So, I have to fix a lot of things, but I made this template in about 3 hours, including searching for a quote that I like, images that fit the quote, which I have to give credit links for, and fixing some glitches I found. I still know of a few, I�ll see if you can find them. :-x

I like the painting of the window, it has a very agoraphobic quality to it. I grew up in old apartments with windows that looked very much like that. I still remember the opaque swirls of ice collected and caught on the windowpanes each January. Anyway, I would like to give the artist credit, so�

I read through my old diaries a bit, and I feel so cheated. They�re written so beautifully. I�m wondering what happened to that luminous world I used to inhabit. Where the moon visited me as she glistened on my fingertips at 2 am, and W�s fingers intertwined with mine, and where the wind spoke to me and played in my hair as I walked to the store. My possibilities really were endless. But look at what a year does to a person. My world has shrunk, not grown. Before I continue, I have to say that I did not know that there is a Norwegian Google. But there is, and my diary can be found by typing in: my waif moovi.

I was also again image googled by another person using the words: caterpillar girl

And W wants to see the movie *Tideland* (yes that gives a link), which I now want to see despite knowing it�s three main themes will trigger the heck out of me, and leave me in utter tears. I read a bit about it and remarked to him that it sounds like a disturbing movie I would write based both on my life and imagination.

I don�t know if I�ll be attending class this coming week, I will miss the second trip to the waterfall on account of my sprained ankle, but the teacher (who called me to ask me of my whereabouts) gave me a chance to go Friday, to Taos museums. I let her know that I would like to go, but that I had no ride. She told me she would try to find someone in class who lives near-by to pick me up. I haven�t heard back and don�t know if she found someone.

I got a few rather good books from my college library, which have been sitting on my floor until I sprained my ankle. And, having been rendered useless, which I�ve now been reading and browsing through during this time. One is Henry Miller on Writing, and I like many of his comments of the subject. I don�t know if I agree with all of them, but they are rather lively thoughts. Another is called Solitudes, written by Goffredo Parise. I�ve read five of the stories in this little book, and what I found striking is the mere hint of the subject found in the title of each story; a literal breath. It's very different for short stories. The story Fascination, for example, is a short tale of a woman and man, who make love yet feel nothing for one another outside of the act. Yet the way he weaves their bodies together and the way they react, you can in fact sense what it is that the woman feels (fascination bordering on na�ve obsession) towards him. I need to read them again. They are very much stories that are akin to recognizing the taste of water. I think that is how I would describe them. Subtle, yet real.

I also got Anais Nin's third diary.

I found a quotation of Anais' that I immediately felt familiar with.

From her third Journal, March 16th, 1927

�Drawings of her body are now tacked on my studio wall. A body�muscles, proportion, curves�meaning nothing. But her face, I see her face, shyness, suffering, tears, swollen eyes and red nose, quivering mouth, shame, hunger. I see her picking up her coat upside down and I hear the money that was given her falling out of the pockets and rattling on the stand. I see her breasts rising when she sobbed I see her bending over her coffee, her kimono partly opened on a blue, shivering body. I see swollen veins on her hands, her eyes lifted up against the harshness of the students, some of them fearing to approach her as if she were ill.
�Don�t forget that arm have muscles,� said the teacher, breaking the smooth line of my drawing.
Bodies have feelings�bodies suffer, bodies stumble and tremble. Am I learning to draw?�

All of this seems to be in Anais� imagination, caught in a glimpse of a nude model in an art class. And reflected upon while glancing at her walls.

And it is what I am experiencing with the paintings of the model in my own art class. As my teacher said, the paintings I�ve done are very literary, they have tales they need to speak of, they are real breathing, suffering, fighting beings. I laughed when I showed my mother my paintings and told her that even with a paintbrush, I unintentionally tell stories.

I should probably sleep now. I'll find out this week whether I can afford to go back to college or not. Or whether Section 8 housing will steal that from me too.

e