Evasion

I can't think into the heat of what I've been feeling, so I'm giving you different words today. I've got two days to prepare myself and of course I'm a bit paralyzed.

The photo is of a bit of mixed media art I purchased from etsy, something inspired by one of my own favorite poems, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Eliot).

I haven't hung it yet. I like to touch this painting, it is full of texture. It's not grand, and wasn't meant to be. Like Prufrock. Like me.

Tactile

Long ago I retrained myself to write gracefully. Not the words, but the act of putting pen to paper. I practiced for weeks. A A A A a a a a. B B B B b b b b. It worked. I have excellent penmanship.

But I rarely use it. My longhand notes at work are purely for my own use, not for the enjoyment of others. But I do keep a little journal, sometimes pre-blogging there, or jotting stream-of-consciousness phrases that long to be made into poems. 

Yesterday I found some lovely note cards. Beautiful paper, very textured, with gilt envelopes. Now I am leafing through my address book, wondering where to send them...

I don't want to be here now, the product of an experience I can't quite remove from my head. This silence is a step back, a deep breath. 

Namaste.