Ffolkes,
No time for fooling around this morning. Up a bit late, thanks to an extra hour of sleep my body insisted on taking (thanks for small favors!….), and stuff to do. I’m starting the day exhausted, with a sore right forearm and wrist. This is because of the unnatural activity I forced the arm into yesterday, when I went through over 300 emails that had exploded in my inbox, like some kind of replicating virus. I almost wore out my delete button, and read about 150 blogs (very, very quickly, I might add), at least 30% of which demanded a comment. It was a monumental task, and I’m glad it’s done; so is my mouse, I believe…..

That said, I will now proceed to head out into the hinterlands, to dive for pearls, which, for expediency’s sake I hope are not going to hide or be difficult to harvest…

Ffolkes,

My apologies to anyone who has been commenting on my last few Pearls, and has not received a reply. I am only able to hook up to the Net once a day, usually around 11:00 or noonish, so I’ve been limited to getting the Pearls posted, and taking care of necessary business, such as email. Even my shared computing tasking program is annoyed with me, as it wants to connect to the Net several times a day to get new work. Such is life, at least until I can figure out how to get ISP service at my new apartment….. SIGH……

I also miss getting to read the blogs I follow…. I’ve been getting to a few a day, but only four or five of them, and I’m sure everyone thinks I’ve died or something…. Perhaps not, but I feel like I’m in limbo, for sure….. ah well, I…

Ffolkes,
Very odd, very odd indeed…. endings first, cut and pasting before 0700, relating personal dreams…. what am I thinking? On the whole, though, it promises to be, if nothing else, an interesting day, and I mean that in a good sense, at least hopefully….. I’m kind of dealing with some unknown factors here, so I’m not entirely certain of what I am up to….. or whether or not it will fit seamlessly into my morning routine….. well, seamless isn’t essential, just appreciated when it happens….

If I were at all sure about what I was speaking, I’d most likely get on with it, but, since I’m not, I’m dithering, if you couldn’t tell already. I guess I don’t deal well with this much uncertainty about my writing. Though it IS an energetically unregulated process, for the most part, I do like to have a clear idea of what I’m…

Life throws us into its broad horizons. Sometimes we realize it. Sometimes we ask for it. Sometimes we don’t’ even know…

And quite often, it takes us by surprise.

I don’t know what is taking place yet … but something is happening. Something about my whole entire being. Something related to my unanswered questions and desires that I still don’t comprehend and properly grasp, and maybe realize.

I feel carried away. Like throwing yourself in a dance and you have to trust the beats and your counterpart and let go.

Letting go, is what terrifies me maybe…

Each time I try to find a beat to my life that I want to accommodate with, something else comes up. Turning everything upside down.

My life was manifested with a certain under control harmony when I decided to turn it all upside down and leave marriage. It was a harmony in an…

There is an ultimate state of Freedom in Writing.

It is a real gift that liberates ones mind, soul and hence, being.

I have been feeling like this lately …

I always say that I am a woman who tried to be free. To taste freedom in anything that surrounds me living in state that doesn’t have any freedom. Being under occupation is no luxury when it comes to such feelings.

You are always surrounded with that ceiling that is not the sky. Like walking and living in an open jail. Like animals within a wired safari.

I just closed a novel under the name Guantanamo for the Egyptian novelist Youssef Zeedan, and I couldn’t but think, of the state of being indulged in the inner mess of yourself when you live in the worse situation that can possibly be. Jailed in the unknown hollows of Guantanamo. Surviving or not…

Trigger warning: mention of rape

I think about Mary a lot.

Not the Mary you see on Christmas cards or in stained glass windows or in children’s bibles. Not the milk-fed blond virgins in Renaissance paintings. Not the grownup white lady in crisp blue robes with the fat baby on her lap. Mary wasn’t any of these people.

I think about Mary as a scrawny kid, barely in her teens and engaged to a man who was probably more than twice her age. She’s be at that age where you’re all arms and legs, when whatever childish grace you had has given way to adolescent clumsiness. She has big dark eyes and long black hair tucked neatly under a veil. Her skin is brown. Her hands are small, quick, good at sewing a tidy hemline or kneading a ball of dough.

I think about what it must have been like to live in a militarized…