Semi-Daily Scribbles

Stone towers, wishing wells, red roses, and white knights. Many of us understand the symbolism of these images on a subconscious level, so when we speak the meanings out loud, their magic is diminished. The various interpretations of a tower, for example, reside best in a manila envelope inside my head. Heaven forbid I go around in the daylight hours saying princesses are locked up inside of penises. Besides, when filtered through one's cultural affiliations and personal journey, a red knight wearing a white rose will suggest romantic love and the decay of my body. It all works out in the end, so don't fall under the spell of paralysis by analysis. Do not let your original idea have its blood sucked dry. Keep collecting those stories that have a way of absorbing into your pores, and churn the pile with regularity to yield the rich stuff your head and soul requires.

This is why I'm enjoying the composting class I'm taking. I can listen to all the fine scholarly talk, and at the end of the day lock it away in a cedar chest. Under the light of the moon, when my body's at rest and my mind takes flight, the notes I scribbled down from the lecture make sense. In Dreamland I drape blue velvet over muscle and bone, and rifle through thrice folded comments in The Suggestion Box. I take leave of my lessons with the sunrise, and go out into the world understanding the power I hold over the simple placement of words.