Today I honored ritual because my feet barely touch the earth. I'd have floated off, never to be found, a long time ago if I didn't have habits to serve as an anchor. First on the list was typing. An early riser am I, running to the writing room to record fogged over dreams. The impressions of my surreal midnight reel, as it clacked on the spinning wheel, sure felt like truth slapped me silly. Notes led to pages of run-on sentences and feigned repentances. Then it was time to tip the basket of unfounded grounds, and grind until thoughts ran clear again. The screen blinked with each interjection supplied by my fast-talking brain.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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Level-headed dread. Rubbing the matchstick house wrong and coming up overdone and out of favor. Every decade has its pets. Burned out and numb from heel to skull. It is the sort of heat that extinguishes what it distinguishes to be a bright idea. All that is left is a smoldering desk which threatens to shed more blood. Frozen passion. The ice storm plays with fire in the only way it can. -
Mystery and mastery through the mundane: laundry, chip-frying, beat the rug, dust the blinds, put the pot to boil. All the actions that frame the imperfect brilliance of life. Take to task the mud-slingers and name-draggers; for them life is a chore. Simple jobs provide the mind with more frontiers to explore. This is how great things come to be, big and small. Mystery and mastery abounds in the ordinary. -
Standing in the midst of magic. White buds and pink fog are a delicious mix on which the wise ones feed. To learn the difference between craft and trickery is why we gather in this field. Breathe in the innocence of pear blossoms. Venture into the timeless mist that captures the essence of everything it rolls up on. Great change takes place when eyes are shut tight enough to see. -
An unblemished stretch of blue-tinged white waits to absorb my frailties and fantasies. I flick the tiniest drop of inspiration onto the taut surface, and a landscape materializes from out of the patient nothingness. I make the biggest mess I can. Disjointed borders and gradation of color will give shape to the madness until it is suitable for framing. -
A composition in D
Dirt to cover over shoddy logic
The everafter is neutral turf
sodden with consciousness
trapped in static brown water
Life hides in a swollen stream -
Flowers were dear, and the household budget tight as a drumhead. Ada believed if one were to spend money on bringing the outdoors in, petals had to be a particular shade of raspberries in cream. Anything else would be a waste of money. Not blushing baby's cheek. Not, heaven forbid, lilac. Ada's exacting requirements of what pink ought to be made wildflower picking verboten. Even passing the botanical gardens, with fire-tone dahlias screaming in the breeze, "Look at me!" made Ada swoon. It was unwise to present her with a gift of violets, or a fresh clipped rose, sparkling with dew, from the neighbor's trellis. When Ada had saved enough coins from taking in extra shirts to mend and boil, she alone was responsible for choosing the flowers. Only Ada could see the color she had in mind. "Ada's Pink" was her most vivid memory of home; too precious a possession to leave in someone else's hands.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 