Hello, oh producer of all things light and wonderful in our world; I send you greetings, love, hugs, and kisses in whatever order you prefer today, or tomorrow, or yesterday;
You’re a light, wherever you go; rooms change when you enter them, most always for the better. You know your power more often than not. I hope you’re able to laugh as quickly as much as possible, and provide warmth of spirit for others. You’re always a gift; your existence was decided long before I knew you.
I hope this is harder for me than it is for you; there’s never been so much time before now that we haven’t seen each other. It feels very strange, and sometimes sad. If you feel I’m there whenever you need me, there could be some comfort in that, if it were entirely true. It may be enough at times, though not others
Someday there will be more to understand; someday it will be easier. Now just feels like the caretaker of your domain is doing their job, amongst all the talismans of where you came from. I’m the curator of your treasures, some material, some irreplaceable.
I’ve also not written you a letter like this before now. It probably won’t be the last, though the style will vary according to what’s going on. I hope sometimes what I send you causes you to smile or laugh; I do miss that laugh. Like you, it’s the best.
This isn’t typical necessarily of the way I write; just wanted you to know how close you’re felt at heart. You are at my heart always, part of all thought and conversation in one form or another. This the closest I can be for the moment to shouting from the rooftops how special you are. If I really did that, you’d likely pretend you didn’t know me, maybe.
Right now, just a hug might be good enough. I hope you can let me know if your’re hurt or scared in some way, for any reason. I promise to answer, or call you back as soon as I come out of the subway; please keep in mind that if you have to try to reach me in some way from a number I don’t know, it will likely go to message, so please leave one or don’t hang up.
Of course, wishing a hug isn’t good enough most of the time. When we’re apart for now, I hope you can feel a little better knowing you are the sun, and all that is light and exceptional that same way in our world.
Yesterday, today and forever,
Your Planet,
inhabited by flowers (especially daffodils: Grandpa's favorite), bunnies with floppy ears, faeries with sparkly smooth wings that glisten from your warm touch, and your favorite treats on lots of blooming trees and plants, including hugs and kisses from your mom.
P.S. When hugs and kisses can be picked from a tree or out of the ground whenever you want, what do they look like?
Written to a child far away who has related their environment is ‘unresponsive’ compared to the home where they grew up.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Manicure
He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.
He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.
He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.
He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.
I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.
It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.
I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.
He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.
He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.
He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.
I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.
It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.
I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Violated, again
TSA NY: 2 Hands Up Crotch; threatened after 1st one, then again. 'Comply, or U'll B detained'. 5 legal ID's weren't OK: Laguardia.
It's also called re-victimization. Real victims are dead, or are they? Survivors are self-identified. I fall into the latter category, until it happens again.
Anyone who hasn't had anything worse or comparably 'bad' happen to them tend to call others 'self-identified victims', which can be true, up to a point. When violations over the course of time mount upon one another (no pun intended), month after month, year after year, the impact is irreversible, and seeps into the psyche, transforming one's identity, and perspective on the world. Reality is relative; every 'world view is different' there is sometimes no right or wrong; often there is.
What happened at the airport is inexcusable, the 'supervisor' had a sadomasochistic attitude, got off on 'power and control', insensitive to who she was groping or that exploiting her 'position' would set into motion further trauma from violations that began in childhood and continue to this day. It only comes back and becomes crippling when someone who uses the excuse of 'doing their job' imposes on the rights of others at will or on a perverted, sadistic whim, at the expense of a mother on her way to visit a child who has been through similar trauma, having disclosed what has happened in her absence.
What goes around comes around? Let's hope so, on both counts, and to all the others who project their 'needs', 'justified' in the false context of 'responsibility', onto those who cannot defend themselves.
It's also called re-victimization. Real victims are dead, or are they? Survivors are self-identified. I fall into the latter category, until it happens again.
Anyone who hasn't had anything worse or comparably 'bad' happen to them tend to call others 'self-identified victims', which can be true, up to a point. When violations over the course of time mount upon one another (no pun intended), month after month, year after year, the impact is irreversible, and seeps into the psyche, transforming one's identity, and perspective on the world. Reality is relative; every 'world view is different' there is sometimes no right or wrong; often there is.
What happened at the airport is inexcusable, the 'supervisor' had a sadomasochistic attitude, got off on 'power and control', insensitive to who she was groping or that exploiting her 'position' would set into motion further trauma from violations that began in childhood and continue to this day. It only comes back and becomes crippling when someone who uses the excuse of 'doing their job' imposes on the rights of others at will or on a perverted, sadistic whim, at the expense of a mother on her way to visit a child who has been through similar trauma, having disclosed what has happened in her absence.
What goes around comes around? Let's hope so, on both counts, and to all the others who project their 'needs', 'justified' in the false context of 'responsibility', onto those who cannot defend themselves.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Oh Crap
Thought of getting here three days ago, still much too late to make the usual time: a sign that a state of complete overwhelm has been in process.
There's a double meaning in the title. My son looks at me as if I'm cursing when I slip once in a blue moon using only the above. Makes sense, as in schools any semblance to unacceptable language is treated as if the most severe is uttered as well. He rarely hears me using 'inappropriate language' according to school standards, which is even a tame remote substitute to a real 'bad word'.
Being overheard with similar 'substitutes' when I was growing up was cause for nearly the most extreme reprimands and consequences, and corporal punishment was also not prohibited back then, either.
Now, from where he's been, he's developed his own 'vocabulary' that gets 'slipped' on me considerably more often than any he may overhear from me, fully aware that it doesn't fly in school either, yet he can't help himself. The exposure has taken over.
It's a direct response to the times, though moreso where he's been that I haven't, and have no wish or desire to ever go, behind closed doors.
It's not discouraged, and he has no shield of any kind. I can see the pain in his face when it happens with others when we're together, yet he still tries to stop me from any expression of rightful dissatisfaction if a public tirade from an extremely unenlightened member of the 'public' becomes disrespectful of both themselves and every one else around them by spewing obscenities unceasingly, oblivious to all children, women, and elders around them.
When PG movies came out, the same was the marker; now it takes much more, and current ratings of the former are full of what was intolerable or not rated as such only a decade ago.
There's a double meaning in the title. My son looks at me as if I'm cursing when I slip once in a blue moon using only the above. Makes sense, as in schools any semblance to unacceptable language is treated as if the most severe is uttered as well. He rarely hears me using 'inappropriate language' according to school standards, which is even a tame remote substitute to a real 'bad word'.
Being overheard with similar 'substitutes' when I was growing up was cause for nearly the most extreme reprimands and consequences, and corporal punishment was also not prohibited back then, either.
Now, from where he's been, he's developed his own 'vocabulary' that gets 'slipped' on me considerably more often than any he may overhear from me, fully aware that it doesn't fly in school either, yet he can't help himself. The exposure has taken over.
It's a direct response to the times, though moreso where he's been that I haven't, and have no wish or desire to ever go, behind closed doors.
It's not discouraged, and he has no shield of any kind. I can see the pain in his face when it happens with others when we're together, yet he still tries to stop me from any expression of rightful dissatisfaction if a public tirade from an extremely unenlightened member of the 'public' becomes disrespectful of both themselves and every one else around them by spewing obscenities unceasingly, oblivious to all children, women, and elders around them.
When PG movies came out, the same was the marker; now it takes much more, and current ratings of the former are full of what was intolerable or not rated as such only a decade ago.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Memory
This exchange with my son has stuck since before the last entry, when he wanted me to share his paper airplane skills. Prior to that weekend, we were in our home; he was going through a 'jewelry box', and the subject of old boyfriends came up when I told him what might have been in the box that wasn't anymore.
He asked why I didn't stay with someone who I thought I would be with 'forever', before I'd met his father. I said 'If I'd stayed with that person, I'd not have had you.', partially in an effort to avoid telling any more. What he said next left me silent, as I looked at him just as he was looking back at me. 'You might have had me anyway.' had just come out with little or no hesitation.
It's the deepest thing I recall his ever having said, and there have been plenty. It was if he was coming from another consciousness, direct and certain. Had it been someone else, he was saying perhaps that the gift that he is and always has been would have come into existence no matter what. The same spirit. The same soul. The same incredibly special boy would have come into being as who he is, my son, only a different way.
'You know,' I muttered to him when I could speak again. 'you just might be right about that.' He looked back at me in the same way as the moment before: something that reflected or I had noticed maybe for the first time, something deep within that was separate from just a little boy in a human experience talking to his mom. We were almost completely across the room from each other, though his eyes were both penetrating and infinitely wise, for lack of a better description, as if we were face to face, suspended in time. I hesitate to say or describe where his words came from, only that in a way I knew he was right. It was a transforming moment that was unforgettable, and if it were possible to have regrets on what we were discussing, they may have crept in then and there. It was in part an awakening, and it was shared, over as quickly as it began, yet unchangeable.
He asked why I didn't stay with someone who I thought I would be with 'forever', before I'd met his father. I said 'If I'd stayed with that person, I'd not have had you.', partially in an effort to avoid telling any more. What he said next left me silent, as I looked at him just as he was looking back at me. 'You might have had me anyway.' had just come out with little or no hesitation.
It's the deepest thing I recall his ever having said, and there have been plenty. It was if he was coming from another consciousness, direct and certain. Had it been someone else, he was saying perhaps that the gift that he is and always has been would have come into existence no matter what. The same spirit. The same soul. The same incredibly special boy would have come into being as who he is, my son, only a different way.
'You know,' I muttered to him when I could speak again. 'you just might be right about that.' He looked back at me in the same way as the moment before: something that reflected or I had noticed maybe for the first time, something deep within that was separate from just a little boy in a human experience talking to his mom. We were almost completely across the room from each other, though his eyes were both penetrating and infinitely wise, for lack of a better description, as if we were face to face, suspended in time. I hesitate to say or describe where his words came from, only that in a way I knew he was right. It was a transforming moment that was unforgettable, and if it were possible to have regrets on what we were discussing, they may have crept in then and there. It was in part an awakening, and it was shared, over as quickly as it began, yet unchangeable.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Paper Airplane Maestro
Who knew (though why not), the skill of paper airplane craft would be a welcome challenge to my child. A lesson was learned after a lifetime of being aware of only the most traditional models, that there were a significant number of possible variations that could as easily become airborne, if not moreso that those with pointed ends.
As usual, he requested I watch the entire process as he demonstrated his favorites, one or two of which he had memorized and was quite proud of. I was impressed very much in addition as I witnessed the options of several forms he had adeptly created from the examples in a book he had gotten as a gift become aloft.
He later dictated his homework and as I assisted as his typist he created a miniature fleet from paper he found in the room as gifts for me. One that he had improvised as yet another original variation of his own he asked if I minded he keep, asking if I was disappointed that the more special one was not added to what he had assembled as my exclusive collection. I said I didn't mind; all that mattered is that he was satisfied and happy with the manifestations of one of his many talents, this one being the newest.
It's Halloween; he'll be a character of his own creation with lots of fake blood and 'scar tissue'. When he was a pirate I did his makeup. The black nail polish he originally requested was too much for him once he saw it applied to one fingernail; what was left along the perimeter of two nails looked appropriate from the costume I was informed would be put together later. This year for once, I wasn't requesting a photo, which in the past was not offered or delivered anyway. I might have discouraged it altogether if we had been together for the rest of the evening, though a boy this age has to do the undead zombie at least once, I suppose.
He always comes through in the overall; what is dominant cannot be done away with completely, so long as he stays true to himself and who he is: a gift, in a constant process of self-discovery, not afraid to show how he feels, whenever he can.
As usual, he requested I watch the entire process as he demonstrated his favorites, one or two of which he had memorized and was quite proud of. I was impressed very much in addition as I witnessed the options of several forms he had adeptly created from the examples in a book he had gotten as a gift become aloft.
He later dictated his homework and as I assisted as his typist he created a miniature fleet from paper he found in the room as gifts for me. One that he had improvised as yet another original variation of his own he asked if I minded he keep, asking if I was disappointed that the more special one was not added to what he had assembled as my exclusive collection. I said I didn't mind; all that mattered is that he was satisfied and happy with the manifestations of one of his many talents, this one being the newest.
It's Halloween; he'll be a character of his own creation with lots of fake blood and 'scar tissue'. When he was a pirate I did his makeup. The black nail polish he originally requested was too much for him once he saw it applied to one fingernail; what was left along the perimeter of two nails looked appropriate from the costume I was informed would be put together later. This year for once, I wasn't requesting a photo, which in the past was not offered or delivered anyway. I might have discouraged it altogether if we had been together for the rest of the evening, though a boy this age has to do the undead zombie at least once, I suppose.
He always comes through in the overall; what is dominant cannot be done away with completely, so long as he stays true to himself and who he is: a gift, in a constant process of self-discovery, not afraid to show how he feels, whenever he can.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
"Resolved"?
This is the 800 pound gorilla in the room for many, me as much as anyone, in the environment I exist in most of the time. In another part of the country, it would be different, which is also a serious concern, because it involves a child, who, in another environment would behave differently.
It's more acceptable to act 'homophobic' (for example), so they adapt. They weren't raised that way. It would be unpopular or stressful to behave in any other way than the others around them that they wish to be accepted by or survive amongst, though in other places they're free to be accepting of others' differences.
To be accepting of differences in others that are not tolerated or acceptable, they risk being categorized or labeled the same as the unaccepted group just for saying its okay for others to be who they are.
So they 'adapt', to survive; in other words, they suppress their true feelings. The right answer isn't how such a child really feels, it's the answer they've been conditioned to think others want to hear.
So they swallow the truth, or say what they anticipate others most want to hear, to survive. Inside, it eats away at identity, and over time manifests the telltale signs of the suppression in other ways. The same goes for topics regarding race, religion, gender, spirituality, and on and on.
The result is inner and outer conflict, resentment, anger, acting out, self-blame, confusion, and buried emotions, many other things that surface later, sometimes sooner, in ways that cannot always be recognized, or called something else, based upon the lens through which the observer's experiences leave off or are limited.
The effects are life long and limiting in profound and far-reaching ways that last a lifetime. Unrecognized or addressed not only takes away a childhood and limits potential generally, it affects everything else as well, for the child, and everyone they will ever know.
Unexpectedly, the documentary movie Resolved and others of related threads illustrate the results of nature over nurture. Two young men of color by inspiration and determination are trained in a craft otherwise foreign to their upbringing and thrust into worlds where the limitations of their generation are deconstructed under all but the most unforgiving forms of conflict: what has become the 'sport' of high school debate.
From intuition and emotion alone, as they weren't born when traditional debate existed, they challenge what it has become, and appear to make a mark in its future. We share and relate painfully the emotions they encounter, despite their strongest efforts to overcome the invisible walls they run against in environments where what is taken for granted is put under the microscope, determined inappropriate and outdated, yet still at the mercy of the unenlightened, prevails, for a time. The movie ends as they embark on to college, transformed. This description does not do the film justice. One must witness their journey to begin to understand. A metaphor for the 'big picture'? Perhaps.
In another part of the country another version of the same 'debate' goes on: the "White Elephant" v. the "Brown Gorilla". Who 'hates' who most? Is there really 'hate' on both sides? Where does it come from? Why do we take it out on the nearest possible 'representative', who may not represent who we think at all?
It's more acceptable to act 'homophobic' (for example), so they adapt. They weren't raised that way. It would be unpopular or stressful to behave in any other way than the others around them that they wish to be accepted by or survive amongst, though in other places they're free to be accepting of others' differences.
To be accepting of differences in others that are not tolerated or acceptable, they risk being categorized or labeled the same as the unaccepted group just for saying its okay for others to be who they are.
So they 'adapt', to survive; in other words, they suppress their true feelings. The right answer isn't how such a child really feels, it's the answer they've been conditioned to think others want to hear.
So they swallow the truth, or say what they anticipate others most want to hear, to survive. Inside, it eats away at identity, and over time manifests the telltale signs of the suppression in other ways. The same goes for topics regarding race, religion, gender, spirituality, and on and on.
The result is inner and outer conflict, resentment, anger, acting out, self-blame, confusion, and buried emotions, many other things that surface later, sometimes sooner, in ways that cannot always be recognized, or called something else, based upon the lens through which the observer's experiences leave off or are limited.
The effects are life long and limiting in profound and far-reaching ways that last a lifetime. Unrecognized or addressed not only takes away a childhood and limits potential generally, it affects everything else as well, for the child, and everyone they will ever know.
Unexpectedly, the documentary movie Resolved and others of related threads illustrate the results of nature over nurture. Two young men of color by inspiration and determination are trained in a craft otherwise foreign to their upbringing and thrust into worlds where the limitations of their generation are deconstructed under all but the most unforgiving forms of conflict: what has become the 'sport' of high school debate.
From intuition and emotion alone, as they weren't born when traditional debate existed, they challenge what it has become, and appear to make a mark in its future. We share and relate painfully the emotions they encounter, despite their strongest efforts to overcome the invisible walls they run against in environments where what is taken for granted is put under the microscope, determined inappropriate and outdated, yet still at the mercy of the unenlightened, prevails, for a time. The movie ends as they embark on to college, transformed. This description does not do the film justice. One must witness their journey to begin to understand. A metaphor for the 'big picture'? Perhaps.
In another part of the country another version of the same 'debate' goes on: the "White Elephant" v. the "Brown Gorilla". Who 'hates' who most? Is there really 'hate' on both sides? Where does it come from? Why do we take it out on the nearest possible 'representative', who may not represent who we think at all?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Business proposal...
Was due the only time that was 'available'. Had I not completely forgotten, time would have been made. Again, it's an indicator of a major shift and overwhelming moments during the transition. The lesson is learning to manage at all times, within reason...
Everything comes back to it's all about the next generation, and one child in particular in the forefront. Lifechanging events lead to more lifechanging events over time when there are common threads, spun into rope, that can become like steel.
Everything comes back to it's all about the next generation, and one child in particular in the forefront. Lifechanging events lead to more lifechanging events over time when there are common threads, spun into rope, that can become like steel.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Now
No more time; not getting any younger. Life is too short; the time is now. Age means nothing. Jerry Lewis was right about one thing: underneath it all, everyone is nine years old. No one looks different from anyone else any more, all that shows is how evolved each one is, by what they say or do. My child is an old soul, torn between two worlds. Still working out the complexities of our intertwined relationship and how it melds with our respective purposes. He doesn't know his yet, nor would I. My purpose is to allow others to see they can choose much 'earlier' than I did. When my son is ready, he will either decide for himself or ask for guidance. I must continue either way; part of the reason for going on is my child, the rest are important as well, and will be included as they wish. I'm to simply be out and accessible, doing more than talking, accomplishing more than influencing. The latter will come with the former.
Better at picking battles, wishing there were none to decide between. Though that wouldn't be life on earth as we know it otherwise. The contrast creates the distinction between why there's so much effort and the potential rewards. Every single moment involves a choice. Like the wings of a butterfly against a breeze or flowing with the air currents. Sometimes it's all just timing, or so it would seem. Action, keep going, persist, don't stop. Keep breathing; 'the ability to take a deep breath' is checking into the moment of place, in touch with what is to be done, in the right place at the right time. Live well, choose, go, and be. In honor of one legacy, the one being created is only visible through what comes later, through actions and choices as small as the beating of butterfly wings from one moment to the next, until they all add up, and the mark in time is what remains.
Better at picking battles, wishing there were none to decide between. Though that wouldn't be life on earth as we know it otherwise. The contrast creates the distinction between why there's so much effort and the potential rewards. Every single moment involves a choice. Like the wings of a butterfly against a breeze or flowing with the air currents. Sometimes it's all just timing, or so it would seem. Action, keep going, persist, don't stop. Keep breathing; 'the ability to take a deep breath' is checking into the moment of place, in touch with what is to be done, in the right place at the right time. Live well, choose, go, and be. In honor of one legacy, the one being created is only visible through what comes later, through actions and choices as small as the beating of butterfly wings from one moment to the next, until they all add up, and the mark in time is what remains.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Between...
Two worlds, two homes, two existences. Apologies for being late; not enough of me for all that needed to be done, again. It will get easier; must stay in the moment and focus on the priority, therefore, 'blog entry' came in second once more. There are other factors, of course: different time and place to name just two.
When it's easier, there's to be no tardiness, only more exposure and volume. Fatigued to the point of mind exhaustion, for the first time I can remember, here. The physical can only take so much at any given time, ignoring my age or otherwise.
Missing my best friend, the one that's 'forever'. Filling the days and going home late, as it's not truly alive yet, or isn't when there isn't other life there, the exceptional kind. All is preparation, work is not so much a chore as part of a process with a goal.
Missed a deadline, because there's only one of me; it was for all basic purposes self-imposed, with witnesses. I would have been happy for anyone that made it, even if I didn't, unless perhaps everyone made it other than me, though that isn't what happened. We're all on the same team, so there's only the marker for what's next: re-defining where we are and beginning another day differently.
Always watching or sensitive to children, remembering mine when he was all of the ages that seem like only yesterday. He remembers as well, with reminders of pictures or toys kept that survived the 'favorites' and were not let go.
When it's easier, there's to be no tardiness, only more exposure and volume. Fatigued to the point of mind exhaustion, for the first time I can remember, here. The physical can only take so much at any given time, ignoring my age or otherwise.
Missing my best friend, the one that's 'forever'. Filling the days and going home late, as it's not truly alive yet, or isn't when there isn't other life there, the exceptional kind. All is preparation, work is not so much a chore as part of a process with a goal.
Missed a deadline, because there's only one of me; it was for all basic purposes self-imposed, with witnesses. I would have been happy for anyone that made it, even if I didn't, unless perhaps everyone made it other than me, though that isn't what happened. We're all on the same team, so there's only the marker for what's next: re-defining where we are and beginning another day differently.
Always watching or sensitive to children, remembering mine when he was all of the ages that seem like only yesterday. He remembers as well, with reminders of pictures or toys kept that survived the 'favorites' and were not let go.
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