Category: Uncategorized

She is so

fickle

Wild

Boisterous

Nuisance

Can’t stand her being around

Clown

Age up

Stand up.

Walk over there

Nose to the wall

Sit down

Kneel

Stand up

Look here

No

Yes

Spin spin spin

With red ears and a chest of choppy waters, to the mirror with shears

Shattered

Battered from the inside That’ll teach her that’ll show her that’ll tame her that will keep her

Safe

Held

or trapped

What’s an egg other than a space to hatch from

Wet and sloppy supposedly ready to walk

engaging muscles

made to move made to move made to move made to move made to move made to move made to

spin

Lighter

Brighter

Emanating in pinholes blinding

Pin holes pinwheeling

Feeling feeling

Weightless

Down, no

Quit it

Callate Malcriada Grosera

Devil’s child ruining lives

Of course you’d be with your father

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Hey

Hey you

Yes you.

Big eyes and wriggling

Come here

I have a lap for you

I have a book for you

I have colors and songs

I have blankets for you

This is yours and that is not

I know a place where we can go

It’s a small porch swing

Swing swing swing sway swing swing swing watch swing swing swing sing swing swing swing swishhhhhhhhhh

Bring what brightens you

Wear what allows you

You can pick a hat

You can pick a drink

You can pick out a sensible bowl for your chosen snack

I’ll sit close

You can touch your toes to mine

I’ll sing softly so you know I’m near

Yes, it’s fine to look at sun caped leaves.

Yes, it’s fine to believe they are royal

Yes, it’s good to say nothing but hum and test out words as they enliven your tongue

Yes, it’s fine to age here with me and the leaves and the hum between us all

Yes, you can stay

Yes, I’ll help you find relief as needed

In peace we’ll close our eyes and the wild bright all around us will float on.

Giggles, yes, I hear you

Coiled, yes, I see you

Gripping the cold cloth covered piping like a lovey, cheek balancing between ether and I

I love you

Yes, that’s my hand on you

I’m here.

You dear, are watching and waiting

What’s mine is always mine and will come back to me! It was dark mode. The mode!

I’ve been trying to figure out why I couldn’t find my voice during the day, by a window, on a computer, and it’s the hrhdbsva light!

Light touches, dark covers. I don’t want to touch into everything or be touched by fonts, formats, diction, web design, the shape of whatever anything is, because I hold so much respect for what shares space with me. I don’t know where it’s at on its way. And yes, I do want to interact with it to some degree. That’s definitely the puppy energy of the moment, so it’s not to be brought a microphone. It just is and is allowed to be. The rule is, they’re all on their way somewhere and at their own tilt, so I must maintain my spin and stretch this space out as we all do for one another. The infinite picnic blanket. And yet,…If I don’t say something, in a space where it is held it would be a sin. That’s the feeling. It’s sinful to not allow it to move. This voice has its own trajectory I cannot compel to one book, song, essay. It does not follow “write what matters” unless I follow it directly translated to my own language and write what forms.

Whatever begins taking on energy to move through space and time has matter. I had been applying it to “write what matters to you” The complexity of “you” dulled everything about the stream because it started pebble pinching for relevance. Nothing is! It all is. Let it dance.

My dance agreed, “oh yes, the stage is quite full today. I need to sit down; which seat is mine, maybe the ticket has more information.” Then I decide to say nothing.then it’s dark.the show is done.Everyone leaves. I breathe The show stays alive in me, except it’s rendered within some sort of wubby skimmy stimmy composition box for a transmutation unto itself and I’m mother of monsters never named. Monsters who are so tame and lovely in the dark.

This much I could say with the cacophony of a mad mad screaming, toddler, and the 5 year old fighting over me, before the third one comes begging for cuddles.

1, 2, 3

Our time is up, darkness. Receiving the light now.

I am now, at the round age of 3 kids, a husband, and a cat, understanding I’m a private person who has been walking nakedly towards others.

Maybe don’t do that.

Or do.

It’s a free to some country.

I am awake nursing my 2.5 year old under the yellow selection light of a sound machine, and the window may as well be covered by cardboard with how dark it feels–comfortable. 5 am. The same 5 am that has been begging me to access it; a door to a different life. I had been putting some strange film on it. Something about exercise, something about setting up a morning nest egg, something about arranging food. It’s a routine…

(Stopped to do some stretches)

((Had a whole day and another night of sleep))

* This is why we can’t write consistently. We’d have to accept that we will not be able to maintain any track because we are a legion of experience, sensation, and sources….bah

**I could…maybe just continue writing along until my sacral energy and I are friendly. She’s sleepy and doesn’t know the early dark …maybe a few reminders

1. My daughter is touching her toe to mine in her sleep while we share the 3rd bed of the kids room

2. Sleepovers, and being awake before everyone else, having a chance to wander unperceived

3. Leaving dance clubs and subsequent diners/ blanket pizza parlors fulfilled after having been allowed the full extent of my expressive body’s artistry.

Nope, she’s not interested in writing, she’s hungry.

What I had attempted to say to myself or out loud… What my flower petals were trying to fill through with color skywards was something like, “This dark is nice” And it was pulling up on something else in the claw machine. Dragging forward some other bear hooked over a foot it wanted to say something about my being made to speak to one person at a time. Maybe it was that daylight fills with various other subjects and so it’s much like speaking to an orchestra instead of that quiet little wonder of a table for 2 just about anywhere. Though blue is begining to alight upon the branching dark, I had a moment. We had a moment, the dark and l, to remember our exclusive natures. I’m the deep dark and the stunning streaks of dawn. Maybe.

I wonder who I’ll meet there through that 5am door, appreciating the dark, awaiting striking light to illuminate somewhere, something, somehow else?

Like Winnie the Pooh, something’s are much to bothersome to ponder on an empty stomach.

Did you know that if you saw a block of wood, smooth, carrying forward on its path, maybe boring, and then compared it to it’s splintered, gnarled twin. If someone asked,

“So, How are you?”

“That one. The splintered one. That’s me.”

or

“I guess the smooth one. I feel quiet nice today.”

It would be a better opener for many than

“Hi, how are you?!”

As compared to what?

How am I to apple? Am I mealy and bruised? Am I splendor of even storms and sunshine. Robust? Dull or shining? Smooth or scratched.

Yet it’s often asked of me to compare this to a feeling. It does not match. I feel all the time. Do others not?

Sad is a happening. An event of my personal planet topography. Happy is, lonely is, scared is… They all are.

Maybe the question asks, “What have I bumped into here, with you? Have you found something, are you carrying something, are you stalled at some road and starving, are you soiled, have you recently washed, is something quite loud that only you hear?

oh, I could write pages of these.

Did you know that I would know you are not ok? And you would know the same of me.

Further, like a cat experiencing threat, I’d recognize our need for safety, comfort, ease, even playfulness by the splintered aesthetic of the wood block

I’d ask and be prepared to answer. I’d smooth you out and you’d smooth me.

There are circles of conversation where this becomes a frustration. They’ll ask

“How do you feel?”

“Like a splintered block of wood”

“So maybe scared”

“I don’t know”

“disconnected?”

“I don’t know”

“Broken”

“I don’t know”

And asking the question to find a feeling associated does not work.

“What type of wood?”

This is the divide I’m typically trying to divine whenever I meet another human. Are you going to try to guess me, assume we are the same, or are you going to try to learn my language?

I appreciate the linguists. I try to learn the language. But the language is based on assumptions and the denizens are constantly warding off insults they’ve personally determined as critical punctuations.

Did you know, it’s the assumptions that exhaust me.

I don’t know anything.

I maybe don’t even want to learn to be kind.

not that kind

is there another?

Today’s message was Real behave optimally and blue zones and being true to the intention of mindfulness. I followed the exact inner guided message as story delivered and ate the smallest bowl of dinner with the smallest scoop of coffee ice cream. I received a story of doing a morning work out aerobic on the projector, had tea and warm milk before bed. I cuddled with my olwen on the floor of our upstairs when olwen asked for a listening rabbit and then tucked what was ready to be tucked. In fact I am realizing I didn’t answer any questions today and my children were happy. Busy.