Wrapped up in winter warmth - floppy knit hat and scarf, sweater, boots. The house is chilled - 59 degrees about. My fingers are maintaining a cold that I am quite proud of.
I am searching music, suggestions and inclinations and tracking down the memory scraps of songs heard in the past.

If I could send you home, I would.

Yesterday, I was on quarantine. Today, must less contagious, I should decide what to do with my time. It would be lovely to get out and about. But I've very little monies and an ugly eye. And its rather chilly out. (It is rather chilly in, as well.)

I've no idea where this day will end up. But I'm strangely content with that.

in the stomach: oatmeal and tea
in the player: the decemberists
on the mind: him.

Taking seasonal pictures, snapshots of the external display of an internal change of mind. It leads me to breathe different, think different.
Framing the photo is similar to framing a poem - I allow the words to fall as they will onto the page, yes. But before I even picked up the pen my mindset was very directed.
Many attempts are made to capture the shot, to focus in the view-finder both what is physically and mentally present. It is a simple and quick attempt to allow a sight into my mind.

I enjoy this form of creation. But I also dislike it. Because it increasingly takes the place of writing in my life.

And I have never been one to easily let go of that which I care for.

in the stomach: coffee
in the player: the diane rheem show
on the mind: creative pursuits but pervasive love

Packing puts me in a dark place. I am depressed to collect the things of my life, the things that I have chosen to define myself to myself AND to the world, and put them into second-hand cardboard boxes. Lovingly wrapped and organized and labelled, sure. But once the box is closed it becomes only a swath of nondescript brown.

My heart sighs...

It is happening again. My heart is beating too fast at the thought of him, at the memory of him, at the sight and touch and attention of him.

And my mom and manny have managed to wound my pride, to infuse doubt, to bring down a high that I have so enjoyed.

The ground hurts.

I am mincing my words, no longer witty or smart but thick and shallow. Quick to laugh without real depth, to allow this superficial me to be the only perceived me. I drink often, sleep little, do whatever it takes to keep a smile on my face and bring one to the faces of others.

But life looms, dark clouds. Never easy street. Charm no longer becomes me.

So I will take it by force.

in the stomach: grilled ranch wraps
in the player: kenny chesney
on the mind:CJW