we will storm any fortress
Sometimes, about once or twice a month or, if I'm lucky, more, I get this amazing rush. I suppose something like Tony Robbins feels all the time: personal power. Or, if you grew up in a new-age house like I did, Kundalini rising (though the feminist in me - she's still there - finds the snake imagery inappropriate).*
I will overcome.
Whether it's directed at myCGpimp, the novel in utero or the impending financial meltdown (personal and/or global) - I am filled with an intoxicating sense of self belief. If I knew where to get it, I would keep drinking the Koolaid. (thank you, PR agency, you have changed my personal terms of reference forever) Actually, more often than not the Koolaid is words - as Elizabeth Smart's biographer wrote of her: she got turned on by words. Me too, me too.
*As an imagery and feminist theory-obsessed undergraduate I was rather partial to the idea of the uterus as ram (yes, I know, gender confusiontastic) battering its way out of the body: head down and CHARGE!
My bedroom door in the third year of uni featured two adornments: a bleached skull of a ram and a line of self-penned poetry that had been turned into a negative by the typewriter's ribbon: 'bloodeagled by your eager eye'. Pretentious, moi?