who_i_am misstree i think it's supertramp. i grew up with them, and to them i attribute all good things. "please tell me who i am..." i connected with a lot of my parent's music. i think i had good taste back then. i remember the common themes in a lot of the songs; isolation, confusion, not always in a painful way. "there are times, when all the world's asleep, the questions run too deep, for such a simple man..." i was alont until somewheres around puberty. not painful, just, well, i didn't understand the peoplethings around me and how they worked. with no one who could be properly considered a peer, establishing an identity is a bit muddled. i might as well have been raised by wolves. that's not true. when i got to high school, i decided i was sick of being the outcast of the outcasts, and started talking to people. we outcasts made a merry team. i was still an alien, but i had established communication and even brought a few aboard. identity is a slippery thing. lots has said lately to edit a certain part of my personality. to what extent still remains unclear; keep digging til you get the root out. but there's a blank space where it once was. i've been lost in the swamps for some time now. there have been islands to alight on for a time, but the air is thick and i am covered in mud and nowhere do i see my own reflection. that's not true. there are still familiar eyes peering through the darkness, but all of them so distant. but i no longer remember... i used to glow once. that glow hasn't died, never could, but... i was looking at gothic fashion photos. they tend to have very elaborate hair and makeup and clothing. not just "make her look pretty," but decoration, plumage. i know that i remember how to don plumage. there's a difference between rusty and amnesiac. but that particular glow, that fullness of manifestation... there are ways in which that was my god form. and that's not all. at work, had a good conversation with a couple of customers. tats, piercings, plaid, etc. this is portland. this is common. i myself, i looked the slightest hint hippieish. in my everyday life, my ability to express is stifled, and it is infecting the way that i think. my desire to craft artworks to adorn me has waned. now i think of selling scarves for money. and i sit on an island in the mud, smoking a cigarette, and think: no matter where you go, there you are, but who_the_hell_am_i? 060430 ... SHIFT 1 . 060430 ... u24 sighs. you're not alone in this feeling. 060430 ... Isaou Its not who i am underneath, but what i do that defines me. - A friend 071002 what's it to you? who go blather from