Truth...

I'm up late once again... wondering why it seems that I still maintain a Vancouver sleeping schedule while my feet are firmly rooted in an eastern time zone.

Many thoughts have popped into my mind today... whisperings of new and old that rise and fall like the tide, like breath...

I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately, and while they have served to inspire I also question as to why my writing is so different here than anywhere else.

I made a decision so long ago to keep my blog writing impersonal enough so that my emotional self is kept far away. Close friends, lovers, family members are rarely mentioned, emotions are kept behind a veil of secrecy unless they are easy enough to share. While I express my thoughts, I rarely touch on my feelings.

Whats more intersting is that as I filter my ideas, I change my voice. Here is a place of casual wit, while my journal reveals the writings of a hopeless romantic, pages smeared with similie, rhyme and metaphore.

So I begin to wonder what other things I keep secret, and what is worth keeping secret.

In truth I have always admired brash honesty. Women who live fearlessly. Yes, I am a fan of that Angelina, not just because she is beautiful but because she doesn't apologize for testing the waters. And whenever she has chosen to test, it has never been with a small dip of an extremity, but with a headfirst dive into situations that would downright scare me. She moves through her phases, self damaging cutter, award winning actress, Gothic blood veil wearing seductress, lover of women and emerges as a mother, complete and round like her belly that gives life to children both her own and not.

I admire honesty, yet still secretly dwell backstage dreading my own curtain call.

I remember the first night I went to a New York poetry slam.

Late night, in the heart of Alphabet City, I clung to a chair and watched pear shape women spit into a mic that could scarcely keep up with the raw emotion they delivered. And the best poems? Were the most honest, the ones ones about the biggest mistakes: one night stands, past-due relationships, accidental children and purposeful passion. The poems about insecurity, imperfection and accident were the ones that moved me to tears, until I sat goosebumped all over, and for the first time told myself I too was willing to stop trying to be perfect and make a mistake.

True to that silent promise made one cold Febuary night I have been slipping up. Defying the ridiculous "hallmarks" of perfection I once clung to.

I stopped trying to prove I was too smart to care about clothes and make up... and have emerged painted face, glowing all over in Victoria Secret push-up-bras feeling like the center of the universe on a Friday night.

I stopped pretending that I was too wholesome to enjoy the presence of a person for just one night... and boy did poetry ever follow.

I stopped pushing myself to define my appeal by the number on a scale and the size of my pants... okay, so I'm still working on that.

But at the end of the day I am learning, learning to stop wanting perfection. Because what i learnt on a cold Febuary night in New York, is that its not perfection but rather imperfection that makes us so beautiful. Be it the mole that sits above a lip (a beauty mark), or a tale of a tryst told with a twinkle in an eye, it is the things that that undo us that define us in the end.

So, I'm making a push to be a little more honest, more honest with you and more honest with me.

Here are some things you might not know...

I'm ruthlessly self depricating, but mostly in my head.

I read tarot cards... seriously...

I procrastinate more than I would like to admit...

And when I am bored on tranist I look around and guess who would be the best lover aboard the bus or train.

I'm damaged, imperfect, weird, and quirky. But I am begining to figure out, I like it that way.