I came home from work and smashed eleven horseflies which had taken up residence in my kitchen windows during the day. It sounds kind of like a nursery rhyme, but was not.
Now sitting back at the confounded kitchen table. Listening to Rachmaninov and the pacing of the overhead neighbor. Brown rice and steamed vegetables. Trying to finish this project. It's gotten to the point where I'm avoiding phone calls from my mother. I have clearly overstepped my bounds this month by taking on significantly more work than I can comfortably handle. I am stretched too thin right now. The skin feels tight and dry. No time to dive down, soak in, revisit, reconsider, question.
Tomorrow's Lalah's birthday, and she's hosting a burning at her house. What a beautiful way to mark a birthday. She sent out a message: "Burn things (or pieces of paper that list things) you want to get rid of, let go, return to the universe... and if you'd rather burn marshmallows, bring 'em."
Sign me up for the burning. I can dig that. Maybe I'll burn this laptop.
Still there is this great desire to do something worthwhile, make something beautiful out of life. Brown rice and all.
If you cannot be a poet, be the poem. — David Carradine