but I've been to Arizona

Well, I've never been to Spain, though I now wear a leather thing on my wrist engraved 'Barcelona', and I have been to several Albanys, and more Main Streets than I can count. I've never been anchored down in Anchorage, nor have I ever said arrivederci to Roma. Yet, I have traveled when I could, wandered when I shouldn't have, and explored any and everything that struck my fancy. I do know that is nothing more exciting than going somewhere you've never been.

It is a difficult thing to see yourself through someone else's eyes. If it is true that each of us creates his/her own story, then, in most instances, what we see through someone else's eyes is our own creation. I do not consider myself to be extraordinarily empathic, but I do seem to have some sense of how other people see me. I have always said that of the two types of people in the world (those who like me, and those who don't), there is only one that matters. I have to wonder why, when looking through the important one's eyes, I always question something about myself. It is not self doubt. It is more of an examination of how I could be better, which is funny, because what could be better than me. Yes, I realize that there are mundane, everyday things I could do better. I could certainly bitch less, as well. And yes, from an under-the-bell-curve perspective of what is considered 'normal' life, there are several things that are missing...like work, for instance. But the positive outweighs the negative. I am loyal to a fault, devoted to following the right path (albeit my right path, but that makes it no less right), and am as transparent as anyone I know. As I told her the other day, I am not the box next to you, I am the one who gooshes into you.

What I feel IS what I feel, and it often comes as quick and unexpected as thunder in Eugene. I make no apologies for who I am, or what I feel, or what I see through my own eyes (or mind, or gut, or intuition, or heart). I do wish that people I love could see themselves through my eyes, for there is no language good enough to explain that kind of wonder.

There are those who might think that Italian is that language, but I am certain that it is Spanish, as Spanish (or Catalan) is in her heart now, and through her eyes, in dolcos somnis, I see myself babbling incomprehensibly.