(Dunc? check your e mail for a full report. Cutie. Grin.)
It's been pointed out to me that I don't seem to understand the concept of journaling. I suppose that if one thinks of journals as an orderly "log" of one's life--then yep--that's entirely true. I don't understand the concept of that. I have started journals many times, and most of them had one or two neat entries, the date carefully penned, my print making indentations in the paper as if I could "will" the discipline into the pages. Smile. That never did work for me.
I just saw an interview with Moon Zappa, who spoke about her "process" while writing her novel. She said it was like "collaging". That's sort of how I operate too. So if my little stories don't unfold sequentially, please understand that very little about me does.
Boys and girls? Please take out your scissors and cut these pictures out. Then on a piece of paper, use your glue to piece them together to form a story that makes sense to you. There is no grade for this project other than your own amusement. If at any time you get bored with the pictures provided, feel free to draw your own. In fact, I'm hoping to encourage just that very thing.
(I may bore you silly, but I find you extremely interesting.)
Quite a mess, ain't I?
In fact, my own mother pointed that out to me recently, saying it with some annoyance and the surprise of someone who had forgotten a minor detail.
"You were born a mess, Karen Anne."
(She's a good mother, folks, the above comment was brought on by some health issues that have come up lately for me.)
I must say that I have to agree with her. How she managed to cope with me at all, being the "surprise" fifth child and born with some special problems, I thought, "You're a better woman than me, Mom. I'd have lost my mind." (Note my assumption of sanity there, folks. )
So I thought I'd let you in on the birth of a "witch" (serenity cackles here) under the premise that it is never too late to start at the beginning. Not when you've started over as many times as I have.
I was born on--backspace--wait a minute, that's only interesting to astrologers and archivists. The year is fine, 1961. The year is kind of vital information because, it has been pointed out to me, that I was conceive 6 months before the birth control pill became available to the public.
("Whew!" exclaimed the egg and the sperm.)
I think about that sometimes and so much about me makes sense then. I am a procrastinator, and yet, I operate remarkably well under the threat of an impending deadline. There's a word for this that I love alot. It's a german word, with no English equivalent: torschlusspanik - roughly translated as an 11th hour rush of energy, with midnight being the finale'.
I am more than lazy until then, and seem to thrive on the rush of energy that screams "OH NO."
Nod. (I see some of you out there nodding your heads. I ain't so weird, now, huh?)
But I digress from my digression. Grin.
I was born a fairly happy baby I have heard. That lasted as long as it took for me to get hungry. Y'see, I was born allergic to everything but goat's milk.
(Mmmhmmm. That's right. GOAT's MILK. As in the great horned god, Baphomet - giggling at my own drama here)
But b'wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooo (<--eerie music) There you have it. The first sign of a witch.
Then there was the remarkable ability I had to produce my own allergens, most notably, my own urine. (there ain't too much I won't confide) But this necessitated me to be raised skyclad for the first year of my life, as I could not be diapered. I don't believe I had a babybed, but was kept quite comfortable in a playpen, with padding that had to be changed with the frequency one would a diaper. Second sign of the witch.
Third sign. By age four, I developed "the evil eye". I had "lazy eye" for which I had surgery to correct at age six.
Fourth sign? More surgery at age ten. Oral surgery. Seems I grew two rows of bottom teeth and tsk...one of 'em had to go.
Now keep in mind that I still had all these mystery allergies too, so my skin was always in a state of eruption or recovery. I was thin--then I'd get fat. Shaking my head.
I truly was born a mess.
I was such a mess, in fact, that my mother once shook her head while thinking about it, commenting, "Had you been born in the Holy Days, you would have found your fate to be begging for alms outside of the temple!"
grin. Now ya'll see where I get "it" from.
So that's it for today folks. I hope it sparked some memory triggers for you to relate to--I like stories too.