Maybe she's my amnia— amina— I CAN'T SPELL ANIMA. You know, like the Freudian thing. The deep down feminine side. Heaven knows mine is strong; I've got the female intuition, for certain. And the icon I use here for my deepest, most honest thoughts, is Memories of Charlotte, my nature icon; my outback; my secret place inside; my anima.
I know she's there... I didn't create her; she brought herself into being. She's always been there, and it's only through the gender segregation of childhood that we've become as seperate as we are.
Of course, I grew up hanging out with girls, and playing house and barbies; but on my own terms. I wasn't exactly sending the Barbies to war or anything, but I wasn't limiting them to going shopping. Sometimes I think it was good there was only one other male child in the neighborhood. Otherwise I'd be as fucked up as most guys are.
At least one of my friends keeps a journal for his feminine side. That's something I've always felt was admirable. He was a little ashamed at first, but he's not one to do things he knows he'll regret, and I think he treasures those private thoughts more than a thousand observations made in his on-line journal.
It's nice to be able to drop everything and just be/think/exist. That pure state is so hard to even glimpse. Someday, maybe, I will share it, and then Solitaire will not be so solitary.