If you're reading this. Three words.

I miss you.

Geez. I seriously miss you.

Just pluck me from my natural habitat and it takes, hmmm, I would say a whole of 5 seconds for me to realize just how great my friends and family are. Just how lucky I am to have you. And how rare it is to truly be known. I always seem to forget just how great you are.

So the internet situation is pretty much impossible here. I'll be lucky to have a half hour time slot once a week. Sad. This (obviously) is not a sufficient amount of time for me to write all the emails I so desperately want to write. So I will turn to letter writing. Which is not so disappointing. It's more personal, you know? And it will be fun to create little bits for you all. This is actually a much better idea than emails, I can tell already. So please, right this very moment send me an email (leahmicheleberry@gmail.com) with your home address. Do it. I like you and would like to be pen pals.

I was thinking. It's probably, no, most definitely a good thing that I didn't have the internet available to me until this moment. Any earlier and you would have had to endure a wallowy self-pitying unhappy Leah. Not pretty. Thankfully it is only the pages of my journal that have had to endure such abuse these past few days. This abuse comes in many forms. Most commonly in bitter self-absorbed teenage angst: "Oh no one understands me." or "I don't relate to anyone here." My pencil has also written in the dramatic emotional state reminiscent, of say, everyone's favorite emo band - Dashboard Confessional: "Woe to me." and "I'm so disappointed." Weep weep weep. What I feel the worst about, oh my poor poor journal, are the long angry unwarranted rants. Me on my high horse articulating exactly how I feel about this house, these people and my dumb choice to come here. I am so glad I had no choice but to spare you of all this nonsense.

And now, at 730am on Saturday when I finally have some computer time, I can tell you I am doing alright. Thanks to Thursday really. I am doing alright. Thursdays are our day off. I forced myself to be social (a new personal mandate after several days of self-inflicted pouty isolation) and went with a few girls into town. And what do you know? It ended up being a great day - filled with all of the things I love most. Here's a rundown of the day that managed to pull me out of my brooding:

Throughout the day we walked and walked and walked. For miles and miles and miles. A favorite past time of mine. We went through green countryside and down muddy paths that were enclosed by trees. We passed quaint English cottages and beautiful old houses. We picked fresh blackberries all along the way.

In town we sat and chatted over coffee in a tiny and charming cafe.

We wandered through a narrow alleyway where a small signless window filled with guitars and album covers caught our eye. We opened the small door and were immediately greeted by tons of old records and used cd's. We dug through this small gem of a store and made friends with the man behind the counter. The same man who was passionately lecturing an old English gentleman about how he can't believe that he doesn't own such and such a record as it is one of the greatest rock records ever produced and how it is essential to any collection. Eavesdropping on this conversation all I kept thinking was, "high fidelity anyone? anyone?"

Then. As if that wasn't enough. We stumbled across the gold-mine. A Huge used bookstore. This baby had books, pictures, old prints, postcards and maps stacked from floor to ceiling. It was set up like some sort of labrynth with narrow halls and secret doors that led to more and more rooms. It was overwhelming. And I was in heaven.

It is amazing, silly really, how much of an affect these small pleasures have had on my outlook. I simply feel as if I now know I will survive here. I will always have that bookstore and record shop to flee to when I need an escape or cheering.

My time is up. Email me your address. Do it.

I sit here in my single bed.

Imitating Kristin I stare at the ceiling panels.

My head falls lazily to the right.

An empty single bed falls into view.  My neighbor.

Hello neighbor.

Clothes, bag, books, bits scattered across it.

I picture fear sitting there among the pieces.

Yes.  Fear lays sprawled out on that white bedspread next to mine.

Fear embodied by my black pants.

Yes.  That's it.  My black pants are now named Fear.

A leg hangs slack over the headboard.

Another drips leisurely down towards the floor.

The waistband is all folds, crumples and gathers.  It sits up straight.

This Fear is rich and black.  

Charcoal spread across white wall bed sheets.

The single silver button eye stares at me intently.  Unblinking.

The bronze zipper makes a crooked, mocking smile.

These Fear jeans and I, we are making unwavering eye contact.

I begin to think back.  To trace our shared history.

These black jeans, they are my favorite.

They fit me perfectly.

I slip them on easily.

I wear them regularly.

I take them everywhere.

As is with these nameless fears of mine.  This sorted band of anxieties.

They fit me perfectly.

I slip them on easily.

I wear them regularly.

I take them everywhere.

Here I sit.  In this single bed of mine.

Staring into the bends, curves, crevices of this black Fear.

Memorizing shape and form.

The silver eye bores into me.

The jagged zipper mouth laughs.

I feel a tear begin its slow descent.

Blink.

I shake my head at this foolishness.

I laugh at the absurdity.

Sigh.

I realize I may have just decided to burn my favorite pants.

Lately I've been avoiding this blog.  My writing has not completely ceased (for it helps me through the day) but now I hold it hostage in my journal.  Words stay on private pages.  Pages where I feel free.  Pages where I am safe.  On these white pages vulnerability is commonplace.  Tears are welcomed.  Fears are faced.  Joy is embraced.  Anger is accepted.  And words are not judged.  Journals are my safe place.  And although I recognize that the role of this blog is not to be a private journal, I do want it to be a place where I feel safe.  I don't want it to be surrounded by feelings of obligation and fear, but rather honesty and expression.  I know it may seem that blogging is more difficult for me than most, and that's because, well I think it is.  In this life I regularly allow fear to guide my steps and dictate my path.  This blog represents an attempted rebellion against fear.  Therefore these little chats where I remind myself  simply to be honest and write will likely continue to occur.  So bear with me.

In an attempt to put my new resolve into action (before it dissolves) here is a journal excerpt:  

Friday.  September 12, 2008.

Fashion Collages.

Creating fashion collages.

Ripping the pages of magazines.  Tearing out my favorite outfits, items, accessories and excerpts. 

Placing them on the pages of my journal in a visually pleasing way.  Taping them into place.

Meaningless.

I leave tomorrow on a new journey.  A journey whose designated purpose is to search.  To search the meaningful depths of life, humanity and this small world.  To ask all of the crucial yet annoyingly cliche sounding questions that accompany this purpose.  My hope was for this to be a time released from the bondages of routine every day life.  Free from materialism, consumerism, technology and pop culture.

So how do I prepare?

Fashion Collages.

This new past time seems to have been inspired by a current obsession with packing.

I am convinced that I need new things to prepare for this journey.  I cannot, must not, simply transfer a portion of  my overflowing closet into a suitcase.  I must purchase, collect, acquire and stockpile new clothing.

Meaningless.

So why have I become absorbed with the task of packing and drowning myself in meaningless fashion collages?  Well. Two reasons.  A)  This is simply what I do.  Packing has always been and will likely continue to be quite an ordeal for me.  More interestingly, there is B)  Packing is all I can control at this moment.  It is all I can plan for.  It is all I have.

I am walking in the dark here.  I have no idea what I am stepping into.  As I reassure others with shallow words, "I'm excited." and "It will be good." and "I'm looking forward to it."  My real thoughts flutter in a different fashion, "What am I doing?"  and "What if I hate it." and "Oh geez.  Mistake."  I don't know what to expect, and therefore in many ways I am at a loss as to how to prepare.  So I busy myself with what I can command:  the contents of my suitcase.  I most certainly can plan, prepare and manipulate my attire for the next 3 months.  This I can shape.  And so I have.  With an intensity that should surely be reserved for things of greater significance. 

Fashion Collages. 

As I prepare for a time of internal reflection and meditation, I become fixated on the external.

Oh so Meaningless.