Posted on 14 October 2005

I have just returned from doing a fashion show for the store at the “Salmon House on the Hill”. The restaurant wasn’t full but one woman, who saw the show, came to store after and bought a thousand dollars worth of clothes. But what really made my heart sing were the models. They weren’t anorexic professionals but beautiful, lively women, aged twenty to forty years who loved the clothes, commented on texture, colour, style, and will buy when they can afford to. Besides the shows – two more next week at the Hyatt Regency – the store is pretty demanding of my time as it always is at change-of-season.

I am still enjoying my vacation from writing though I am editing a story for Helen’s cousin. It’s taken me hours as it’s long, over 11,000 words, and as this is his first attempt at a short story, I have to explain each comment.

And okay I do write in my journal and at Marlene’s on Wednesday evening but I don’t know if I want to talk about it. Sometimes I would like to forget all this Jungian stuff and be a dumb blond, accepting everything, smiling endlessly; but I can’t… though often I feel as if I’m visiting hell.

I don’t really understand the turbulent emotion that erupts from some dark place in me. Last night, for instance. I cringe when I think about what I read, my stomach churning, my heart beating too fast, the sweat pouring off me. But the ridiculous part is that what I wrote is no big deal to anyone but myself. And I would have cringed more if I hadn’t read. “This is who you are,” I tell myself. “If you don’t like it, do something about it. Change.”

“Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, canceled, made nothing… dipped in oblivion?” Woodman quotes D.H. Lawrence and adds: “If not, you will never really change.”

And oh, I so want to be in control of myself. I feel doomed at the moment. Don’t know if I’m tough enough for this world. Ever feel that way?

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