Wednesday, July 10, 2013

swelter, then deluge. . . maybe another flood? where's Noah?

the world is too much with me. i am watching self-sabotage and am searching for my compassion.  while easy to find, it is nearly impossible to hold on to in the midst of the heat and wetness.  i can't watch the news, i can't listen to the radio, i can barely read the online newspaper. . . i lose track, from minute to minute of the things i find glorious in the world. sometimes, writing them down captures them in a way which gives them their own body, a form corporeal from which they grow and change from the reality into something of their own. 
if i tell you about the fort that my middle has built in the living room, the musty smell of the blankets that were used near the bonfire, but now are slightly damp with the humidity and odorous definitely-highlighting their 'natural' fibers...the browns of the stripes, the yellows of the old chevroned crocheted throw, the blues of the toybins, patterns and designs of family life. . . if i tell you about this, eight feet across, every cushion in its place, again and again, with leanings... footstools from toyboxes, shadows from drapings, if i tell you about this? it becomes permanent in a way i can't even capture with a photo. once it has entered your labryinthian imaginations, it is real a maze of crawlspace, elbows with carpet burn...