTREME EMOTIONS
(Moon conjunct Pluto) ''An extreme emotional experience is possible. If you've been sitting on a volcano, it could be ready to erupt now. Nevertheless, this time will pass shortly, so maintain some perspective . . .''

Yeah, I'd call the emotional experience I've just had 'extreme'. I smile, embrace my inner child, whose tears have dried. He's feeling better, I'm feeling better. And it's all okay. I don't have to 'be perfect'. I sigh, smile, and prepare to upload this revised edition, and go back to bed. Sleep will come now.