Welcome to my World

Welcome to the domain different--to paraphrase from New Mexico's capital city of Santa Fe which bills itself "The City Different." Perhaps this space is not completely unique but my world shapes what I write as well as many other facets of my life. The four Ds figure prominently but there are many other things as well. Here you will learn what makes me tick, what thrills and inspires me, experiences that impact my life and many other antidotes, vignettes and journal notes that set the paradigm for Dierdre O'Dare and her alter ego Gwynn Morgan and the fiction and poetry they write. I sell nothing here--just share with friends and others who may wander in. There will be pictures, poems, observations, rants on occasion and sometimes even jokes. Welcome to our world!

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Older but no wiser--how true

Last night I was reading in my old journals and came across the following passage. At the time I was near the end of my work towards my bachelor's degree, apart and somewhat estranged from my family, and had seen a number of dreams and projects in which I had invested, quite literally, blood, sweat and tears fall to total ruin. I'd had to move on from one of my most intense relationships, actually the first real adult love affair, and had tentatively begun another that also was not destined to a happy ending. My future was very unclear at that moment. And I was very much alone.

It may seem a little maudlin or over-blown now but reading it over, I can still see me as I am today, decades later. It is a bit of a jolt that I do. Ah well, very few writers of any note have been happy, balanced and well-adjusted people, it seems! Tragedy and melancholy and taking one's self too seriously at times is a common thread. At least now I can usually laugh a bit at all of the drama! So this is the person who became a writer of romance...not so odd, that. I lived in an apartment in this house at that time. If memory serves, it was a bit shabbier then, a block from the main line railroad track in Flagstaff, AZ. I took this picture when I was in Arizona for the reunion in June. Changes and sameness...

On this, the eve of my twenty-sixth birthday, I begin a new journal, diary and collection of my wandering prose and poesy. How many pages I have filled with how much nonsense since May 1, 1955 when I first began to record my life! How many triumphs and tears and dull, dull days have come and passed and been recorded. How many names have appeared in how many paper dreams? At that instant, they seemed so important and now they are faded like flowers in the sun to a meaningless dust. Bits and fragments live, I guess, and even shape my present dreams, even as do the dark shadows of past sufferings and sorrows.
Were that the name now in my heart could stay. I think only one has been closer and meant as much. And he, as I have said before, is as if dead and buried now. My time with him might as well have been in another life. So much I’d undo if I only could, yet it has all strengthened and shaped me into what I am now, whatever good is in me now.  I’ve  no illusions about myself; I learned more from experience and example than from doctrine and lecture. The flaws of the parents are magnified and the virtues miniaturized, I guess. I am not noble or good or great; I know it and I am sorry. At times I rationalize and attempt to justify but in my soul I bow a humble head and measure myself with blunt and bitter honesty. I fall far short of what I should be, would like to be. Perhaps I’m not even strong and great enough to be truly bad!
There is always a little awe in starting a new book, a desire for a crystal ball or powers of clairvoyance to see over the wall into the future. Where I will be tomorrow, many tomorrows, I can only wonder.  My suffering and sorrow is not over. That the stars tell me and my soul knows. Like Angelique (heroine in a series of novels I had read) I am destined to love fiercely and search, reach, strive, cry. I am to know the weary miles of many a lonely road in search of an often vague dream.
 I think perhaps this time I have found him, although I have thought so before and been very wrong. The bits and pieces of the dream that has lived in the pages I have filled for fourteen years seem to have been incarnated, unified and housed in…(this person). The impossible barrier between us only intensifies and distils the bittersweet clarity and beauty of my feelings. What a hopelessly incurable and impractical romanticist, idealist and dreamer I am–still. For all the scars, the seeming changes, I am not so different from that twelve year old. “Older, but no wiser, for in my heart the dreams are still the same…”
Oh, I do not want to marry Marvin K or Casey Tibbs now, but I still write, still live more in my dreams than in reality and still cannot cope with life as it is. I still want security and appreciation and am still torn between proud and lofty aspirations, old and shackling loyalties, and a fear and lack of confidence. At twelve I was just on the first edge of awakening and discontent. Am I now just on the last edge or in the center? I think perhaps I’ll never grow up because somehow I stepped abruptly from childhood to adulthood—in death and violence and lust. The missing links can’t be retrieved now but there is a break, a flaw, in the continuity of my existence, my life and growth. Thus I stand on the eve of my twenty sixth birthday, alone…

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