That damned book... . . I am not a very strong person. Strong-willed, occasionally...but in terms of self-confidence, and discipline, I am a shrinking violet. It frightens me to hear my praises sung, because I know more will be expected of me. . And the more that is expected...the less I am inspired. . I carried that journal thousands of miles. I had promised him I would, so we could pass it back and forth across a cafe table and avoid the difficult act of verbalization. . So we could avoid "innocuous questions". . Yet when the time came to meet, I froze. I left the journal buried within the darkest corner of the suitcase. There would hardly be an opportunity to speak, let alone write down our impressions in some Melbourne cafe, I reasoned. . Forever justifying my actions. . If I were honest...oh yes, I am on occasion...I would admit that I did not bring the journal on that day, or the next, for the simple fact that I was afraid. Afraid of what I might write. Afraid I would have nothing to write. And yes, afraid of how ridiculous I might look passing the leather bound volume back and forth with others at the table. . I am forever grateful to Paul for taking us to Carmen's. . It was much easier to drown my fears in the combined sensory overload of sangria and flamenco. It was much easier to sit on his left, my eyes glued to the stage, while dozens of questions ran through my mind before escaping into the night, unspoken. . Today, I placed the journal back on the shelf in my studio. The pages remain blank, except for the residue from the henna stencils which are now long gone. . I wonder when I will be strong enough to leave my mark? .

SMQ1997