I hate beyond reckoning the settings and features I have installed here that tell me I am underperforming given the way I choose to title my posts. I am afraid, measuring stick, that I have no further interest in your peering length. We will be and say and do what we are.
How we work:
I am grateful for my pod of sages, these external to my head, overhead, and in good spirits wishing me well. I feel mad sometimes when I say aloud how triumphant the darkness can be, how overt and obvious and true it seems to say the sea is black and the fish are stars and we’re all upside down in fear and not in wonderment these days. I am grateful that they let it be mad, but say the right thing to encourage me to settle in this boat of mine and row a bit further, not stop here in the dark. I am grateful that I have a place to go in a snowstorm. I am grateful I have friends who reach out to me before I know how dire my spirits have become. Who come to me when their own hearts are shattered with glue and tea and curiosity about my hurts. I am grateful for the opportunities to better hear and serve them.
I am grateful I survived that rapid in this exciting and unmarked river. I am grateful for the breath I can take without gasping, a health that sustains me. I am grateful I am oblivious of the future. I am grateful for the intersecting buses arriving as they do so that I don’t have to spend every night roaming the dark woods like a shifting bar of fluorescence. I am grateful for backspace keys. I am grateful for warm hands. I am grateful for enough food and enough noise, beautiful and sweeping and still, to keep me alert to the body that needs. I am grateful for being willing to come here when it would have been easier to swallow the stones and ignore the desire to thrill in the white blank page.
I am grateful my mother is alive.
I am grateful there are places with all these arms reaching out and I am grateful there are places where I am roaming the dark woods, glowing, for nothing and no one but myself.
I love that my soul is in ten sweeping universes as we speak. I love that however terrible forty-five minutes can go, a weekend approaches. With dancing and ill, malformed, delighted wiggling and sweet wine. I love that there is purple hair dye in my bathroom calling me. I love that silk robe that seems to make the world on my shoulders feel escapable by parachute. I love the kind whispers saying the kind words, all done as if we’re in a film noir. I love that I saved myself. I love that I knew what to do and did it. I love that I am willing to throw myself into the fire and burn myself to bones for a good idea. I love that piercing eye. I love that I have a bit of security and a bit of risk and a bit of space to dangle betwixt. I love the word betwixt. I love that no matter the readership, I feel comforted in script. I feel saved by the exercise of saving the world one diacritical mark at a time.
I love that there are so many paths before me, light of the trees, light of the space between trees that I am, that I will get somewhere worthy sooner or later. I love that sometimes I am smart enough to realize that it is where I stop that is transformed into worthiness by virtue of my worthy, still half-pink toes. I love that this is so imperfect it could cut glass. I love that there is still empathy inside but not the kind that chokes and keeps me from my own air. I love that it has tried, but tonight, I love the realignment. I love that I am curious about the absolutely hash I could make of my work, the feast of banality I can lay out tomorrow. I love that even when I melt, there’s a series of gutters and chutes and tilted steps that drip me back down into myself, reconstituted and whole. I love that even though I can’t see it from this bed, somewhere glows a moon, a kiss of a birthright, Baba Yaga, for any Fluorescent Girl.
Wouldn’t it be nice if tomorrow was incredibly unimportant and all my stressors and villains and held breaths dissipated? Wouldn’t it be grand if the snow storm blotted all the sharp possibilities and just made some room for thinking time? Wouldn’t it be nice if I took care of the loose ends I know I need taking care of rather than magically thinking that it will work out? Wouldn’t it be nice if the cat came to me and spoke cat languages to me? If I lit the full moon candle on some night with a full moon? If I got a haircut or dyed my hair purple again or both? If I exercised just a bit to spite myself? Wouldn’t it be swell if the kitchen remodel got no expensiver? Wouldn’t it be nice if I woke up with enough time to do my makeup without a rush? If I got to focus just on painting the liquid black across my eyes and could dust the scape with stars? Wouldn’t it be bliss if I got all the plates packed up and got rid of the broken ones with odd memories attached that aren’t memories I want to keep, just old marketing efforts I used to sip from? Wouldn’t it be nice if my shot appointment came up quick and we could all start to plan travel and I could think about Boston and Seattle and ports of call I can’t even imagine?
Wouldn’t it be great if Go_A won Eurovision? Wouldn’t it be a charm if I could keep this little fire burning in my heart for hope? Wouldn’t it be a grand endeavor if the caffeine didn’t take too deep a hold tonight? Wouldn’t it be beautiful to trust we’d done enough?
