Living in Fear and Insecurity.

I'm reading a book right now about a character that had some pretty horrific things happen to her.  The funny thing is, the book is one of a series and in this third novel, our heroine (the books are science fiction) has something horrible happen to her, and you think she is going to save the day yet again, because that is what happens in fiction books usually.  But she gets scarred because she was rendered helpless.

Against the odds, this thing happens that we never think will happen.  How do we respond?
The trauma of the event rattles us, and fear snakes in.
In this current book, she is dealing with this trauma that took place, and thinks she's even past it, but the pain and fear snake in and cripple her with panic and anxiety attacks, ceasing to respond normally to whatever situation she is in.

Right now, something or someone knows her fears, and is somehow capitalizing on them making our heroine live in fear and panic, and she is unable to really see what is going on.

I relate all this to our lives.
Living in fear.
Living in fear of the stupidest day to day things, up to things we know we are called to do by God, like talk to someone walking down the street, or be willing to be vulnerable in a relationship with another person because you know that somehow, God wants to do something in whoever the person's life.  Whatever the reason, I know we can be hindered by our nervous fear.  We do not call it out for what it is, and forget to live our story by zoning into the TV and living someone else's story.
Not engaging and tackling fears in our own lives I think can be the biggest travesty as we no longer participate in living and engaging the world around us, the people around us...

We see and know how everything is supposed to go on our films and TVs and computers, yet, don't get in on it.  How have we become outsiders in our own lives.
Kinda weird concept, and we don't all fall under these categories, but I know we've looked at our neighbor and wanted to be more like them because we're insecure in what we are, and insecure in what God made in us.

Insecurity and fear can go hand in hand I think.
Maybe.
Just maybe.

Really Rambling Rita

Quest for knowledge will be my undoing.  No, the quest won't be the undoing...I suppose our undoing is never quite in the quest, but getting caught up in how much we know thinking it is a whole heap.  The truth is, the more we know the more we realize how little we know...
No arrogance in anything.
I think the quest for understanding is something that unties my shoelaces and tries to trip me daily.  Understanding WHAT exactly?  Anything and everything.  I just praise God my curiosity is still stirred.  Now to go about digging for the information to understand...

Whatever.

Storytime.
Once upon a time I woke up this morning and the words, 'Do not compromise' flew through my brainwaves.  My eyes opened and I kinda just looked at the ceiling for awhile.  My brain was still functioning in fog biscuits, but the phrase, 'Do not compromise' should be contemplated upon more frequently.

The depths of not compromising can apply to most things I suppose.  But there is good and bad compromise.  I don't think I should not compromise when I'm doing something just to get my way.  I don't think that is what God meant when he woke me up today with, 'don't compromise'.

I would LIKE it to mean do not GET compromised, as if I were in ALIAS being a spy...not to be found out while secretly trying to find out the bank codes or something...

I believe not compromising has more to do with do not compromise who God made me to be.  Do not forget who I am.  To know my roots, whatever I am, and am not, is in Christ.  I should not be comprised of other's thoughts of me, though they are a reality, my goal is not to please this world and be of this world...is it?  The busier my schedule becomes, does that mean I stop taking time to reflect on God's word and to be in constant communication in prayer all day long?  Am I looking at the boutique windows and flashy signs and lights and whistles and horns longing to be seduced by the advertising that I should be something completely opposite of what I am?  Should I be striving to be that other girl up there on the billboard because she has nicer teeth or better hair...
Not compromising didn't quite mean don't groom yourself...more like, there is such a thing as self control.  And even though there is a world against us out there telling us to indulge in everything....(we long to be seduced and pursued by these amazing advertisements...) indulge in this food, in this product, in taking more than your share...encouraging greediness...indulge in these movies and these leisurely activities and waste time, oh, and speak as crudely as you want, too...

I think not compromising has something to do with 'self control', and it is a fruit of the spirit.  I was in Galatians today and for some reason it just stood out that in order not to compromise myself to sin, I really need to be conscious of what is fruit of the spirit and what is the product of sin...Self control in the smallest of things like controlling our tongues.  I lose that battle every day.  But I need to strive to have self control...

Digression and Raisin Bran

Learning about a lot of new things.  Like what is going on inside my head.

Too often, I find things unfinished inside my brain.  Too many things vying for my attention.  I'm the idiot that keeps bouncing around, lacking the discipline sometimes to focus on one idea and see it through in its entirety before starting something new.

Time for some discipline.  Are we disciplined at all?  I find that though some of the coolest things are done by chance in art, a lot of the crazy ideas that capture us and perplex us are the ones that were well thought out, or the artist really mulled through the project and worked through it...when you view or hear the piece you hear the artist wrestling with the ideas and things proposed.  You can almost see them going mad over the ideas in the work, solving the problems, or thinking through to the solutions.

We long for some sort of solution and resolution.  We long and crave for it, but what happens when we find the deceptive resolution...instead of going back to the root chord, it goes to the sixth, and our ears are fooled.  We don't hate it, yet something somewhat unexpected happened, and it was just...different, and almost had a 'sweeter' effect to us.

In our lives we get so frustrated when it does something we don't expect, but if I lived the days as I have planned them, I would probably live the most boring and dull life.  My imagination would face no challenges, I would be in a box of my schedule, and I would never embrace chance to find and soak in the random of my day...the beautiful things God puts before us and lets us experience.  The different people I can choose to interact with, or really listen to for once...the colors in the grain of wood in this coffee table I sit at, the patterns the clouds are making across the gray sky....
I wonder if we dig into these things that we could dig into.
I long to interact with my world more than I ever planned to, and though the unexpected makes me uncomfortable, shouldn't I live it?  This is the life I have to live?  Why am I ignoring what is around me, waiting for the next 'planned' event of mine to sweep me off my feet....I cannot forget these moments and I cannot live in the future, 'waiting' for my next break from school, or 'waiting' until the next concert I'm going to, or 'waiting' until I'm finished with a project, or '''''fill'intheblank''''.

Our opportunities are crunching in our ears, a loud bowl of Raisin Bran, -two scoops ahead, so loud I can't do anything else but listen to the teeth grinding the...
and I digress.

Buried Movement at Park Street Church

Tonight I had the opportunity to play the kangaba (a little djembe-like drum played with the hands) for Sue Murad's performance art pieced.
The idea for Sue's piece centered around the idea of being Buried.  She sent out the word to create the collaboration between many different artists of many forms, and came up with the concepts, drama, and movement pieces.

I am currently in an Interdisciplinary Collaboration of the Arts class right now at school, so naturally, I was interested in Sue's work.  (I met Sue at an art night at our house through one of my roommates, Heidi)  Movement is a big part of what Sue does, and she choreographed a Nature Piece centered around the idea of Waves, and a Cultural piece that had 6 different movements.  Keep in mind, all of the pieces are centered around the idea of buried, being buried, or any form of bury.

The Nature piece was interesting because one person would come in at a time and sit on their knees first, hands on the ground, and would slowly arc upwards 'til their hands stretched towards the sky, then in a sway motion they would crash to the floor like a wave splashing.  Then another person would come in and sit in front of them and do a similar movement, and after a few people were doing the movement, you could almost close your eyes and hear the ocean as the sounds were rhythmic yet asymmetrical at the same time.  They would sway their hands on the carpets, sashaying back and forth until they would climb stretching upwards and crash.  The ocean is a blanket and buries and can suffocate.

The piece I musically participated in was the Culture piece.  They had on long sleeve orange shirts to show the brightness of culture.  But keep in mind buried.  We're all eventually buried.  This is one thing we share, whether we're buried by others in culture, or buried by nature.

I'm not going to give a complete rundown of everything, but I played different drum beats, some patterns, some asymmetrical noises that I tried to connect with the movements or concepts.  One piece was called pottery.  Ancient civilizations that are long dead were buried with their pottery, and it was a mark of their time.  I held my drum to the side, and would slap the wood, and pull upwards, trying to give the idea of making pottery, and slapping the clay onto the wheel.  I repeated these sounds because the repetition of those sounds is continual in making pottery.  That, and I didn't have any glass to break, nor did I want to clean that up.

Another movement was about tools.  We are buried with our tool, or our craft might be all we are.  We are a carpenter, we are an electrician, we are a chef, a homemaker, an artist.  You name it, but we are buried with these skills if not tools of things we've learned and acquired in our lifetime.

One of my favorite movements was the Brush.  Each woman came to lay on the ground almost in a running motion, heads together, so that they all looked like a bike wheel at the end.  The women one by one would come out, and there were several different movements about brushing hair, then the next would lie down.  For this, I couldn't help but imagine looking in a mirror myself, brushing my hair, and almost zoning out, just existing for a moment letting the feeling run through your fingers and head, feeling alive and numb at the same time.  In those moments, I have heard women singing to their daughters, and as those women grow up, sing to their children and so on, and I find a humming seems to happen a lot when women brush their hair in general.
So.  I started humming, and singing a hollow and haunting melody, almost zoned out, but thinking constantly of a mother singing to a daughter.  I kept thinking that this mother was almost urgent to tell  her daughter all these things, but could only speak them through a sad melody.  We are buried with our skin and bones and hair and whatever we are physically, this is what we are.

The last was a Make-Up movement and was really powerful.  As women we are buried with our looks.  For a lot of us, we've spent a lifetime trying and trying to alter our appearance and shape and craft it and mold it and we have wasted so much time.  What are we but aging and dying?
I drummed something out, a steady rhythm like we might listen to while we're getting ready, sculpting our faces.  Then there is this climax when we are finally finished, looking at this 'product' we've made, yet we, too, will be buried in the end.


Bottom line, this whole 'performance' was very moving, as it stirred me to think of our fate in so many ways, as well as all the people I've personally lost, and knowing what other's in the room have gone through.

Tickets.

When it comes to anger, I have some.
Sometimes.  But at the moment its like this wave that wants to completely engulf me in its madness.

What can cause such instant anger?
Well.  Today I came back to my car with another parking ticket.
This is the 3rd one within 20 days.  Which, I find funny but not funny at all...seeing as I've done an ok job at not getting that many.  But.  This stream of tickets is beginning to rip up my top layer of skin and sting.

I walked to the other side of my car, picked up the soggy ticket, (its raining) and I got into my car and screamed for a minute.  Felt kinda nice.
A childish temper tantrum.  I have them a lot, whether they are on the outside, or going on in my mind, like this entire set of explosions going off, or volcanos erupting, or smashing glass with a baseball bat, my mind goes bonkers sometimes.

All that said, I know that beneath my surface there are some fuses I need to lengthen so they don't go off.  I love it when good coincidence (is there any such thing) comes my way, but whine like an Antarctican on a summer day in Texas.
This could be the start to a heart problem.  Need some surgery cause I just feel my dirty gross human nature growing like a bad smelling moss, killing other plants in a garden, and just, not very pretty.  (some moss is pretty, this moss, however, is bad.news.)

To Withhold.

Workin' on it.
Trying to figure out what is going on in my own head.  Diving in deeply to dig through the dark.  Sometimes the lights get turned off, and no matter how cool it can be to walk around in the dark, and 'feel the night' as it were, I keep tripping over the garbage rolling around.  I am losing some sort of clarity, or needing to gain more clarity - one of the two.

Torn between.
In between.  I'm stuck here.  I am different fades and shades of these colors.  I am.  I am not.  I am.  I am not.  Maybe I took her from her mother too early.

Sometimes I deny anything ever happened and that there were no splinters or cracks in me at all.  But there are.  I see them.  I feel them.  I feel some of these gaps widening in the spaces of me.  Should there be any shell at all?  But raw exposed person...you cannot really exist...too eager, too open and innocent to be unhurt and unscathed by everything surrounding.

Let it work its magic on you.

When I was in middle school I argued with a teacher that when writing the word *its* as in *its green leaves* or something...I argued that the it was possessive, so *its* should have an apostrophe like any other noun possessing something.  I tried to get  her to tell me why I should not have possessive *its* written as *it's* but she couldn't really tell me.  She just said, 'That's how it is, and you need to deal with it.'
I was frustrated that I could have no why to quench my questioning.

I suppose I love to understand things to a great degree.
Where is your focus?  Is it on the right things?  I don't think they are all in order just yet.  I keep wavering again.  I keep tip toeing around the subject as if I'm going to break open a giant vase full of a liquid or substance I don't want to get out of the beautiful white carpet.  This mess is gonna stain...approach it gently and don't break open the canisters withholding the thoughts from you.

Possibilities.

A large set of midterms, a large set of hours of studying.
A large grouping of hours procrastinated,
A large amount of daydreaming of things I could be doing, but not doing those things, torn in a way of wavering between one thing and another, not doing one or the other.
Wasting time.

Why waste time in fear?
Why waste time in indecisiveness?
I don't know why I do, I just know this is something I am in a constant state of, forgetting to live, because of my indecision.

Ridiculous.

So.
Now that is out of the way, I can think on how much Jesus loves us and has loved us, and be shocked.  To not forget, but to remember that he walks with me.  He never left and never leaves, and is here, and I forget to talk to him like I could.  I forget to know him like I should because I can...he created us to commune with us.  Is that true?
In the garden when things were perfect, God and Adam walked around together.
Then there was broken communication at the sin thing.

But Jesus came, and the gap...this communication barrier was destroyed.  We have an opportunity all the time to know the Creator.  To think on this world and know that what He does is good.  To know his goodness, and to have a thankful heart every day changes my perspective from bitter, broken, and annoyed, to patient, calm, loving...maybe other good things.  I don't know.
I just know when I forget the Creator, I forget to seek truth.  I forget to let God's truth infect me in such a way that I love people even when I'm wronged.  What is my inner attitude?
How frequently do we have to keep this in check?
Moment to moment I suppose.

Tasting the Bitter Fruits

For your ignorance, I would like to let you taste the brick I would like to throw at your face.  Sometimes vivid and violent images pass through my mind.

I hear the intervals of these notes and I can almost taste the iron of blood it stirs in my stomach.

I hear the words, and I can smell the steel wool being worn down, the metallic taste ripping through my mouth and coating behind my front teeth and under my tongue.  I can hear you, but I can smell and taste the crispness of your words.  Open up my eyes for a time, and I might see something, too.

To close your eyes to this waking consciousness, to close your eyes to this overstimulus of feeling and emotion and emotional void.  To close your eyes of this intense feeling of misery felt at the commercialism of a bar of soap.
Nothing seems to be able to wash me clean.  Nothing seems to cleanse me from this draught.  Nothing can make me shiny as a new toy again.  There is not magic that can do this.
Your newness lasts in a fading memory and in a dream that stirs my waking mind when I hear the words.  When I smell the burn, I think of you in anger that you are associated with anything in my mind at all.
Where are the erasers to burn out and squelch this vain heart looking to conquer?

I am burned with a desire.
Conquering, and overwhelming,
I will overwhelm you, and I will overcome, and your disbelief will be the look on your face.  You will look and always be in disapproval of me, no matter the obstacles I have overcome to even know you.  I will never be good enough, because I never was, nor ever will be yours.
Blood is blood.
You shaped nothing of the figment of imagination that I am.
I am a creature of myth, and I do not belong in this realm to be your blood borne scorned mistake that you will not admit to claiming.  You will not admit to the moment of passion you felt in a secret place, in an unspecial town, in an unspecial way.  Curiosity made you the killer, murdering a relationship we could have had.  You bore me for no reason, nor direction.
I was shaped in strong hands, stronger than yours could have ever been.

We both know you could never have wielded this child.  We both know you could never have held me close.
We both know you never really will.
Why do we keep lying about this.
I will always be your rejected one, and a patching of some broken relationship.
There is healing.
There is scarring.

I'm between a waking and sleeping world.

I'm between your words and your unspoken thoughts.
I'm between your teeth, the tongue to yield your good and bad.
Both come.
Bitter, and sweet.

confound.ed.

"Set up markers for yourself;
make yourself guideposts;
consider well the highway,
the road by which you went.
Return, O virgin Israel,
return to these your cities.
How long will you waver,
O faithless daughter?
For the LORD has created a new thing on the earth:
a woman encircles a man."

Jeremiah 31:21-22



have faith.  this is something we cannot muster up on our own.  i've tried to muster up faith within myself, and rely on myself in such a way as if i could bring myself peace.  in this subconscious futile attempt my heart was overgrown with weeds and things no one ever would plant.  these things that grew were choking out the fruit and choking out the light, and stealing the nourishment the roots needed to flourish.

a season of pruning that this plant might bear even more fruit in the days to come.  may these fields of fruit bear much in the days ahead, and may the weeds be torn out and burned on a brush fire.  may a new day come out of the ground with the promise and hope it has always had and may my heart rejoice because His great love for us never changes.  nothing i can do or say can or will change his mind towards his love for me and for anyone else for that matter.
this unconditional nature confounds me, and i've been in a season of not believing it.

of course.
i am wrong in this thinking that my performance, my acceptance, my completeness comes from anything but him.  even expectations i think he has for me, those are really my expectations i set on myself and when i fail at meeting 'my' expectations, there are these driving thoughts of not being good enough for God, and in turn, not being good enough for anyone i know.
i get angry at the lack of acceptance, even though its something i don't need to worry about.  i don't need to live in insecurity anymore because he loves, and because i'm reconnected with God because of Christ.  the broken relationship that happened at the fall of man has ended in me because Christ now lives within me bridging the gap and forgiving me once for past present and future.

weird.

Left Field

Maybe its true. Being in and out. This middle ground of non committal space of indecisiveness, never choosing, but being in the middle. To be safe in the not complete commitment so that if you're caught in a conundrum, you can be 'politically correct' because you never really committed to whatever it was you were supposedly committed to in the first place.

Scared of being stuck and trapped has defined this trait in me. Some friends would describe it as my 'coyness'. Coy.  http://www.thefreedictionary.com/coy
This seems to be my state too frequently as I don't want to completely commit. I don't want to ever 'completely' be wrong. I don't ever want to be completely be the one to blame.
When I'm caught I will admit to these things. When I'm not caught in definite answers or definite statements, I'm off somewhere in a playful game of coyness.
No coyness intended. I realize how much I avoid...everything.

I stunt my own experiences because some definite concrete thing scares me to a degree, (depending on matters of importance.) I can be blunt, and this isn't always to my advantage, but I think it can fool people to think I'm not as coy or evasive as I really am.
I guess I'm not as evasive when it comes to other people.
I even use phrases like 'I guess' instead of the complete state of being and admittance, 'I am'.
I am, I am not.

I don't always say what I mean.
Sometimes I avoid direct answers.
I should be accused as 'SUBJECT CHANGER'.
Random? No. Just subject changer.

Ok. I'm random.
But I do throw conversations out in left field sometimes.

Where has my perspective gone? I've been challenged on this and ache with it. I ache because in my lack of choosing definitive answers and whatever else, I have been the cause to the very things I wished to avoid. So much for my brilliance.

Joy of Movement

There are things I regret in a world where I have few regrets.

Its complicated doesn't describe my life.  Maybe things are so simple they are overlooked.
I complicate simple.  That very well could make me a prick.
Let me break your spirit.
I am breakable, too, and I break for smaller things.  Maybe I'm much more shattered than I thought at the beginning of this walk.  Maybe my rusty heart is exposed, the oxidation breaking me down to less than when it began.

I am an oxidized hole.
I am not a complete thought but a continuously churning and morphing cloud of conscious and unconscious.  I move in this space and in between this space and walk a waking dream and nightmare, choosing and cheating sleep and my waking world.

Time is a jerk, yet is our gift.  The dwindling of moments is our happiness because it makes the previous moment all the more precious.  We are so exhausted and one day, we will lay our head down for the last time.  We will wake for the last time.  We will speak for the last time.
One day.
It all ends.

Mustache Mornings.

There is just nothing quite like a Mustache Morning.
Let me explain.

Mornings that require a certain inconspicuousness to them.  The morning that required me to not readily notice.  Notice what?  You tell me.
A Mustache Morning requires a certain finesse.  I needed to be inconspicuous so I threw on my Mustache. You could also say, "Today was a Mustache Morning.  I threw on my Mustache as I walked out the door and went to work."

Wonderful.
It was just a Mustache Morning, you see.
I threw on my mustache and danced vigorously because I just needed to move in a freeing way.

I keep thinking more on movement.  I keep thinking more on dancing.  I think dancing is more important than we realize.  Like art is more important than we realize.  I started dancing the other day and really let go of my limitations on my movements and forgot to be embarrassed in front of myself.  I started in a medium melancholy state of mind and left in a state of happiness.  I felt good to be alive.  I truly believe we need to express ourselves more and interact with the world around us.
The numbness of our state in constant stimulus of mere entertainment value does not always ENGAGE us in the watching of the movie.  We sit back within ourselves and our thoughts remain inside, and our feelings remain inside, and our real life experiences that allow us to connect in the watching of a movie remain buried as the engaging factor wasn't really present.

We forget to engage in our own lives, and I feel as if I engaged with myself again.
I feel a strange awareness that I am alive, and it is a good feeling.  It makes me want to move and express myself to God.  To express myself in ways that words really cannot.

So I throw on my mustache that allows me to be inconspicuous in front of myself and I let go and move as pulsating or river like music takes me in a fluid motion, washing me in this river of freshness and in this river of life.

Grow up.

I want to think of you fondly but I don't today.  All I feel are your mistakes.  They weigh on more than just you.  Your actions are a domino of movements touching the domino people around you.  Not to eat domino pizza.  Just dominate the conversation.

I'm sick of it.

I'm sick when you call.  I'm sick when you don't.
I'm afraid of commitment because you're afraid of commitment.
You don't commit.
You did not commit to me.
I was not worth much then, and I am not worth now.

I would think you could keep your pants on.
I would think you could control yourself better than you do.
You're just a mess like this canvas of paint turning into mud beneath an inexpert hand.

Baby Talk.

I haven't talked to you in days, and in complete honesty, I haven't noticed until yesterday.

The smell of you found my nostrils somehow today and I remembered your face, your hair, your speech.  I remembered your tired look.  That tired look seems to be constant.
You don't call me because it is my responsibility to call you.
This relationship is uncharted in reality.  How do you work this through.  I can't always do it.
You fall back burner to my life, and I am ok with this.
I am ok to not hear your voice droning on about things that only involve you.  I am very selfish.  But I got it from you and your human condition, too.  You're supposed to be better at life with your coming of age and experience.  You're supposed to know things that are gems and nuggets of gold.  This isn't high school.  You're not in high school anymore.  Why do I have to be the adult.  Why do you have to act like a child on a constant stage of forgetfulness.
I'd think that you smoked more pot than anyone I know, but you just think on little other than yourself.

You are your own rainbow.


Where is the art in that.



I look in the mirror and wrestle with my bone structure.  I struggle with my eyes.  I struggle with any resemblance to you because I don't know if I like it or not.  I don't know if I accept well where I came in a physical way.  I want to love what God made, but I don't approve of your actions.

Grow up.

You'd think that your training underwear would get old like you, but you're still forgetting to go to the bathroom on your own.
Gee wizz, you femme bot.  Put your mojo away and mother your children.  It is ridiculous.




I want to feel proud in being yours.
I am not proud to be yours.
Why did you not try and give me a reason.
Why are you chasing after empty dreams.
Why aren't you dreaming new things.
Why can't you.

I'm just frustrated with your baby talk.

Forgetfulness with a side of Crunch.

My own indecisiveness kicks me in the shins.

I shout out in protest but the little bugger runs away before I can catch him and show him who is boss.

Apparently I'm not doing much to take enough initiative.

I'm intimidated.

Nervous even.

And I don't know how to react to my feelings anymore.

I am in uncharted territory and I don't know how I feel about it.  I want things simple, yet I don't know how to be in any pairing or relationship whatsoever.  I am a pulled mess, like shucked corn at a corn shucking contest.  look up corn shucking here>>  http://www.ehow.com/how_2072862_shuck-corn.html  <<.

I want to read until my eyes cannot anymore.  I want to watch films so long that I don't remember who I am, where I was, who I was, and where I was going.  I want more, yet want to much less.  I don't like responsibility and all of this seems subjective.  Sense to me is painting a great painting before bed, and waking up fully rested even though you only received one hour of sleep.  This, would be perfect sense if it could really be true.  But since there is no truth in this sense, then there is no sense in it at all.

Screw sense.

I'm a dreamer.

I want to just sleep a good while.  Dream.  Yet, I don't always remember my dreams.  How can I really be a dreamer.  Only God really knows.  Brain Ache.  Character Ache.  My character suffers from my lack of memory.  I forget things.

Garbage.

I thought it would only take a moment.

It did take only a moment.

Now these passing moments move fast, yet slow at the same time, the pace wracking my brain with rose like patterns.


I hate some things I am aware of.
I hate that I know you're with him.
I hate his smirks and disgusting confidence.
I hate the lustful look in his eye when he looks at me, then to you.
I hate his snickering and distasteful joking.
He picks up bad habits and has won you over in using them.
I hate that he takes up your time.
I hate that you told me at least twice that he's not the one for you.
I hate that you go after him because he is such a smooth talker.
You push and pull with him, and in my selfishness I feel left out.
I don't like who you are today, and don't like where you're going.

I feel like the trash.  I was used and it was time to discard.
Discarded.  Like trash on garbage day.

Grounds

Cascading down your mountain, we go together.  There is no thought of loneliness - only the thought of protecting the other.  There is a dominance in our stances as we give each other more than second glances, and we pray that our days will not end in empty satisfaction.
Is empty satisfaction.  Contradiction.  Empty satisfaction would be about as similar as no satisfaction.

Sounds and movements to create the music, the lips make the sounds we tap our feet to.
These things are different than the twisting and tinkering of the outdoor sounds of mother nature, singing her children to sleep and to wake.

Broken communication.
We forget to relate to each other as humans do.  We are reading each other like books, and spoken word sometimes becomes the figment of our imagination.  We need not say anything in some of these moments.

Did I say anything?

Did anything protest within me, or did I just merely go on for the ride?  Was it wrong for me to jump on this tide like some West Coast surfer, taking this wave til it crashes, perhaps crushed beneath the waves, or euphoric because I mastered the driving.  This is why we need driver's licenses.

Some people should never be allowed to drive.
Maybe we should all just stop riding in cars and make a lot of trains.  Maybe we should walk and ride our bikes more.  Maybe we should just get our horses out.  But PETA wouldn't like that would they.  That would be too cruel to the horse.
Forget John Wayne in the wilderness.  I'll take my city scape and eat it for dinner.  I won't like the taste, but I will still feed upon its business.  I don't know if I will really want to write down the recipe, for a few bites usually are enough.  As you ingest and digest I suspect it does something to destroy your inside inner working with your closeness to the earth.

To be disconnected from the ground beneath your feet by some concrete or some rubber sole of your shoe.

Take off your shoes.  Know the ground upon which you stand.

Grains of sand.

The earth spins around while the people fall down.

I need to go to the grocery.
And get lots of things.

This happens every week or so.
Amazing how many things we think we need.
Amazing how many things will end up going bad in our refrigerator.

Amazing.

Smacking the forehead in astonishment at how much money I can spend.  Oh, to be more self sufficient and not needing a 'store'.

Are we a breed of survivors?  I don't know.
I just know I'm so deep in my thoughts it is like swimming, and real sound is an underwater current that I cannot comprehend.  Water wash me away like the grains of sand.

Gladys and Pancakes.

My world has been quiet.  In a quiet way, I've been happy.  I've known contentment and peace being still.

A knock at the door.

Another face, another day, another moment to pass exchanging information like the regurgitating of a history book, informing its reader the contents of the book that they are spending time on, reading.  If you don't give them the information fast enough, they put the book down and move on.

It seems that when I read a novel, there needs to be a lot to envelope me in order to keep me reading.  Imagine how many books there are in the world.  Now imagine all the time it takes to read them.  What books do you spend your time on?  I find my self most pleased when I'm reading mindless books of science fiction, forcing me to use my imagination, which, lucky for me, is right beneath my eyelids.  I have a good gift at envisioning pictures and flat out...imagining.

I want to turn back times and fix moments where I was too confused to care about anyone else.  I want to erase words that I have said that, in fact, have hurt others.  I long to rewrite a few chapters, as I was in a 'bad state of mind' and ruined other peoples plans.

Sometimes I think at the core of me, I long to please people.  BUT, I remember how selfish I am and know this cannot be true.  Are most people really just trying to get what they want, whatever that is, and are they manipulating everyone around them constantly to get what they long for...?  Are there are a lot of people that need to go into the acting profession?  Why do we even know the difference between good acting and bad acting. (rhetorical question.)

My novel longs to be science fiction, but it is stuck in reality.  I feel stuck between two worlds all the time.  Is this why I can procrastinate so well?  OR do I just not think fast enough to satisfy those around me that are waiting on my slow molasses self?

Molasses.  Who ever just put some on pancakes and was glad?

I knew a woman named Gladys.  Her front toes were cut off by a lawn mower.

I have splatter painted sweatshirt that says street radical, but I don't really know what that means.

My mind is an open ended thought machine today not forming coherent lines.  You are reading the symptoms of my bubble brained thinking.  Feel privileged.  I know I do.

Anguishing.

Its not always easy being honest.  Sometimes you cannot be.

How do you keep someone else safe?  Is lying and keeping them oblivious the option for the sake of their best interest of not being hurt, or do you hurt them.
Do you let your honesty make you the monster again?
Why is me in my honest self such an instrument that can cause so much anguish?