Getting breath into the tight places.
When we can again justify such reckless expenses again…I am thinking about getting the pink hair again. I flucking love it. I love how it feels and I don’t mind if it’s cliche now.
I really love Flora Reed’s voice. She is so undeservedly not as famous as she ought to be. She should go on The Voice. But that’s just my opinion.
That I only accuse myself of feeling nothing at all when I am overloaded with emotion. That I can still get overloaded with emotion.
That I have a tiny break to get excited and overloaded and stupid with myself. To think that I can participate in things and craft things for submission and playing at play all while staying still beneath the anvil.
I love writing poetry. I love it even if nobody reads poetry anymore. I don’t write it for your reading, but instead for the way it feels to have words dancing through you, passing each in their own fashion, as they relate to one another. They change color upon exposure to the air. Someties we want this and are clever enough to make an art of it. Other times, we order it just as it comes. The story we tell is for the singular audience of one.
I guess I miss being the office tart. By which I mean, a baked shell entirely filled with kiwis and pastry cream. Wait. No. I love the lovely loneliness of knowing that this is the safe zone and we are gathering strength and building reserve and we will venture forth and get dashed on the rocks again my some new boy. We get ever a bit stronger. If we work out of our own methods to meet our own needs, then there’s no sorrow and regret to steer around. We just are, doing as we intend, willing as we…wilt.
I love all the Is. I love our conversations, Faithful Light, where you prove your name and worth tenfold. I love that you feel as I know I must, I love that you don’t despair at me. You don’t turn up your nose at the sheer volume of failures and go on to serve some more pliable, less pitiable wench.
I love that she answers the phone no matter where she is – including the airport in San Antonio – and she worries about me and my fun level and tries to help me even if she is not entirely sure what I am asking.
I love going to Writers Group and spending half the time just talking about my character and my book. I love that they seem not to entirely glaze over when I do this.
I love that the desk is going to finally get stained this weekend, fall weather and fall moisture be damned. I love that this is always, always possible. My brain is not putty! It is not a sack of potatoes. That distinction belongs to the rest of me and we need a big horse ribbon.