I couldn’t resist responding to the lovely Carol Adriana Estrella‘s post on Facebook this morning. “Doing a small survey: What are your first thoughts when you hear the word “bipolar”. Being that is an illness, I see it used around A LOT as an adjective or a subject.” Visit the very hip and informative blog Is Ok Not To
This is my story. Boots and a bag, sherbet sunrise, an extended furlough at the beach, the Cove, side-trip to the bayou and the self-confinement of four walls inside a nowhere home (a whole lot of love, shock and awe, bizarre happens, heartbreak, joy, birth, rebirth, gritty life stuff). Dual realities co-existing in parallel space and time. Bam we’re back to the
Roots and Wings God isn’t looking for me That’s okay He’s busy Lots of heartache going on Too much trouble all around People don’t see people can’t see people don’t wanna see people My god have you seen the news? I can’t believe what’s going on Ain’t new ain’t nothing but old news Still it’s an awful
“I’m sorry.” This may be the most overrated, overused phrase in my catch-all, go to, spit it out library. Most times I don’t really mean it, “I’m sorry” is the quickest way around, under, over and out of an uncomfortable situation. Boundaries, now there’s a swash and spit mouthful. A word worthy of top shelf book space.
We are all like it or not, intertwined. The way the stories breeze through my mind, much like the people I have loved and let go. As I watch helpless, I cringe at the chaos that surrounds. These are dangerous times we live in. To love, dream, practice uncomfortable kindness. To choose hope. I leave this place
“Harrison’s experience of her new milieu is full of sensory observation. An early chapter refers to the city in tantalizing terms: New York tasted better than chocolate, was wilder than anything Harrison had imagined, and smelled like opportunity. The streets vibrated under her boots.” -Carrie Chantler The Vast Landscape “All great change is preceded by
"It all comes back to a red metal bench in the woods, on a small hill by a nothing special pond. The air is sweet and wet and fall is here for now. Ducks sleep near the brisk, damp water waiting to take flight to sunnier places, offering no solution. I shiver and squirm in my own discomfort, clenching the bench, determined to will myself better. I’ll sit there god damn it, I’m as stubborn as you, until there is something to look forward to. I’m not pretending rosy and cheery just maybe a hint of curiosity.