C  a  r  o  l  y  n  '  s      D  i  a  r  y


... Today
... FrAmes
... From The Beginning
... inDex
... as FeaTureD in ...

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waiting for tomorrow, waiting for last week
send me last week's cache (Aug 17 - Aug 21, 1997) please

Funny you shouldn't ask..

Sat Aug 23 1997

I feel left out a little. Reading this magazine called Upside, a kind of Cosmo for techno-biz wannbes, I read about people I don't know. My reaction is to put down the magazine, call it day. I have only so much room in me for knowing more people. One at a time please, and not hi-tech gurus. I find them silly in so many ways. Mostly their fan clubs and wannbe-thems running around taking notes. Why would anyone style themselves around a magazine article persona? To look like htat successful guy? To be mistaken for that type of success? To be treated like a guy with a fighter plane? Not for me thanks.

Take that testosterone and ...


Something's wrong. What? I'm nervous, edgy, cold too.

I'm going to trek over to the office to fiddle this page a little. Perhap swarm up in a building where I control the thermostat. Crying. I'm just a no-prozac naturalist waiting for utopia to arrive. With tears.

[ ... one year ago today: trying to find a quiet space ]

copper edges.

Sun Aug 24 1997


cold. sheep running around. early morning. still in limbo with people. wishing I weren't but it is not me. I am anethematic finally, stale. I won't give anything away anymore. I have too often, too much, for nothing except a sense that I am a good person.

Withering emptiness leaves only what... deeper into me. the difficult view ... let go of the anger

in isolation I sit alone. Just another loser in her home alone wishing things were different. how to change them. Passively waiting for someone to like me that I'll like in return. not doing the normal survey of all people looking sifting choosing. but finally in this small environment which is not open ended, in whihc new thins do not happen and new people do not come along, I find nothing. Those whom I like could not tolerate me anymore. I am awful.

I am just another single woman finally no longer with hope of anything else. No longer a person with a self created family. They are gone. They never understood, and I have been a fool. Creating a family is more than announcement. I missed some of the parts for the whole lacked a satisfying warmth. Living alone, singing alone, walking alone. Knowing that if I were run over by a bus Peter would declare it an emergency and look after me out of guilt. Only guilt now bonding me to anyone.

I find that I do not like these people anymore. I find that encouraging people to be who they would be best is equivalent to telling them to go away from me. It has worked out so. If I weren't intrinsically in the power structure, I am sure I would not have any contact from them at all anymore.

This is not just depression. The attempt to let Richard into my thoughts again will not work. He does not have the stamina to like me. He looks only into his most recent feelings and no where else. The attempt to be closer to Peter will not work. He is a sloppy and narcissistic person without compassion and only self-deluding empathy.

I doubt anyome could be close with me anymore. I don't want to give anything to anyone at all. I hate the idea. I'm just angry at old friends, no longer friends. Creeps. I am merely disgusted, and at myself for having no alternatives.


alternatives: How much hope and enthusiasm can I muster up? Do I have to be stuck in this in this way? I don't think so, but I don't like who my friends have become. Stripped of hte excess energies of life, we've donated all of those to making htings work. Well, Richard has. Irrational dedication to making FSC wonderful, and in teh end making himslef nothing. That's just a mistake.

The demand that I do the same thing instead of making myself wonderful. It's us that make it, or break it. Not the other way around. It isn't a child. Actually, that's a good metaphor.

Like a child, a company cannot absorb all of who you are. It needs you to be good to yourself. It can feel the "divorce" vibes and the "cooing love" vibes easily. It can tell if you are exercising well, or if you've had a great night on the town. it knows when to hit you up for a raise in allowance, and when to say thanks.

I don't intend to say "Screw you" here to anything. I believe though that being good to me will be good for other things I'm involved in. I hate Peter's self loving masturbation; and similary Richard's self abuse policy of getting things done. I'm tired of my friends, and of finding they hate me too. Can things like this heal?

I hate them only because I am not given room and respect. I hate them in retribution. I hate hearing as I did last night, "You have nothing to be angry about." Oh, but I do. I am angry at the self abuse, and the morality that pushes it's way at me to do the same or be called a defector.

I hate the environment where I can neither talk about these things with a balanced person nor leave them be without getting involved. Get away from me, this moral binging and purging. I eat balanced meals, and I leave my mind in balanced states. I will not jump on another's watery coaster for any reason.

So I am alone. As the world gets older, with me travelling with it into the future, I will be more and more alone it seems. Will I want to live it out to it's natural end? Seems less likely than it used to.

And I will have to somehow evaluate if I want it. Because I know I don't, and I am still pretending.


I am like your lover. I need caresses to know things are good between us. I want to feel the warmth of just knowing we are close.

[ ... one year ago today: vines awaggling ]

Were there funny things in the universe at some point?.

Mon Aug 25 1997

Quite a number of tylenols later, I'm hazily awake again. Couldn't sleep last night, perhaps it was the tea. Perhaps spending too long in trivia land after horse back riding yesterday - which was fun. Lowest common denominator (LCD) conversations kill me. Like th elittle spiders that have moved into my keyboard whisper-webbing the keys waiting for tiny flies flying by. Like these little bugs, my mind needs it's webbing to hold onto the cares of being a person. Trivia dissects this construct until I am left holding onto only a small feature of me, the wit. I dreamt beaurocrat landscapes afterwards.

This morning I had the urge to surf through the writings of a person much more depressed than I. I am angry at her. There is only so much anyone can do. And she does not feel that, her sense of balance being in a different spot from mine. When do I stop? When I feel she is no longer a friend at all.

What is life? When I talk with Peter, he babbles on about how exciting this worldly construct that is mine is. He puts it in terms of jealousy, an ugly way to think says me. Others, he says, find things to be jealous about. And his reasoning leaves me wondering why such is a standard. I understand how he is, and yet I must forever wonder why he likes it that way.

Shall I stay home today? It is late, and the tylenol high will serve no one. Paddling through the papers. Nothing in particular of import to do, only a minutiae of leters, words, and strategical implications. Perhaps I'll do it from my living room floor instead. Odd to have read another's diary and know their insides and outsides both. Is this how people know me now? Almost creepy. It's too late now.


Tue Aug 26 1997

No two thoughts are alike. I've been through the most awful headspace yesterday. I stared at the bottle of tylenol for a long time wishing I'd just swallow the wholel bunch of them. I suspect they'd only do liver damage. I suspect that I wish my life were better. I suspect that I need to be loved very badly and being alone doesn't cut it anymore.

Staring into the mirror, I could only mumble that I didn't do anything wrong to Tracey. Nothing. She is broken. Finally I have to conclude that. If only for self-preservation. It breaks my heart. And fuck her vergin self. I can only linger on this feeling for so long. It is time to exorcise her demonness. Good bye I hope for good now.

I hoe that works in my heart. It worked on Tracy a long time ago. Is it the anniversary phenomenon? Could be. The air is the same. More clinching. memory is like that.

I blew my stack yesterday at both the guys. I'm simply disgusted with the whole lot of them. After hours of crying and talking, blaming and encouraging, Richard and I worked out a deal, two actually. One of which would leave me free to move along with my life without any further contact, and the other which would leave us free to play together like we used to, and to work together the way he fantasizes. He liked the latter although it was my idea. I'll give it my best.

And Peter. Full of himself. Could he be more so? I don't know what do do about his obcessive need to be believed and given credit for things, especially for things that I didn't want.

I suspose today will be that kind of day. I hate life.

a crab, a canary, and summer jam.

Wed Aug 27 1997

Smiling a little again, inside a glowing sense that I am not going this alone finally.

They've stopped poking me from all sides. A little warmth even. Good enough for now.

I think my personal journey through life has stopped. I'm now a public person. I have neither a private life nor private thoughts any longer. Crunching on Carr's.


Three thoughts:

  1. slow swift sedentary
  2. salcious gossip rumouring
  3. strength beyond effort

  1. buried under rock
    softly turning emotions
    blossom now

  2. etched chestnut husk
    bobbing in changing circles
    truth is lost

  3. stocky embraces
    whispering in thought and deed

And somewhere, blue threads always.

[ ... one year ago today: in pursuit ]

vapid renaissance.

Thu Aug 28 1997

With little spiders living in my keyboard, and people busily pursuing their own agendas after lying to me, I'll have to get on top of things in general. Seems like I have left it too long.

Echoing lightly in my hind brain: Who am I?

The truer statements of life shine brightly on our doings. We try to cover up the giveaway telltales. What less could we ask of this opportunity to be alive? There are just so many options. And yet it seems like each of us is on a track with rails and no forks. Pray.

temporal how.

Fri Aug 29 1997

When is it right to expect something from someone else? I read last year's writing just now. At the end, a notable discovery. I had promised something that it took two to promise. And she hadn't made such a committment. I look back now and think that perhaps she could not have. Friendship was never as important. Was I her only adult friend? I hope she married Tony in the end. Or lost a 100 lbs. Or moved out into the world on her own terms. Or wrote a novel. Or established for herself, one of htose other dreams we always used to talk of. Just one would do.

I shall look at another person for a longer period of time waiting for their committments to come out too. What are they promising and intending? Foolish me.

I never used to have regrets. I never used to cooperate, or to work with others. I never used to go into the world and gamble some of my own energy. I understand now that regrets occur once you are involved in the world truly. Other people change the landscape of possibility too often for my system to work for me. I regret this most.

Funny though, Fleiss just came in to purr at me. Distracting me from the flashback to Tracey. I have no more regrets about her. It was inevitable that we grow apart as she stayed in her isolated hole without enjoying it. Last, I hope she enjoys her hole more now.

As I make new friends in the world, I no longer attract myself to the low key people, those with nothing better to do. Painful as it may seem to me, such people have less to offer in comparison than they used to. My friends are now dealers and doers, shakers and movers. I like being proud of them instead of carrying bandages full of hope and dreams. Hope carries doers much farther. Harsh. Gotta re-tool myself a little to learn to enjoy such folks more. And low keyers less. They're relaxing, but life is finite, a word that does not rhyme with infinite).

It's cold and my allergies are starting to piss me off. It's taken three months of sniffling for me to even notice, but enough is enough.

[ ... one year ago today: defeat ]

From within the grey walls.

Fri Aug 29 1997

Sitting after everyone has left, after distributing paychecks signing documents, receiving not a single kind word from anyone, I wonder why I am here at all. There is no reason except to satisfy the disgusting work ethic that has permeated my life finally, after years of refusing.

Only tinkering with how details gets respect here. So fine. I don't care to stay around for lack of respect. Disgusting. Compromises that have driven out all possbile hope. Promises broken that would have made it worth while. Liars. And I sit here knowing others will read my words, that I should care a little more to the delicacy of image. Fuck image. Isn't that what I really hate the most. Peoples' ego spaces, their sense of propriety, bullshit image. The telltale signs of insecurity. My short skirt labels me as insecure about my own atractiveness. Such an easy thing to see about me. No-one ever says it aloud though, my challenge to this dishonest universe continues. I dare the world to speak out. And where will it happen, in little flame emails, and never inpublic in defining circumstances. I'llsay it. The world is fucked with its sense that people come second. That's all we are - peole. So we have social strucutres and vested interstes. Really we are just people with stuff to lse or gain. Greedy monters without hearts. My frown is just called a mood, my unappiness just me not participating int he maddened group think of positive crap. Cannot ask for what I want because it is sneered at - I am told it should not ever be mentioned. I should just starve to death. As I am now doing. The distance that kills.

Their insecurities make them human. That is all well and good. What then do mine make me? Can it be that there is universal insecurity about smiling at me? Is smiling al that I want or do those same people know that there is more to it> What am I missing? Love. Of coure there is more to it. The feeling good part. The feeling that thigns are well and that I am working from plussed space instead of always in fear. The fear is not mine. It is broadcast at me from my so called friends. They get vertigo. Nerves of steel and good bluffing technique. Geez they don't get it. And at teh same time, a need for warmth and miaus that tickle me under the chin.

I hate this world because it puts people in it who respect me and think I'm brilliant and who cannot warm me up anyway. Why can't there be more to it?

So the grey walls take their small tolls. No more metaphysics. No more concepts. Just ugly business conventions and peole around me wh declare loudly and often, out of fear, that I don't knwo them. Fools. Of course I know them, and of course I am doing something more than the minimum. Fools. I need to get out of this.

I thought a deal was a deal.

outer space.

Sun Aug 31 1997

And after several days and books and fantasies, I decide that today I will not read a word that is not about the existing world. Accumulate knowledge and useful interpretation instead of bad characterisations of people thrown into adulthood through experiences they did not seek.

Ordinarily, I might ingest quite a number of escapist words these days. I recall though that in grad school, I switched into a philosophy imbiber. I found the metaphysical explorations of philosophers to be as least as escapist and relaxing as any sci fi writer, perhaps harder to think through. I haven't really had the ambition to touch that stuff for awhile now. No goal, no action.

Which is better for me? I'd think the latter. Less gossipy soap and fantasical setting, and more in-depth study of the way things are/ could be. Depressing yarns leading to happy endings except if sequels are in teh works. Why not tell a great story ala Oblomov, and wait ten more years, move on. Economic satisfaction is why not. An audience booming for sequels, prequels and other excuses not to learn a new made up world. I must ask though why an author would find it easier to stay in one world rather than to make up another. I find that the same world day in and day out is what we've already got. Perhaps thought the peek into others' minds is just too tasty and we can only get that slice in diaries and fantasies. Real people more often than not have publicists writing their speeches. Tiring.

My retreat into artificial stories reflects something though about me. I'm depressed, rather thoroughly so. I don't have any hope in things. My own life lacks any potential. I can repeat things I've done, I can work for an expanded version of previous accomplishments. But what else? I'll linger away living alone. I simply know that I do not know anyone I'd like to live with. I also know that I'm not meeting the sort of people I'd like to. Where are they? Sitting in my living room reading books, walking through the world trying not to speak to people, neither is a way to meet new people. Personal ads are, and they worry me. More artificial stories in all likelihood.

And is truth so important anymore? I need time away from the enforced responsibilities my body goes through. I'd like that set of responsibilities to change really. I'm tired of them, they are grey.

I noticed I've been feeling financially crunched lately, buying another building, paying taxes, saving up the cash flow for bigger things. I feel personally impoverished. I'm tempted to get a night job like others I know are.

I'm tempted to go off to LA myself. I'm tempted to pack up my things, and what stops me is the feeling that I'll have no private place to cry without an apartment.

I don't want to add energy to my life because I do not want to share that energy with the people I know. I don't want their defection to benefit. I don't want them not to defect either. Simple. Simply, I just want them all to go to hell. I'd like to be alone. Every little move I make is monitored for enthusiasm. I don't have any left. The misery has ground me down into nothing, and where once I came up with thousands of ideas, and played with flowers, now every thing I do is absorbed by another. Stay away. Some guy offered me the advice that if I want something, I ought to give a little. I am not willing to give anything at all anymore. Too many defectors. Fuck it. It's like I am the only one who remembers not to do it. I'm the only person reminding that defection leads only to more of the same. Over and over. I don't want to do this anymore. Get the greyness away.

I would happily die now if it just happened. Depression. No energy to take me out. No energy elsewhere. We've sacrificed everything to have success in the world. Isn't that the moral of the story?

The moral of the story is that I need someone to fall in love with madly and without reservation. I've lived too long without allowing myself to enjoy love or sex. I've lived on the warmth of family and companionship. But I thrive on hope. Not fear, or worry, or planning, or even wisdom.

The story is that my life should be vibrant. I should know enough about having my own hangups without isolation by now. I should know the sorts of people I'd like to. I should be to transmigrate to where I'd like to be, and to see it as what I enjoy. I should look over my future and see where it is going, and knowt hat the disease in my heart is relying on my not doing this. Take out ... this isn't working. I can see the future. I'll pick up a trash book and read it. I can see that there is no hope for me, and that Oblomov's future is my own too.

[answering piles of email - I like this. Distracts my thoughts, changes them. Energy alterations.]

But I look around and see that I have a snuggly housecoat on, a Victoria's Secret insignia on the pocket. I have a fireplace behind me that I should try to light since it's cold today, and I've been sneezing a lot. My cats bring me birds and grasshoppers for dinner. There are pictures on the walls of friends. Why am I depressed. Why have I set up standard which I cannot reach? What is going on? Perhaps I am not impoverished.

How do I judge? Must I be on the front cover of magazines everyday? I know that I don't want to share any happiness I might feel with those around me. Why?

I feel that I am surrounded by grouchy and petty thieves. I know my friends are not thieves. I just find the mentality of counting pennies all the time to be thievish. Money is just not important and I am forced to put my nose into the penny pot and count all the time. Scowling penny pinchers have hurt me. So all the pennies are pinched, and they don't smile at me for it. Cheap bastards.

God, my life is screwed up. And I think I'm hungry. Lunch, my only pleasure.


Sun Aug 31 1997

Living delicately knowing that if I move, they'll notice. Keeping my head down, eyes distant, turned away. I don't want to be involved. I want to rest. It's later now, evening. I've stayed by myself thinking, reading. Wishing, hoping. Nothing possible could result from these wishes. I wish I was attractive, friendly, happy. I wish I had something inside me that I liked. I wish I didn't wait beside the door watching the interplay of cobwebs.

Why don't people address the important issues when they have the opportunity to? I like to do this. Why would anyone wnat to talk to me anyway? There is nothing left in my mind or heart. With no working memory, I cannot talk of anything, and well I guess my life is over. I can't even cry about it. I'm not disappointed. Just depressed. Alone. Funny. Their stories are not interesting to me. If even one person had liked my jokes, or thought I made good company,... bullshit. Lots do. I don't like theirs.


Sun Aug 31 1997

I talked with Peter on the phone. I wanted to know if his claim three weeks ago that I was wonderful to be around counted for anything - he has avoided me since saying that.

He called back to say that there were several dozen conditions on this claim. I listened for awhile in surprise to the conditions. This whole conversation had occurred after I had decided to cut him out of my heart finally. After I had done so.

He said that I ought to take a chance that day, on him. Against my own wishes, as they had changed, I decided to anyway. A chance I am always up to. It failed.

My heart will seal shut. Tears streaming down onto my fingers, my elbows, my thighs. All will dry. it is good to have loose ends removed. This one is gone finally. After power jousting wiht me, and winning, he has the audacity to think I owe him something. Well, I'll put my tail between my legs, view him as the smelly, uncouth, tobacco addict he is, and move on.

I had a policy as a kid that I'd leave people when I'd learned their stuff. I didn't understand loyalty or love. I learned these from Peter. And he learned their lack from me. I'm finished compromising for something I do not want anyway. It's nice in a way to focus the anger on one thing.

As it took me years to get to know Peter, it has taken me years to leave him. His principles, his attitude. His feelings. More and more I am simply not connected to anyone else's cares. Tidying up the loose ends. I was proud of him while he healed. I thought his immature adult beliefs would grow up to meet him finally. Now I see that like several other nice people I've known, they have only anger once they have strength. At least to those who knew them before and don't immediately adapt.

I must now decide whether to kill myself simply, or to try to make some sort of life from the ashes of the grey walls and my heart, or to leave. I wish I wish things were just over with. None of these options tastes good at all. The predator that is Peter will stay away from me now. Go assimilate elsewere. One down.


If only my heart would glow. Could.

red spider wandering.

Mon Sep 1 1997

"There are two qualities of a teacher: to lead someone to better knowledge and to guide someone to acquire more knowledge than that of the teacher."

He looked at me, and I nodded.

"I do not lead people, I do not teach. I concentrate on the latter. The latter, however, being a paradox. Can you see that?", he asked.

"Yes, I recognize the paradox.", I answered.

"Would you still want me to guide you?", he asked.

"You already guided me.", I said. "And I always appreciated your suggestions."

-- From the Logs of J.D. Flora #56

What do I see in this quote? Myself? There are truisms in life that go beyond the obvious sometimes. I need guidance right now. Yesterday it felt like the strong arms of a lover would fill me. And I knew something was wrong with that. Not the least of which is that I don't have a lover, haven't for a long time. Beyond the pragmatisms though, what I need is a sense that there is a direction in my life, and that I am not alone in pursuing, if not the direction, then at least the desire to live fully. I know I lack that at the moment.

So it comes around to having a guide in my life. A person, an idea, a goal? I don't think it matters.

What it is is arbitrary so long as I commit to it's importance and accomplishment.

[ ... one year ago today: calmer waters and tea ]

we're still in vr.

Tue Sep 2 1997

Scaling up the side, shimmering handholds hurt my fingers a little. But I make it to the top gingerly. Noone is about. I pull the tin from my pack lightly. There is a little scratch on it where the eagle had pecked earlier. No matter to the cause at hand. Laying the tin down quietly on the stony surface, I push the edges around into the cracks. Small textured pieces start to emboss the tin, making it appear stone too. About a square meter will be covered if I am careful not to tear the metal.

Now to add some straw. With my flint, I spark the dry weed until it catches. I am warmed by the sudden burst of flame. Pulling the dried dung out, it too goes onto the tin. The final ingredient, a small vial full of something neither liquid nor powdered, purple and viscous. I smash the vial onto the tin.

Later that night, the signal will flare blinding everyone. I scurry to the walls edge and begin my shimmering descent.

Fleiss and Moppins try hard to keep me awake as my evening of Civilization pulls my eyelids into each other. Now I must be greying.

[ ... one year ago today: dreams of tomorrow's future ]

several hours in the night.

Wed Sep 3 1997

Do you know how it feels to be awake late late at night? Quiet, shivery, expectantly alone? It's late morning now, and I am not yet showered. Late hours reading, eating a skipped dinner, trying to trun back into bed. I really enjoy the crispness of a fall day, like today. perhaps I should play hookie for the rest of the day too. No telling meetings to encourage a conventional schedule this day.

Several ways to take this. Several more words in teh back of my mind reminding me that I should be responsible. Already though I have not been. Can I expect change now? I think a warm shower, my fingers too cold to type, will help. And some morning coffee. Perhaps some clothes. Today I a short black skirt casual day.

Where people meet, arguments happen. Where societies meet, wars happen. Where species meet, extinction. So far, we've have established alternatives to the arguments, and this only due to biological programming. And the alternatives to war and extinction will be welcomed with surprise, fear, and then satisfaction.

[| people|[ society ]|species |]


Thu Sep 4 1997

What thoughts do this morning merge with the cool air of dawn?

5 am. Learning to awake at this hour by accident as it were. What more or less do I want from life? I asked Niels yesterday what life holds in store for him, and then replied in turn.

Foolish me. My answer struck me as odd. I quickly and easily replied that I have most of what I've always wanted. [ A cardinal outside my window sings a morning introudction.] I have most of what I want? Why am I so miserable then?

I've been working on re-perceiving my life as a positive instead of a negative for a day or so. Things simply look better. Nothing changed but that. My surroundings have lead me astray a little I'm afraid. In not wanting to share any energy, I've ended up in grey. Much like not speaking with people made my life empty of things to write of, so not using energy even around people who will take it leaves me with none for myself either. My form of energy is highly personal though. Re-perception. A little voice in my mind quietly screamed BS. I'll let it.


Trance-like introductions to life, the use of socializing mechanisms to breed true conformity. Gee, what an unoriginal thought. My little focus. Media gulching.

Where ideas are thought, dogma forms. Where philosophies are born, religious calcification arises. Where physical theory matures, all hope is lost. Here, I've seen no alternatives. And when they arise, will they too be welcomed?

.............................. .. ..............................

Thought: endurance is not a plus when it is all you have.

I forget.

For the future...

frames: http://carolyn.org/diary.html

The setting.

Fri Sep 5 1997

Several dark horses all in a race, and who the winner will be? The optimisism / pessimism gradient pulling on our collective awareness of reality tugs and struggles with me. The winner, me when I can see into the future with a sense of hope and striving. Wouldn't I, shouldn't I suppose that there are spinoff valuables as well then. A little chirp from my heart last weekend and an attempt ongoing to put personal dark horses in the stable eating oats, leads to a talk with Niels in England, a refresher course in throwing parties at my place (next week), a CB style convo with Kimberley, and two differnet interviews emerging today, one with MuchMusic on tv, and another with One Click Away on MSN. Makes me feel a little warmer to be involved int ehoutput stream of our society.

So. It's about attitude. And it's about the warm summer slow down that is a way of life in Canada. And I wondered why I was always a winter person. Easy to answer finally. Reminding me of being a kid, wishing I could go off to summer school, waiting for the playful and exciting tedium of the eternal summer vacation to end. School was fun, where the rewards were, where the learning and growing took place. And like those young years, the world reminds me that adults too have summer lull, and that we should bear it wisely and with dignity. Frustration will drop when we know that Fall cames around every year with its enthusiasm and planning, and livelyness. Like the yellow school bus that just stopped outside my window, my life is picking up too.

A little.

Time to dress and travel away. Grey day a little less.

I'll be doing a "Go with the Flow" interview this afternoon, complete with a live chat hooked in for the duration of the show too. 3:30-5pm. Maybe. :) http://www.muchmusic.com/muchmusic/

[ ... one year ago today thoughts arisen]

Feeling the fool.

Fri Sep 5 1997

Have I stepped over the edge? Hope not. Time to re-think. Excitement soothing the day. Stay tuned..

Bookmark: http://diary.carolyn.org



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