Note to friends and family: you might find that some of the text below seems familiar to you; not to worry: I wrote the words first for you, and then, liking them so well, I ripped myself off for the sake of the verbal exhibitionism that the web makes so easy.

March 1, 1998

For as long as I can remember I've kept a journal. Not consistently through the years, but more on than off. During some periods I could fill a 300 page notebook in two months; during others, it took me several years to reach the last spiral bound page. I mostly wrote for myself, to puzzle through problems, to work out feelings, to capture the despair I felt so exquisitely and turn it into something else, an exercise in words and imagination. My conscious mind believed I was writing for myself and myself only, but subconsciously I was also writing for an audience, an imagined audience, for the person I imagined would one day want to "understand" me.

As undoubtedly happens to many journal writers, I gave up the labor of pen and ink and spiral notebook as soon as I discovered the internet. Finally, an outlet for all that pent-up writing, with an audience as big or little as I choose! For the past four years I've written endlessly to a variety of email discussion lists, about feelings and memories, political issues and technical problems, ideas and dreams, anything and everything I felt moved to comment on. Hours and hours, pages and pages of writing. All of it, for an audience, and most of it, cathartic.

But I grew weary of the fleeting nature of writing to lists. Your post shows up one day and then disappears the next. If someone feels moved to respond three or four days later they apologize for the "late reply"; days are like months, years in cyber-time. And more often than not, I'm just writing to see myself think, to see what's on my mind, b/c I never really know until the fingers start flying across the keyboard.

So thus was born the latest incarnation of my journalling tendencies: to write for the web, for an audience of visitors to my web site, whoever you may be. I can't promise that what I write will always be interesting, engaging, worth reading, but it'll be here, should you want to read my mind.

March 2, 1998

I am camping in a forest of hallelujah cactus, the ones with arms raised high in praise of sunshine and blue skies. Mostly I read, and nap, and am occasionally taken for walks by the dogs. Old folks in their shiny new behemoth RVs, luxury hotels on wheels, come and go from the spaces around me, as though this is just one stop on a whirlwind tour of the southwest., rather than a place to rest, and think, and be.

As I marvel at the artistry of a desert sky at dusk, I remember a threat made long ago, in jest, to steal me away to another pinking sky. She makes no such threats now, but the memories, how they linger like the last golden fragments of a dying sun.

March 3, 1998

Keys

Before I gained access to the mystery cult of RVers my life, and my keyring, was simple. I had one key for my car, one for my house, and one for my PO box. Simple. But my new home, the big box on wheels, has a thousand points of entry, and half as many more extra security devices. So now my key chain weighs 83 pounds, which makes it look pretty ridiculous hanging there off my the belt loop in my jeans, threatening to pull a plumber's moon on some unsuspecting passerby.

Decisions

Sometimes I think I shouldn't be allowed to make decisions that might cost me over, say, $50, because I always seem to make bad ones. Make that bad and *expensive* ones.

I recently bought a pickup truck and a travel trailer, because I figured this way I'd get more quality and safety for my money than if I bought a motorhome. Which is, for the most part, true, but there are some motorhomes that are exceptionally well built and quite safe to drive. I looked into these when I first started RV shopping, but thought the price was beyond my budget. However, now that all the checks have been written for the truck, trailer, shell, hitch, etc., I can see that the cost turns out to be about the same. So I'm left regretting my decision.

Not that I made bad choices. I got a top of the line truck (98 Ford F150 XLT Supercab 4x4) and a top of the line trailer (Nash 22H), both with excellent safety scores and resale values, but all hitched up I'm pulling over 40 feet of metal down the road, and that rather severely limits my options of where I can go in my home on wheels, in ways a 23' motorhome would've have. I keep looking at the map, at all those two-lane highways marked as "scenic routes," and pouting, because I don't think I should risk getting stuck on them with the trailer in tow, inching over some small incline while a million irate commuters honk their horns behind me. And then there's the backing into a tight campsite nightmare, followed by world champion arm-wrestling with the two ton hitch when it comes time to make camp. All of which is to say... argh. Next time I have to make a major decision, I should get all geared up to go with A, and then at the last minute go with B.

Space

I'm a girl who needs her space. A *lot* of space. The presence of other people for any extended period of time inevitably begins to wear me thin, like the sound of a thousand screeching insects hovering just outside your reach. I grow nervous, anxious, frazzled. I need out. I need space.

Last fall my lover and I drove 16,000 miles across the country. It wasn't until we drove across Wyoming, where the buffalo outnumber the people, that I finally felt like... THIS is a place with enough space. Maybe I'll consider moving there one day.

"Community"

This has to be the most over-invoked word in the entire English language. And a meaningless one at that. Just what is a "community" anyway? Who gets to decide who's in or out of a community? Are you part of one even if you don't want to be? Is there a limit to how many communities one person can belong to at a time?

I think people use the word because it makes them feel better, like they're not so alone in the world, as though being alone in the world is some kind of problem.

Headings

I love using these little heading things. Allows me to jump randomly from one topic to the next w/o having to force some kind of coherent segue!

Depression

No one likes to hear about depression. It's like a splotchy black streak across a cheery Monet. It ruins the illusion. Hearing about someone else's depression is depressing, and who needs that, really? But the truth is, so many of us are in despair and we don't have a clue what to do about it. Oh sure, the Christians and the New Agers and the Psychology Industry all have their answers, but they don't understand the question. To despair over the meaning of life is to have *given the matter some thought* and nothing is more important than that, in the Amy Book of Wisdom. To despair is to be alive, to notice life, to engage in it rather than nodding to the dictates of a Hollywood culture.

Well, I was off to a good start, it seems, but already it's six weeks later and I haven't written a single new entry. But don't give up hope -- I feel a wordstorm brewing.

April 10, 1998

At times I really miss the bay area. A memory or an image will float into my mind and the longing for the life I wanted to have there wastes no time washing over me, settling in the pit of my stomach. There was so much I enjoyed about the area, so much I wanted my life to be while there, so much it could never be for a variety of complex reasons, only one of which is my inability to breathe.

So then my mind drifts into the future, wondering what new dreams I might conjure up for myself. Should I move to Boulder or Tucson, both low-humidity cities rumored to have active and lively lesbian and literary scenes? Should I give Portland and Seattle another chance, in the hopes that somehow the humidity there will be more tolerable than in the bay area?

Maybe I should apply to a dozen graduate schools and just go wherever I am offered the best scholarship?

April 12, 1998

The mountains in the desert are not like other mountains. Some of them look like they were carved out of jasper, others out of dark red marble; they are older, more world-weary, wiser than other mountains in youthful shades of green and gray. The golden light of afternoon sharpens their jagged edges, and then the pinks and purples of sunset settle in to soften the effect. At night the wind is fierce, echoing the sound of coyotes complaining to the moon.

April 14, 1998

I take great comfort in the presence of Lily deBear. When we were in Calistoga, my lover and I wandered into a candy store, in search of chocolate for her and sweet tarts for me, and I saw her sitting on a shelf. I've never been drawn to a stuffed animal before, but she looked at me with those sweet, big, brown eyes and I just had to pick her up and feel the softness of her cinnamon fur. She has the cutest little feet. For the first time in my thirty years I find myself cuddling with a teddy bear at night. I wonder what it means.

April 15, 1998

When I lived in Virginia, in a third floor apartment, I walked the dogs three or four times a day, every day, but each time I gathered their leashes and said the magic word, "walk," they went wild, as if they had never in their lives done something so exciting. I used to laugh at them, but now I understand: to a dog, a walk isn't just a pleasurable detour on the path to greater adventures, it's the Adventure Of A Lifetime.

I take such pleasure in watching them, Milton zig-zagging across the road ahead of me, too much energy for a straight line, Wimsey trotting a leash-length behind, panting through her goofy grin. Her hind legs are pigeon-toed, so her whole chubby body wiggles when she walks, her tail wagging along with it. Whenever she discovers an Important Smell, Milton rushes over to knock her out of the way so he can smell it, although he lacks the refined nose of a hound dog. Such a little brother.

On my first day at this campground, I took them for a walk around 6, enjoying the sunset and stretching out my driving-weary legs. The next day I took them out again around 6, and by the third day, they were thoroughly conditioned. Without even glancing at my watch I knew that it would read 5:55 -- they were anxious and eager and wouldn't stop licking my legs.

May 17, 1998

It's bloody hot in Tucson! I've been busy pretending to write a novel, so I haven't written much here in a while, but perhaps when I reach a cooler climate in a few weeks, I'll cook up a whole new batch of words. And maybe I'll finally get around to re-organizing the fan club pages, to include some smart email!

June 4, 1998

I want a horse!

August 4, 1998

I got a horse!!

August 4, 2000

I got a purpose in life!!

NOTE:
Ya know, if you've made it this far, you might just be interested in one of the two small, private discussion lists I run for lesbians and bi women. They're both open to a few bright, interesting new members at the moment, but under only one condition: I must not know you in person. The point of the lists is to bring together new voices, not to recreate Amy's little group of friends online!! Write me for more info if you're interested.

I also run a couple of other women's and lesbian/bi lists, like travel-dykes, poly-dykes, mac-women and lesac-net. Check out this page for more info.