The Secret Language of Diaries

It seems I've spent the beginning of this year mostly in bed, but I've put it to good use, albiet slowly.Our crafty green poet has been a huge help and she doesn't even know it. Lying in bed day after day and almost but not quite starting to feel sorry for myself, I read her post about journal re-vitalizing and it reminded me of a 'chore' I love to do. So I , with some help, put some things like glue, scissors, needle and thread and pans of watercolor and a pot of glitter called twig which is an amazing color between brown and gray with a smidgeon of green in it, and three small photographs from an old magazine, took an ordinary, plain covered journal and made a beautiful, if not simple diary. Sometimes i get carried away and make symphonies of them, but this felt just right. But then it took three days to begin writing in it, because I was worn out. cry babby! I am presently making a three-D birthday card for my eldest son's god-father with a very surreal theme, it's unusual and unlike anything I've done before. I worry I might have taken on more than I planned. But I am enjoying it immensely. {warning: my 'j' button often doesn't work, so if you see a word like ust, figure it's just.} I found this fabulous painting of a young girl watering from a watering can, cups of tea that are sitting on tall stalks. She's very delicate and Richard does drink a great deal of tea. I long to return to 'delicate'.

All at once, the firetrucks are going off, hence the dogs are following suit, so it sounds like a rabbit is loose somewhere here. Everyone is miserable, but i'm sure, mostly the people whose house is on fire.

When I was a teen and young at that, my mother always looked at my things under the bed. My diaries, my letters from Viet Nam, my poems. I always wished I could write in the French she made me take, (i was coming along nicely in Spanish, but it was too plebian for her and she insisted I change over), because then she wouldn't have been able to read the poems, the diary entries. After awhile, I stopped keeping a diary and kept my lousy poems with me. When I left home and found myself in delicious Berkeley of the oh so cool and beautiful weather, I began again until I was married to my sons' father, who also was a snooper. I kept a 'safe' journal in those years. Now I can write anything I want and my husband of fifteen years wouldn't dream of looking. It's so pleasant to relax. I love , absolutely love the concept "to relax".

Later:
I went to the cardiologist's office yesterday. What an arduous trip. But he said I was doing well and that I looked well, (even though the vanity of me hates that the, he called them steroids,has put some weight on me.) My face still looks nice I guess. It's nice when a doctor compliments one. I forgot to tell him that the day before my heart was absolutely haywire. I think he might have run my pacemaker and seen that. Well, it will show up the next time he runs a strip and sees the flips and trapeze swinging my heart beat was doing.I have spent enough time on me, i think i shall move on...