wanted to draw today, & paint.
Body says no; gotta listen.
It's a weird frustration on these days when my mind is up and ready to create and be and buzz with doing, but my body won't let me. I'm bored to goddamn death of writing about pain, bones, nerves, electricity.
& sadness & winter.
Writing is physically easier than drawing but I feel I've bled dry every possible subject. Still, we write our stories and move through time with our words. We document our changes and sing our songs. My latest scar is pink and shiny with new skin, and that means I can take my hot baths. Soaking in water is my oldest calming ritual. The three scars suggest a cross shape around my first tattoo. I can see the cross, a triple moon goddess shape surrounded by the solar season shape. The intersection of opposites. I'll love the cross always in shape and oldest history, regardless of a happy lack of faith.
That word makes me crazy. I don't believe or hold faith: I know and I feel. I love evidence & ideas and atoms & dreams. I refuse to betray the power of the seen, tasted, touched, & tested earth for transcendence.
Feet in dark mud, eyes adjusted to starlight.
So being here on this planet, so big that it's green somewhere, I'll lie back under a love-made quilt and I'll rest and be still and try to just be a body—
though that's so much easier when the body's in motion.
It is, it is. Blood moves like my beloved water, muscle makes heartbeats & air circles & cycles. Small motions, little things saying, listen.
The tiniest things need quiet to be heard.