"Without much regard to the moon or the stars..."

I feel winsome today. I can feel the Weepies and Vance caught in my head. Sad love songs on repeat. Thrusting the emotion in my face, amplified by my current loneliness. I find comfort in the awkwardness and imperfection of their tales. Not the upbeat sappiness of childhood fairytale but instead the more realistic love that I wish for myself. It makes me think about what my love used to be and what my next one will be like. I feel almost anxious for those little things that will reinvent my smile and because I hold no disillusions, I even imagine what mistakes I will make. I find I hold a craving for those awkward moments to come. And the pain I... we will have to endure. I wonder if this next emotional amalgamation will be the one that endures, that survives my madness and imaginably even his.

This ponder will inevitably bring about a sense of urgency. The usual rumination of when such a life connection will occur. Why is it that we always seem to be waiting? Waiting for a life to start or even just the next hour. Even in a world without the ticking clock we will still always anticipate the next sunrise.

But all thoughts are processes within themselves and my eagerness will not push me into action. The modern adage and infinitely repeated sisterly advice of "just let it happen" echoes in my head above the Mitchell and Dylan. And I find that the music is no longer the soundtrack that my heart pumps to but it is instead the soundtrack to help me better pass the time in the waiting room.

The physical:
My rest within the House
The desired:
A connection that defines
The feeling in the forefront:
Well-worn loneliness
The smothering sense:
Tactile - staggering absence of a tangible fate
In absence of misplaced action:
Contented slumber
If I were listening closely:
The Avett Brothers: The Ballad of Love and Hate

The Sacred Ebb and Flow

This morning, I awoke to the sound of the prayers. It was beautiful. It was comforting. The rhythmic singing in a world of words that I cannot understand. It should be slightly... disconcerting - perhaps, it should be bathed in confused frustrations. This is not the case. All I feel is an understated peace and I wonder why the world, the one from which I sprang anyway, would feel such defensiveness and unease when confronted with this one. Their obviously misguided fear feels forced this morning. Wouldn't anyone, with a mind even slightly ajar, feel the same way when the prayer song swirls over and around them at 530am? Would they not feel the beauty that I do? How do we return, in any instance, to the the stark beauty that exists in this world of false conceptions?

I find I cannot sleep through the prayer. It is not my god, not my language, not my world but it seems to pull me just the same.

The physical:
A sultry Dubai
The desired:
Currently unconcerned with such pursuits
The feeling in the forefront:
Peaceful contentment
The smothering sense:
Tactile - the warmth and humidity of the cradle of life
In absence of misplaced action:
Questing to fulfill my sleep quota
If I were listening closely:
Echos of the Islamic morning prayer

Heartbeat of the Walls

I am a hoarder. Not in the sense of the sickness. My compulsion does not drive me to never discard but more to surround myself in memory, even if they may not be exactly my own. I find they too easily slip away. I can't find them or see them as correctly or completely as I did before but the overwhelming clutter that surrounds me is calming. I can't forget my aunts face because I can see her reflection in the copper kettle on my floor. My grandmother's smell may be fading from my nostrils but I can still feel her warmth on the handmade quilt in the hope chest. I can't exactly remember the plot of the movie but the ticket stub still has Aunt Betty's finger print rubbed into the ink. I never went to Korea but the army coat with my family name emblazoned on the chest takes me safely somewhere, if not exactly to the green army medical tent that I know it's seen. These are the better ones, the ones that make sense but I promise the French lemonade bottle, the fake and obscenely bright rose hanging from the top of my bookshelf, and the paint covered jeans that no longer fit are just as meaningful. Perhaps my memory requires more than just the memory to function. Just like the world, my memory can't work without its own senses. It can't reminisce without touching cotton or wood; can't see without seeing. And perhaps as I age, its not that my memory fails me but that my senses fail my memory. Maybe my senses are the source of atrophy and not my mind. But more likely it is both and sometimes, on days like today, as I sit in the center of my room staring at the ageded memories that surround me in comfort, I wonder if these things will do the same for someone after me. Will someone sit in the center of a room, perhaps this one, with these memories pulsing from the walls and find the same comfort? Or am I crazy and in reality none of this 'stuff' has an actual purpose.

The physical:
A very windy Path Valley
The desired:
A future
The feeling in the forefront:
Unease
The smothering sense:
Tactile - grandma quilt bliss
In absence of misplaced action:
an ATV and a mountain path
If I were listening closely:
Iron & Wine: Faded From the Winter
My Thanks:
That no one is actually reading this blog.

Unsurity of Purpose

I am confused. I'm not exactly sure why I'm here or what I'm doing. I'm not all for this and have nothing as yet concrete in the sections of vision. I will flounder for the long haul, even when my focus will have moments of casual solidity. Of such things I can promise, your entertainment is a desired attainment. Of the rest we shall just have to wait and see, mind you not passively but with, perhaps, stumbling reprehensibility. And hopefully, now you are just as confused as I.

The physical:
An awakening London
The desired:
Unknown
The feeling in the forefront:
Restlessness
The smothering sense:
Tactile - cotton encased down
In absence of misplaced action:
I would be painting pictures on the back of my eyelids.
If I were listening closely:
Dispatch: The General