It is afternoon. I am sitting on my bed in a small 10x10 room in Brooklyn. I like that it is square. Everything else in my life is asymmetrical and everything about me is round.

The walls are white. On the wall across from my bed, I have my quote from the Times Square billboard I ran during the summer. The rest of the walls are bare. I have a single window in front of me. A stick from a tree from home holds up a cream and brown forest — urban silhouettes of nature to hide the white paint peeling off the brick wall. I could almost jump into my neighbor's living room and introduce myself. I think I would like to. I would like to be a cat woman. I would like to have super powers right now: the power to take the quantum leap from barely surviving to actively thriving.

I need to be out there. I need to publish books and open centers. I need to document, to travel. I need to train my body to become a boxer. I need to drink more water. I need to lose more weight. I have to gain more control. I need to lose more tension. I need to gain more power. I need to lose this debt and I need to gain material wealth. I need to lose procrastination. I need to gain a Zen perspective on the power of "now." I need to lose self-help books and finish my own.

In the hospital, throwing-up, feeling anything but sexy. Contemplating the flux of human relations in this post-modern era where anything goes and often things are gone after a single night or one round. And what has holding power against the modern machine of the dating frenzy amplified by the Valentine's Day plug-in and match-up. Become a whore hobbyist - become something, something you are not now and do it fast — fuck — once you have those wrinkles, you are a dime a dozen in the used-up and thrown away women pile. No, ladies, we don't appreciate with age in this world. So if you want to assure your place in the golden age — to have any value as a woman — you better publish now — put something on paper — make it official - you have a brain — your body — ah, they say you have some something...some look that lures but you are far from refined — action before glamour, you say, and so it has been.

Yet now I am looking for healing — I am looking to rage against the machine — I want to be strong, to run up mountains and on beaches. I need to rise to the next level of my own potential here in my private hell on a Saturday afternoon in Brooklyn. How many other artists are sitting alone in front of their computers planning how to save the world, how to find themselves, how to make Saturday night worth the rest of the week, just how to keep on living. The under-privileged is what I call us. The bohemian dreamers who have risen above the status quo but not quite above the poverty-line (or maybe a step or two ahead or behind that mark) but still starving for the ability to actualize their potential by any means necessary. Then there are all those others.

I head into the city today to go to Callen-Lorde, the only health center for the sexually versatile within this oh so diverse city. I have been dealing with the blue collard bastards at Beth Israel all week. Dealing with their constant drug pushing and Court TV in the waiting room — how the fuck do you tell someone that they are dying and then send them out to a waiting room where they are forced to watch their fellow citizens duke it out on national television for a month's rent and a VCR. Stupid western doctors and their endless bag of tricks. There is little treatment left in the American system — treating means going to the root and uplifting the problem...healing the wound from the inside out. Not here. Here we just get offered a lifetime supply of drugs to numb the pain and details of how we can get laser surgery to cover-up our scars. Forget about even having a little old-fashioned rubbing alcohol to clean the cuts. No no...no room for bleeding hearts or commonsense here — the inside of American hospitals remind me of the commercials they show at half-time during the Super Bowl. Bring the best and worst of technology together, watching humans promote machines, watching us sing along to jingles for the latest fix. We are going to give you a stomach cocktail they tell me Friday night in the ER. I ask what is in it. The doctor replies, "It is just a cocktail; it covers everything, coating everything." I shake my head and say, "no thanks." I have to say "no" politely three times and she walks away with out asking why or offering any further details — she offered it to me — it's on record she and has covered her bases. I am released into the world of follow-up appointments.