The Apartment

"Get Back to" is no longer an acceptable goal- continue is my second magic word-
The Feminine Voice Dare is continuing

Homes of scholars rarely have more than one bedroom. If a scholar sleeps in a bed, company is even more rare, with the exception of a lover who will go down on you while you read poetry. Especially John Donne. These lovers are never forgotten.
Scholars congregated in the Row. Coffee houses and Chinese take out were a stumble away for bleary eyed writers who had forgotten to eat or sleep. I had done a ton of shopping to prepare for writing my story. I had been collecting one liners in a little notebook- good lines I would build around on a day like today. Deep breath, hot coffee, and not a thought in my pretty little head. I needed a practice write- a warm up ramble before the nitty gritty. I lounged on the window seat- more an exceptionally deep window sill, about 3 feet wide. The glass is very cold. I'm in a fishbowl looking at scholars scurry for caffeine 3 stories below. A tall, strong, stereotypical square jawed man in camouflage trips on the curb with his eyes on his phone. He is caught by an old, Hispanic drag queen with a bleach blond Cesar cut. I have inspiration for my warm up in the blend- a solider who made tap shoes from grande pins. I hop down and cross the open living room. The whole apartment is one room. Kitchen one wall, windowed wall, sleeping area, library. I had hung old stained windows or sheer silk floor to ceiling the divide and offer privacy. The colored light and rustle from the vents are a kind of meditation while I walk to my desk. I started keying away. The radiator next to me hisses while keeping my coffee slightly warm in the percolator. 750 words, and I need reference material. I head to the shelves and run my finger along the book spines.

"Finding what you need Marnie?" Dexter's voice drifted down. The library wall wasn't just in my room. The shelves started in the basement and layer upon layer, extended up the 6 stories of the building, wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Each apartment's floor stopped 3 feet from the stacks. A scholar stepped onto their platform programed by key words in their writing with their reference needs. Everything any of us would need to know is on this wall somewhere. Platforms hummed by as scholars needed reference material on floors other than their own.
"No Dexter. I'm really not finding it," I tried not to get distracted be inviting titles.
"What're you after?" Dexter bent down and turned his head to look at me.
"I'm not even sure. I'll know it when I see it."
"You always say that." Dexter smiled at me and dropped down the cookie in his other hand. "You know where to find me."
"No poetry today Dex?" I pulled a book on Fred and Ginger off the shelf leafing through for the jargon of tap dancing.
"Naw. Jimmy is being greedy with his horse training books. I can't get to his stacks."
"Damn it!"
"It's not just you it seems. Sounds like Jimmy won't let anyone down there, Dex,"
"Prick. I have some mac-n-cheese in the oven right now. I'll have my reference books on a hour or two. Then, Marnie, I will be king." Dexter flourished his bathrobe and made a face.
I laughed and waved him away while I sat back down to write.

Blue Moon- feminine voice

I wanted to be poetic and beautifully deep while thinking about a Blue Moon, but honestly all that comes to mind is beer. I love beer. I don’t love getting drunk. I love the taste, the mouth feel, the patient creativity of brewing your own. When I am enjoying the flavor, the dulling drunk is annoying, limiting the palate.

The first time I drank beer, I spit it out. I think it was a Miller product. The next time was Guinness and I was redeemed. The two experiences could not be further apart. I started home brewing in 1993 while living in Florida. There were 5 of us sharing the house, which required plenty of beer. With a full crew, we had one batch blowing off, one in second fermentation, one aging, and one to drink. I lost the necessity of lots of bubbles. I appreciated what a good head was and how the top of the glass can be different than the bottom.

After a several year stop in production, I started to experiment again. I wanted to make a historical beer. Me being me, I had to choose the most difficult ones-the ones with no surviving recipes- Rye Beer, and Ebulum. With the German Purity Laws, brewing guilds had to destroy their secret recipes. Ebulum – an elderberry oatmeal beer- was never really written down. Well, they sort of were. They were like my recipes: a list of ingredients with no quantity or instructions of any kind. These are the best recipes. I like to play with my food. And drink-

I called the rye Judas Tears. The beverage is against the law. It is perceived as yuck by those who hear what it is, but when cajoled into trying it, those who hate beer are surprised to be fond of it.
The ebulum is called Heather and Hay- two Scottish items for an old Scottish beer. There's wheat and elderberries and a list of spices that it makes no sense that they would work together, but there you are- a bunch of individual elements that can stand on their own or combine unexpectedly into something good.

After 14 years of growing, my grape vines burst and overflow and I am encouraged to a more patient level creativity in wine making. I use my grapes, and honey and ciders to make combinations I've never heard of. My freezer is full of 15ish gallons of grapes waiting for the prefect day to get smooshed. It is the only time I am capable of patience- when I am brewing and vinting or waiting until the perfect day to do either. I'm willing to wait for a Blue Moon until it's ready.

Repetition as a Form of Change- Feminine Voice week 20

After a long respite, I began fencing again. Reading – and understanding- Fiore’s manual has reminded me how seriously I take this martial art. I wanted to start with drill work to build my strength back up again and I am more determined to train it right right from the beginning. I paid attention to what I learned from Dr James and from 41 years of getting to know the quirks of this particular make and model of human being.
Every joint in my right leg is like raw nerve. I had forgotten about my ankle- that I had severely sprained it 3 times, minorly countless others and fractured it. As I lunged, my knee and toe were in perfect align, my stance wider and my pelvis tilted too correct fleet angle. The deeper I lunge, the more my heel rolls under, my ankle not supporting the leg above it. I would still lose my balance and my knee was in grinding pain because I had forgotten about my ankle.

The first few days of physical therapy were exhausting. With every bit of focus I could muster and every muscle on the right side of my body, I slowly did 10 lean drills. I forced my ankle into proper alignment by brute force of will. I wanted to cry with the same screaming as when I injured it falling through the stage years ago. I wanted to be rescued and comforted. Who knew it took so many muscles for a foot and ankle to stay put? I can feel the work all the way up to my hip. My knee brace is too uncomfortable to wear.

And then I did it again the next night. Four days later, I think about foot alignment while walking on my breaks at work. Every step is controlled, precise, and perpetual correction. I do not roll to the outside of my heel while at standing at rest infrequently enough that I have noticed I have changed. Last night, I did 45 lean drills. For the first time in years, I had to stop an exercise because of muscle fatigue instead of knee pain.

I have added neck therapy and once these become habits, wall angels. I might not have to stop fencing after all.

Confidence- week 18 Feminine Voice

the lion within

I have an admittedly hard time knowing the fine line difference between confidence and arrogance. The minute I realize I am describing myself in a congratulatory way, I feel I am that shameful descriptor- Show Off. (remember, no one likes a show off) and my confidence fails, my lion with a thorn in her paw. When I am aware that I feel confident in a skill, I fail. When I am absolutely sure I know what I am talking about, I am wrong. When it doesn't feel like anything out of the ordinary, it's all good. When I think - hey- this was a pretty darn good .....smack!
I do not like it. I am constantly struggling with it. I have been consciously and somewhat unconsciously holding things back and in more and more.

I listen over the cubical walls and I think there is something better- more intelligent- more creative to me and to my friends. I think I must be stuck up to think so. I think about the life I have led and their "35 years of dedicated service" plaques. I keep very quiet and to myself as much as possible. To paraphrase Mr Twain- better to keep your mouth shut and appear a stuck up bitch, then to open it and remove all doubt. And I roar at my sister's memory when she said I was too stuck up and that's why no body likes me. And in the echo I wonder if there is any truth to it.

Where is the line between confidence and arrogance, I wonder? Today I do not know. In a day or two, I will be sure I do. All I am sure of is there is a cyclical quality to my feeling this way about myself. And I don't like not knowing.

Impotence - femine voice week 17

-inability to preform and accomplish
-too much pressure, which is an unblaming way of saying insecurity and fear
Frozen in fear
Impotence:
frustrating at best in terms of creativity
terrifying at worst in the face of violence when being frozen in fear results in harm.

I have spent many focused weeks on creative writing- poetry- and now this feels foreign. it will take some getting used to to write in full sentences again.

Illusions- feminine voice week 16

I'm back in order, and almost on time-

I am disappointed to realize that my own search for truths in life has resulted in the disbelief of illusion. Like a Victorian scientist, I am focused on looking behind the curtain, to not let myself be swept away, or otherwise fooled by a trick of the eyes or hand. I'm finding it terribly unfair to my heart, my spirit of whimsy to not let it be amazed by a street magician's card tricks.

Pray to not lose your innocence- to not lose your ability to just be amazed.
Pray to not need the truth.

Simple Subtraction- femine voice week 11

This topic still eludes me. I read it, and I have nothing.
Math?
Paring back commitments?
Eliminating unhealthy people?

Not a thing has come to mind for 6 weeks.
I think I'm going to have to pass on this one, Alex-
Maybe someday something will come of it. Until then, I'll put a line through it on my list of things I hope to right about.

Silence - Feminine Voice week 15

Unplug
Turn off
Let go
What is there to do
When the power goes out?
An awareness acknowledges the
Audio electromagnetic gang rape
that is convenience
forces a fear of quiet.
No comfort taken or relaxation
in case the assailant comes back-

Constant contact
forces fear of time alone.
Perpetual stimulation
Under satisfaction
Let go-

What is there to do
When the power goes out?

Paths- Feminine voice week 14

Two roads diverged in the woods.
I ignored them both to head into the wild- the unknown, to mark a trail by which others may learn to travel.

When I have been able, I have decided fully what I would do and who I would go to for learning. Of all the things I know how to do now, I created another path just to see where it would lead. My treasure map is in my head. I had no degrees, or accreditations, nor certifications when I handled and repaired Egyptian mummified cats, or Roman artifacts, or Napoleon's personal effects. I did not have years of specialized training for setting off explosives within 3 feet of 25 actors, nor for building the controller for doing so. I have been put in charge of $1,000,000 of lighting equipment. I learned and have done these things be picking through the vines, wading in the waters, and like in The African Queen, salted the leeches from my body only to slide back into the swamp to pull my burden to the sea.

I do not regret these paths. I miss them fondly as I attempt living outside my comfort zone in constancy and familiarity. I find new paths, though smaller, to relish. Perhaps less wild than before, but still there.

Autumn- Femine Voice week 13

In the courtyard
White wines in the afternoon
tea and toast with ginger jam at bedtime.
A great lid is taken off.
From no where, crows are every where.
The sky and heat are let out
cirrus clouds as vague as steam
draw out and cool the cauldron earth.

Black wings fan and cool the courtyard.
The metal bench pulls my body's heat
calling the needs of warmth
reflected from amber windows.
Feathers on feathers as they fly-
hollies and box woods shake
replying to the wind they make

Femine Voice- week 12 Sweat

I cry at the drop of a hat- any hat. I cry at beauty and pain, pride and elation and times of passion. Salt holds my emotions and carries my energies out. Otherwise, I become laden down, heavy, nonoperational. It's too crowded inside me, like sand in a pipe. I can not think things through. I grind to a halt and shut down. To relieve the pressure, salt purifies. It must come out. Crying is not the only way. It's the bleeder valve, but not the switch. Exercise videos and "working out" are not a substitute- forced, useless sweat like a love token to a stranger, too easy to forget because I have gained nothing.

The sweat of hard work lightens my load. I can load a truck, climb a mountain, rearrange the woodpile, shovel snow- things like these are the best therapy. An hour or two of sweat filled productivity brings my wisdom, peace and cleanliness. I need a visual confirmation of my work, something accomplished, pile A is now pile B. I have succeeded and have proved my worth. Then I can sit down to write what I have learned.

Tears of my body- Salting the earth of my garden.

Lines- feminine voice dare - week 10

originally written 4-26-1993

What do you think it is? No, look deeper- it goes further than just geometry- more than just a line on a sheet of paper. It's a line sure- but it could be a line connecting two points. They are different, but the line between them joins them and let's them respect the privilege of having an opinion.

And it could be more than that. Instead of just a point at each end, maybe there's more- five, six,twelve, a hundred- a hundred points in between, all connected by a hundred tiny lines. A hundred separate thoughts all pulled together and depending on each other to pass the line along. Maybe a thousand pin points doing the same thing- a million- trusting the unwavering strength of each other to keep the line alive. Without one point to bind them, the whole thing would be blown in to utter chaos- the kind that crumbles nations.

Every line we draw and the shape it makes defines us. Each line shape we put on paper holds a segment of our infinite ideas that need to be understood. We have to be careful about the order the lines go in. The order helps us to perceive- to join thoughts without criticizing the other. And we are different, but the lines we draw join us and let us respect the privilege of having an opinion.
The more finite the lines, the more points, the more thoughts connect and more ideas, joining in comprehension until it all just flows back and forth- different and same in improbable continuity.

You look confused. Where did I lose you? At a line connecting two points....Maybe if you look at it this way? No? Maybe I just have a longer line than you. Or maybe mine is just a different shade of blue- either way...

Acceptance- feminine voice dare week 9

It has been the thought - how did I end up like this from the unstoppable I was?

When life was limitless, things came to me easily. I knew there was something to it, and I embraced, relished in it. I do know when I noticed that changed. It was further ago than I like to admit, and since it has taken so long to get over it, clearly I'm not doing it right. I met Geoff in summer 1993. I had a sweet boyfriend who accept my wondering, stagehand life and was willing to keep a place for us- be an anchor while I traveled around. He wanted to be my light on the horizon. Geoff was at my apartment in Virginia. He backed me to the wall and kissed me despite me asking him not too. Due to past abuse, I stopped resisting and just let him. I had a grain of 'they will just take it' rubbing a spot raw in my head. I had maintained control of my thoughts and body from when I was 16 until this point. I had fought back anyone who dared touch uninvited. Something about this moment in Virginia, I could not. I was compelled to continue in something my very being was opposed to. We went to Goshen Pass and splashed in the river. I said out loud that 'This feels like home" while my brain was screaming that I was lying. The place may have, but he did not feel like home. Again, I felt like I had not choice but to end my relationship with Lonny, and go with Geoff. I have told different reasons for this change of heart that were absolutely true, but the deep down one was I felt I had absolutely no other option.
I finished my contract in Virginia and went to New York for a short gig and to pack up my life. I knew in my deep that I would never return the same. I felt forced on a road I would not choose of my own volition. We sold my car. We loaded my personal acquirements into his truck, and onto a trailer. My inner deep was hoping, praying, begging my parents to refuse to let me go. We stopped in VA to pick up a bigger truck and his stuff. We drove to Florida. He backed the truck up to the single car garage that we would live in and convert to an addition on the house for rent. He left for an ex-girlfriend's house and left me to unload on my own. I was usually alone at the house. I would realize he wasn't around, so he was at work or at Kristen's. He didn't say goodbye. He just left. I had no car, and no way of getting around. My roommates left me completely alone (at Geoff's request)

Geoff's confession 2 weeks later was while I was packing my NY, his ex Kristen had come to see him. They had sex and decided to get together, and live the life they had been talking about for years. He came to NY to tell me face to face, and that the offer of a job in FL still stood if I wanted to come as a friend- to offer me the choice. When he saw how much packing and prep work I had done, he felt guilty for my effort and kept quiet. His run to Kristen's house as soon as we arrived was to tell her of the change of life plans for them. She was supposed to be moving in with him that day. He asked me to be kind to her, because her feelings were so hurt by the whole thing. After all, I wasn't the one who had my heart broken. No. I had been betrayed, kidnapped and left for dead. Also, the evil bitch who stole him away from her. When I asked him months earlier if she was his girlfriend, he said they never had been a couple.

This is when my life went from an adventure to forced acceptance. My decisions were made for me. Out of money, with no transportation and an unwillingness to abandon my possessions that I had worked to hard to earn and restore on my own, I was in a situation I could not change. I was forced to accept the limits of a predetermined life. I lost my ability to do anything independently. I couldn't drive standard. He retreated into video games and beer after months in Virgina of hiking, camping, etc. He said I had grown too dependent on him for time and conversation. He was ignoring me to force me to make friends and do other things. Leave him alone because he deserved to be alone from growing up youngest of 9.
If I could not longer have my own life as my heart lead, accept what is and make the best of it. I shut down and did what family and friends expected next. What makes the most people happy was the logical thing. I became irrelevant the day he showed up in NY, maybe the day he kissed me. So I married him and made the best of what was good for him and let myself come second, third, eighth-
I do not know what power this person had over me. I do not know why I was compelled to do everything he directed when my core cried out otherwise to me. I didn't stand up for myself. For 13 years, I had erased myself, and I don't know why.

I do know that I have not forgiven myself for all of it. I don't know if I can even though this dreadful road has led me somewhere to my heart again. If everything had not happened as it did, I would not have the people I love now. That makes it very hard to forgive myself for living halfway for 17 years- nearly half my life sitting and waiting for the chance to be unstoppable again.

Space- feminine voice week 8

The boys have gone back to school already , and I have had a strangely difficult time writing.I had been looking forward to the time to mentally and emotionally stretch out- to let my mind take up all the space it can in my head while the boys are under someone else's care. I haven't written yet. I have rearranged furniture, painted the pantry (:-)), mowed the lawn, ironed everyone's shirts, caught up the laundry and dusted the living room. I have manipulated my space. Now that I have my space, and the uninterrupted time to write, I still don't have time to do so. I want my space to be right- to be neat and tidy and I'm making excuses. I see me, trying to hide over there in the corner of a sphere.

Some friends moved away yesterday. I called the truck pack and tried to keep it tight, but easy enough for them to unload. Half the truck was still empty. I can manage space well. Managed space is efficient, efficient is easy and quick. There is something to be said for slopping right in too. I keep thinking about my book. I'm going to write some now-

Condition - feminine voice dare Week 7

This week's topic won't nail itself down. Rather than continue to damage the coffee table, I'll opt for free verse- short, but all I've got (like me)

Condition as a noun is a limiting circumstance, a reduction to the whole.
You can have everything you want on one condition
An incurable medical condition prevented him from becoming Idaho's square dance champ.
The living conditions reminded me of the cardboard sidewalks in Tijuana.

Change your grammar and you have a verb which proclaims a rewarding journey to full capacity.
After the deep conditioning treatment, her hair was strong as Rapunzel's.
These conditioning drills have really improved my fencing.
His months of mental conditioning carried him to the final round.

Power and Control- Feminie Voice Dare- week 6

Rational says I'm reaching too high. In all truth, I know no other reason for reaching: on my toes, with one foot out to counter, stretching precariously off the side of the ladder for an invisible something just past my fingertips. There is a small part in me that says the rules count, as is, will be, what you know is not what you think. There is a greater part in me who wells up and call sit untrue. The small part says I dream unrealistic, wasting my hopes and harming those who depend on me for it. There is a greater part who does not want to listen. The small quotes the news, the rumors, the authority, the Raven. The greater part remembers differently.

In my garden, I teach my boys "Water a little at the base, but make a big circle too, so the roots will stretch. Life is not strong unless it has something reach for." I had said so to be life lesson to them. I will water my garden again today.

Filters- week 5

Rosco is the industry standard, Lee is more durable, but Gam is still my favorite. The swatch book had an easy layout and 4x4 pieces made lighting design much easier.

The Drama would throw away all the lighting gel at the end of the season. (I last worked there in 1993, and I still have 20 or so fragmented sheets.) My first apartment needed dressing up, so I cut gel into random shapes, overlaid colors and attached them to my windows. The kitchen went from vague weak white to amber sepia like Auntie Em’s kitchen. It was warm and generous though I never made anything more extravagant than scrambled eggs or Ramen noodles. The living room windows had different color themes in each; a blue one, a purple one, a red one. Sunlight filtered through making faux stained glass puddles on the floors and walls. My bedroom was shades of yellow. I had heard that yellow was the color of hope, so I wanted to see it first every day. A friend visiting for the first time said she didn’t need directions. She knew exactly where my apartment was. The colorful windows were easily seen from the street and she just knew that had to be my home.
The sun shines low through the southern windows during winter in my current home. For the sake of energy efficiency, I need to cover them in plastic. I had used sheets of lighting gel to remember that first home compliment.
‘My love, she comes in colors’- I had hoped that song was about me.

I used my Gam swatch book when I didn’t have the proper filter for my camera- magenta for shooting under fluorescent lights, blue for tungsten. I miss my 35mm very very much. I could spend hours watching in one spot for the perfect shot. Successful days were rated by rolls of film. Three was an exceptional day. Five and I might not be heard from for more than a week while I examined every tiny detail to narrow down my favorites.
I would play with my polarizer and color filters, especially with snowy shots. Somewhere I have a set of blue, and red icicle covered waterfalls in an ice storm in Watkins Glen, NY. Dan, Bill and I didn’t care about the treacherous road conditions. We wanted to play with color and snow. Sunsets are made more vivid by filtering out some of the excess color. Tree bark becomes abstract confusion; a wine glass, clear but red, and empty.
My camera sits in its dusty bag. It has a jammed shutter and I can not justify the cost of repairing it. I sold most of the filters for grocery money. I still have my Gam book – just in case. Every few years, I get out my old pictures and miss my days of dancing with color and light.

Synchronicity - feminine voice dare

Synchronicity –
Rule # 2 Two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time. Two thoughts can.

Prudentia is as Athena. The masculine science of Prudentia is the understanding of measure and tempo- my mind’s keen perception of Where my opponent is and exactly how long it will take me to dispatch him. Her feminine art, her improvisational wisdom of the When is painted with my eyes and by my body.

After time consuming mulling over, I rather suddenly understand the definition by Rudolfo Capo Ferro; “tempo is the measure of movement or stillness”.
Seeing stillness had eluded me. You don’t often see a fencer stop in the midst of any play. Where is all the stillness I need to see? It’s found at the other end of my blade.

Tempo measures my own stillness as well. I can not fight effectively if I do not have a frozen instant to access, a moment to reflect on how to continue. A dull axe cuts inefficiently. Hone to hewn. Stillness to movement. Fiore’, Capo Ferro, and the rest change their frustration to a sigh of relief. My realization is more powerful than their instruction. My greater realization is to take this speck of a spark and fit it to my life outside the lyst.

Prudentia moves in her own time. She is still in her own time.
I have been writing since 1982. I have so many years of writing poetry, short essays, anecdotes, and three unfinished novels on scraps and in notebooks. I could sit down and post for days straight. But I won’t. Too many times, I have seen myself come to loathe something I loved because I became too head over heels for it. My own enthusiasm of the goal drowns the satisfaction until I am lost. Too much focus, even on joy, will sap your passion. I become too engrossed and have to walk away for my own sanity.
No, I will use what I have learned from Prudentia. Slowly, carefully, with greatest precision, I am acting within my own stillness.

Dirt - week 3

Relaxation for me does not involve being still. Relaxation comes from the satisfaction of a hard day's work. I'm not meant to sit still. Ideas come to me when I mow the lawn. I find clarity in stacking the woodpile. Sweat and peace are equals. Quiet mediation comes to me only after the hard climb up a waterfall. After patching the roof, digging in the yard, cleaning the garage, I am sticky, stinky, and filthy. Then I shower. The water sloughs off heavy thoughts that are now on the surface of my dirty skin. It leaves behind comfort and pride. I watch the darkness of the water swirl in the tub and down the drain. It feels like victory. I feel like I have endured something and come out a better person on the other side. I have proven my strength to myself and then blessed myself- rain to wash me clean. Dirt on the outside is not the problem. Its the stuff on the inside.
I cry to wash it out. It's not enough. Give me tools, a goal, and the time alone to finish it.
I have earned my rest. My mind is clean of it's sown dirt. And I can be who I know I am.
Sweat, and dirt are my path to beauty.

Blue SIlk

I'm a huge fan of silk. I'm an even bigger fan of not paying full price for it. I have spent so much time working with fabrics that I can spot 100% and blends almost every time. I shop at Good Will. I run my fingers along the packed racks and can pull out 100% silk shirts for $3. Sometimes they are even in my size. If they are not, I have now awe of brand names, so I have no trouble at all with the idea of cutting apart a linen, silk, or wool garment to reclaim the fabric for other uses. It makes me feel very resourceful.
As luck would have it, a found a dark blue silk suit with lovely embroidered details on the jacket hem. I wore it to church on Sunday. I wore it with matching shoes, and the proper foundation wear and lingerie. I wore a black wool cloche hat. I wore white crocheted lace gloves and carried a clutch purse. I've dressed like when I was in my 20's. I have a drawer with elbow length gloves. I always wore full garters, fancy shoes, and I had few hats. I wore it because it was fun, like playing dress up.
I did not expect (nor realize until later) that today I felt so much better about myself . I wasn't dressed to the nine's since it was church, but it was my current Sunday best.
I felt strong. I felt like I was right. I felt like I had the authority to tell the girls in backless mini dresses that they were absolutely inappropriate for church. At least wear a shawl or little jacket. Even in front of their mom's who let them wear them.
I felt intelligent. I was positive that every one knew that I didn't have to rely on sex to get by- that I had know how, skills and the strength to make things happen- all with out having to show as much skin as possible. Tiny clothes mean a tiny mind. The wonderful thing about that is minds can grow. Your butt is no longer the only interesting thing about you. Your cleavage is not your resume'.
My absolute favorite part of dressing well and feeling well was four out of eight of my tattoos were clearly visible. All but one are behind me. I'm a different person coming and going. I've always been a fan of being a variation on a theme.

There might be an emotional point between recognizing my inner power and a superiority complex. If there is, it'll show itself. Until then, lead by example