Part-time

I have a way of making an awful mess of things. By things, I mean myself; my room, my books, my drawings, my relationships, my emotions, my hair, my nails {oh dear, I have ghastly nails}, my math homework, etc. I'm messy when I don't know what I want. I'm messiest when I'm chasing something I think I want, but I don't really want. I look all over hell for it - and anything in the way is ravaged and ignored. To prevent these Dionysian rampages from occurring too often I make lists. I make lists of things to do, things to remember, but mostly things to chase, and bottle up.


Recent lists bear resemblance to this, {scads of these things are in my head, and some of them are sitting in ink, on barbed slips of paper}:

sweaters
mini-mallows for hot chocolate
more sweaters, it's cold
holding hands for awhile
memorizing
to forget a lot
...and forgive?
ok. forgive.
books books books
laughter {the real and ugly kind}
honesty
my cousins back, wrapped up in my arms, all of them
more painting
less crying
really less crying
new people
practice
the best kind of kisses
the best kind of people, with stories

So that partly sums up, part of what I want, part-time.

People thanking God for saving them.

"...we choose possibility. Possibility is almost always better than reality." - Mrs. VanOrden

Grandpa Chuck

I'm sad to say I'm on my way Won't be back for many a day My heart is down, my head is turning around I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town

-- Harry Belafonte

My grandpa loved Harry Belafonte, and his wife, and his kids, and his grand-kids, and his country.

And I loved him very much.
I'll miss him, but I'll see him again.

End of a Spark

Sometimes you still think about something that once made you smile, or made you laugh, or gave you butterflies - right? And it's over, and it's done, but you still get that warm sensation as before, just with an added under-tone of nostalgia. You think about the memory / then the feeling from the memory / then you sort of feel the feeling.


It's not the same as dwelling on the past. It's just remembering. And just remembering is okay.

The last few months have taught me something about remembering, though. Those things that we pluck from our jumbled mind-jars of memorandum, to brighten our less-than-alright days, only do any brightening if the thing in the remembering was real. I don't mean "real" as in "really happened". I mean "real" - as in lasting and lie-free.

Rememberings riddled with falseness and fable don't do me any good, anymore.

Cosmic Truth

'There will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears. And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears. Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your {bones} and {one less storm to fare}.


It's okay to not be okay. I'm just going to sit here, perched on the idea that, eventually, everything will be okay. And it will, I think, eventually.

We are the dreamers of dreams.

Something ought to be said for the daydreamer.

There's a touch of the truly fantastic in a daydream. It could be argued that daydreaming, in itself, does nothing. But that can't be right. Daydreaming, in itself, constitutes creation. The mind's ability to create fantastic {intangible} things, is evidence of our divine origins. Daydreams are the makings of making anything.


Maybe you were just a daydream. . . I'm certain the universe was once just a

daydream.

Daydream
I fell asleep beneath the flowers
For a couple of hours
On a beautiful day
Daydream
I dream of you amid the flowers
For a couple of hours
Such a beautiful day