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A Monk In Brown Burlap . . . 1790. . .
How Not To Attach The Fabric Of The Global House. . . They say. . You have to keep it singular. . . You have to keep it nuclear. . . You have to keep it private. . . and remembering different in any way is not good. I tell you. . . You…
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A Sorrow Hushed . . . . . .
A Sorrow Hushed. . . My ears cleaved to the door frame of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse, were there many? Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter that told him what they saw. They pushed for space, women and children and their men for best viewing. They wanted to see. …
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The Present Not Wanted, But Needed. . . .
As I Watched. . . Part of a whole, yet wholly here. Slowly as I watched the silence was encompassing. Piece by blessed piece, each tree, each entity slowly folded upon itself and laid itself down. The screen protecting vanished as it bent itself into nothing, a wisp of an idea no…
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A Way For Me. . . when body balks. .bread for the day. . .
March 3, 2024. . . I do what is foreign to me now. I am putting with only some editing whole journal entries with feedback from my teachers. For those inclined to scoff at what is given, I say just try to do it. I came into this life with a foot still in my…
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THE LAST BIRD SINGS. . . .
The Last Bird Sings. . . . A fact in nature changes as the person who perceives it. The maxim states ‘A fact is enhanced by what is perceived. Depends on who is looking and seeing and what they are seeing. One does not see what one is not looking for. The person who sees…
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Wars Don’t Start Over Cinnaminamuuum Rolls. . . .
This is Wednesday, December 13, 2023. This is my gift to readers this holiday season. No doubt there will be meals one will be asked to bring something to pass. This is a favorite this year and I am not sure how I let this go unused. I will alibi myself by saying it…
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A Quirk Of The Mind. . . . .
Because energy can no longer be summoned, memory comes to play as I flip pages of this very difficult lifetime of my history. Quickly I ensconce in a time the Teachers called a quirk of mind. It is my evolution’s restart and life’s rescue. It also makes a normal life impossibly hard. I think of…
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Born With Conscience . . . .
and memory. . . . . . My readers are perceptive and I grasp eagerly what they say. One said there are places I would not be allowed to voice my thoughts or concerns. I have lived almost my entire life being cautioned as I left the house about what I say. I had no…
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Sometimes. . . words are not helpful. . .
Even unto this day, I am surprised when memory pops up to be dealt with though never a hint as to its depth. Where has it been keeping itself? No doubt in the catacombs along with my ancient self. It is somewhere in the journals I am sure. I just spent too much energy looking…