Carving out a corner to post random crap.
A constellation is emblazoned across your chest. Your heart;
the center of the universe.
You've traveled far to hear the words:
You are mine 
Across space
And time.
Our souls;
the coordinates that point us toward home.
collapse
expand
disintegrate
we are remembered as icy bodies ignited by bright and terrible light
come closer
come closer
got you by the tail
Darla Varney had to pull off the Bee Trail when the downloads started coming in:
I'm walking … er, well right now … I'm driving the Spiritual Path and The Universe is driving home the need for me to grow a heart. What a delicious theme to work with as part of my Hearts of Garbage project! Why does anyone invite the promise of pain to enter her life by saying the words: "I love you?" For the hope of better things. So as not to be alone. To conform to societal norms. The sheer excitement of rolling the dice. With so many fish to pursue, be sure to purchase lures in bulk. So much symmetry and luck! If I'm feeling trapped and restricted, as though I'm tied upside down to a tree, I must choose to be one with the discomfort so I can allow lessons to present themselves to me. Knowledge is in the ground and all around, and 3 is the number of creativity, as I've often mentioned to the people who make the Prairie View what it is. I must make a decision, just as the dragonflies above must do. So much lovely repeating and reinforcement in this reality. I really must learn how to let go, even though I'm freaked out by the numbing calmness I feel when I make the effort. Is this right? Is this the state of surrender I've been chasing all this time? Makes me think I'd rather feel like it's week two of nixing the fluoxetine.
Is it rude to look inside Darla's head as she converses with the universe? Yeah, probably. But Darla's been dreaming again (eyes shut, eyes open, hands on the wheel, the wheel turns and turns and turns) and we need to start stitching together her personal, private crazy quilt of a backstory. Pronto. Bottom line: This girl's been all over the place. Hell and back is what they say.
The Man came to visit last month. You remember; he lives next to that N. Cali beach you loved to run up and down and scamper over to other dogs doing the same crazy runnin'. Well, this time The Man brought a Lady and two little Mermaid Princesses. They'd have been pleased to meet surly, curly you. I showed the grown-ups where you now sit (Lily's taken over your basket, by the way.) You are still part of the family, after all.
You know, I've caught you out of the corner of my eye recently as I folded laundry. I can pick up on your unique musty puppy fragrance from time to time. You visit, too, during these hot summer days. We sure could use your help with the rabbits and voles, though. Lily does a fine job chasing those critters around the backyard, but the two of you had the Velociraptor act down like nobody's business. And I certainly cannot forget to mention the sweet potatoes! Your Pa dehydrated a bunch and they turned into tasty chewing chips and strips. Lily likes them. Chloe and Toby? Not so much. I know you'd gnaw at 'em for a while, and then go outside to bury some bits for later.
You have always been, and always will be, My Best Naughty Girl. Though there are plenty of doggie memories to get lost in throughout the year, today is my special letter writing day to you. So happy you were a part of this incredible journey. Never far from our hearts, you are.
What should Alejandra's reaction be when she is told by a sleepy colleague to "chill and just roll with it?" Smile and say: "Yeah, you're right." Know that Sonny means well as he munches those pretty flowers.
psssst … The Universe wants you to know the spell you've been under is about to lift. Oh happy day! Just be mindful from here on out of what plants you find in your Redi-Mix bag of salad greens.
we've been summering
bubbles & sun
family & fun
cares have been left behind
at least for a little while
hope you've been soaking up
happy hot weather memories too
we'll catch up when it's cooler.
Sometimes life is like waking up in the middle of a story. What happened yesterday probably never happened. And tomorrow? Tomorrow is written in-between remembered moments. Like you buying the yellow cardigan from Sarita's Secondhand Sweaters. She's one of the newer vendors down at the Prairie View. Speckled here and there with rust-colored dots, the long-sleeved V-neck reminds you of something. Waiting in line for coffee. Meeting a friend at the library. Running in darkness to escape the keening from above. Yellow's not even your color, but you like the monogrammed initials over your heart.
Reveries are states in which Darla creates. Make a suggestion and Darla will be covered in pinpricks and scraps of velvet for the next month. What comes from dreams is handiwork meant to question the associations we form. That lump of clay? A heart ready to take shape. Embroidered letters become the lexicon a stronger influence wields over the yielding. Rag rugs make bending the knee more comfortable. Darla keeps all her façades polished, and myriad options in play. She can't afford to deny her natural pathology.
If someone uses the phrase "safe as houses," think twice before you accept their invitation to come around for tea. Houses are portals to places we've never been, and would do well to traverse with care. Is it hospitality or the promise of the unknown that propels us to cross the threshold as we stand on the stoop examining the door? It is power all the same. This old house is charming and a curse. A house needs good bones to support dark corners and hidden rooms. Buyers, cellars; agents of forces too great to contain. And gardens are camouflage for that which must be kept covered.
Jessamine got to school early to snatch a desk at the back. Not her preferred seating arrangement, but the boy named Micah would be her object of study for the next hour and not the lesson on Cosecant / Secant / Cotangent Functions Ms. Onoko promised the day before. Micah. The friendly one who everybody thought was cool, and who didn't belong to any group. Not an athlete or drama kid. He didn't pound the timpani or give the teachers shit. Jessamine didn't even know if he was any good at school, but he advanced to the next grade alongside her ever since kindergarten. A nice boy. But Jessamine had grown up some since she and Micah were five. She'd noticed little things. Like Micah hung out with girls more than boys. Like how nothing got past him. He'd comment on one girl's newly clipped bangs, someone else's espadrille wedges, or Gwendolyne's switch from Diet Coke to Jones Soda. Jessamine had to admit Micah's power of observation was as finely honed as hers. Maybe he was gay, but she and all the rest of the kids would have known that in kindergarten, even if they hadn't the vocabulary back then to articulate their suspicions with each other on the playground. They were practically adults now, hoping to pass their classes and move on to the next phase of life. Moving on. Having a life. Maybe the new girl had picked up on the same vibes Jessamine felt when Micah was near. Lightheaded and queasy, Jessamine closed her eyes and slowly inhaled as Micah entered the room.
We never truly grow the way we need to when rooted in one place, and comfort can be an obstacle when a task demands attention. Beginnings are always more rosy than saying you're done. What was learned along the way? Stumble. Repeat. The plan behind the madness may not be revealed until the next stop along this eternal blacktop. The journey stretches on into vaguely familiar territory as Karma keeps our souls in play.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 