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Barbarella began keeping a blog, or Web log, in 2000. The following are selections from her website, http://barbylon.diaryland.com.


2003-11-04
I AM Corybantic

The word of the day is “corybantic,” defined by AWAD as “wild; frenzied; uncontrolled.” Named after some psycho goddess who performed “ecstatic” dances. Okay, WHY am I just now learning this word? I could have used this when I lived in Los Angeles, you know, back in my corybantic days, when I would party corybantically all weekend. What a waste.

Well, at least I have a way to describe myself accurately in retrospect, in my memoirs perhaps. We all think we’re so fucking interesting, don’t we. I admit it. I find myself endlessly fascinating, which is one of the reasons I journal so much. It entertains me to document my interesting thoughts and poignant recollections. It makes me feel like I know myself. Knowing myself helps me figure out what I want and how I want to be.

I’m happy this morning because I am. That’s all. Two little words. I am. Any words after those two, will be put there by me and me only. That is what I will believe, that is what I will become, and that is what will dictate my actions and my feelings.

What do YOU say after “I am?” Think about it. Because that’s exactly what you are.

2003-04-15
2003-04-22
Impending Surprise and Me So Happy

Friday night, I’m taking my father out, something I can’t write yet, because from time to time, I think he reads me, and I want to keep the surprise. Speaking of which, Dad, again, if you happen upon this, all this talk and poetry about sex and slaves, it’s fantasy fodder for writing. RIGHT. Your daughters are clean and good and hardly naughty at all. Well, three of them are. But that doesn’t mean the fourth is ME. We all remember the fruit-fly ratio, right? One out of four. Hee hee. So, special night out with Dad, and he’s going to shit his pants when he sees where I’m taking him. That’s a figure of speech, in case you thought my father had weak bowels or something.

Last night, I reached a point of extreme happiness. Warm inside, with the cool rain pattering on a sky light, tapping against large windows, comfortable, safe, with M.s.’s head on my leg, looking up at me and talking excitedly about the stock market. I was so overwhelmed with joy that my eyes watered. He didn’t notice, which was good, because I didn’t want to explain my predicament, I just wanted to experience it. I burned the moment into my brain, I tilted my head back against a pillow and smiled into myself, and I could feel the core of me smile back.

It’s rare that I can release everything in the world and surrender to the moment. Happy moments are so much easier to get lost in, though, and yesterday, I was so lost in the moment that Sherlock himself could not have found me.


2002-10-25
A Ride to the Airport with Dad and Peter

This morning, before work, I took my father to the airport. I finished the last page of a novel just as he was making his way out of his room with all of that luggage. I’ve been wanting him to hear a particular song from Peter Gabriel’s new album, “Up.” The song is called, “I Grieve,” and after listening to it MANY times, I was sure Dad would love it. Before he had the car door closed behind him, I put it on and asked him to start listening (short drive to the airport, long song). The song begins softly, and as Peter’s voice filled the space in my car, a stolen glance at my father confirmed that he was already sucked in.

Down Washington Street, Peter lugubriously lamented, words of loss and anguish, depression and loneliness, anger and frustration. Helplessness. “So hard to move on. Still loving what’s gone. They say life carries on.” I repeated the words Dad didn’t catch, driving home the point, that this is a song about the loss of a loved one, about the process we go through. Denial — “nothing yet has really sunk in” Anger — “final rattle rocks its empty cage, and I can’t handle this” Grief — “Let it out and move on” and finally, after turning onto Pacific Highway, the healing began, when the beat picks up and Peter sings of the many ways in which life DOES carry on. And the last words, “Did I dream this belief? Or did I believe this dream? Now I will find relief. I grieve.”

The song ended just as I was pulling up at the terminal, and I peripherally watched my father wipe the tears from his face, touch the cloth of his sleeve to his eyes to soak up any residual moisture that may be gathering. He mentioned wanting to share the song with his sister, all of our family back east, all who are drowning in grief, gasping for relief but every time it shows up, in one form or another, some choose to dip their heads back under the water. Something comforting in sadness, I guess. I can understand that, to a point. Sometimes, it feels so good to hurt, to touch raw emotion, whether it be overwhelming joy, or gut-wrenching pain.

I got out of the car to give Dad a proper hug, to hold love for a moment. He told me, as he always does, to tell my sisters that he loves them (he always wants that to be the last thing he says, should anything, God forbid, ever happen to him). Then, walking back to the car, I smiled as I called out, “oh, fuck off… What, don’t you know that means — I love you and I’ll miss you? But really… have a safe trip, Daddy,” hopped in the car and drove away, leaving him to stack his many bags on his little-wheely-carry thing. I’m going to miss him while he’s gone.

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