Wednesday, and a thunderstorm is supposedly coming through.  Wednesday, and I’m going to really live, today.  This has to do with listening to Will’s new cd, with seeing all these maples on Grainger Avenue whipping and rocking, with talking briefly to Austic C. about the GRE, with hearing all the neighbors’ chimes clinking and humming like you’ve never heard before like whatever’s running all the leaves up the sidewalk like hell or heaven is knocking on all our doors, too, with hollow tubes, with all these prescient tones. 

These days in my life are full of omens, portents, words from God whom I once said was silent as any oracle.  I hear, now, opinions from the Most High on my reflexes, the ones that have to do with closing up in response to pain.  Which is, you know, ok, but I have some healing to do.  Wounds close up on dirt and bullets, that’s the nature of wounds, the reflex.  I hear opinions on my possession of humility and the sort of faithful living that lets one be unemployed and looking and still not desperate.  Desperate.  Well, for the proximity of Jesus, yes; the ability to make money, no.  Things will come.  Things also are coming I hear like

gifts.  I can only imagine what this means.  I hope it has to do with my art.  I haven’t created (besides writing of course) in a long time.  This 12″ square artist board and 9″x11″ canvas board and set of 4″x6″‘s  in different colors are all leaning against the wall in my bedroom, crying at me and I at them.  They wait.  I’ve had an idea for one oil pastel for probably two years, now, oh god, shocking, help, and now I have another idea that I like even better.  When will this day come?  Please, soon.  I want living to even out a little, just even a small amount, for a small piece of time.  I found out

that the name for my condition is “nesting instinct.”  This explains a lot.  So when Charlotte at Dr. McDonald’s tells me to go ahead and get a boyfriend and start having babies I think, Oh great, like I needed a better reason to wish that would hurry up and happen, but then have realized in words, in so many words, in these exact words, that I’m scared to death of falling in love again.  So here is another complexity.  And yet:

Emily wrote me a note telling me I am precious, like a pearl, not a baby girl.  I’ve taken accidental vacations from this truth a lot, and for no good reason.  It sucks to feel worthless.  And if I’m to believe my closest friends, then there’s no reason to live there today.  I am precious. 

Spring’s almost here and just so you can have a picture, I’ll tell you that I’m wearing a skirt and black boots and short sleeves and there’s lots of liberated skin, here!  Lots, comparatively.  But lots!  Finally getting to join the party!  Can all the thinking women that read this blog agree with me that leg-shaving is a oppressive practice?  And not to be taught to daughters along with the virtues of sensible shoes?

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