The State of Affairs & Suchlike, Yours, Mine Ours...

The Mockingbird is staring at me through the window. S/he wants more mixed cocktail nuts or pecan halves to be placed in the offering dish that graces the rail of our deck. Unlike the Bluejays, the Mockingbirds never dare to simply walk into the house to announce their perceived starvation.

My neglected storytelling is a bit like the Mockingbirds, sometimes noisy, sometimes elusive, yet always arriving with a pang of guilt.

...

Now that I have restored the dish to proper fullness with a large dose of pecans, let me begin to begin again.

This journal. 

Over the years it has become a Thing of its own & has also become a Thing to not only myself -- but apparently, many others. 

Maybe the sense of obligation killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the pressure to perform killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the semi-death of my camera, my mate & 'other voice' killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe my passion for Another -- the Dance -- killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe the degree of discomfort I experience while sitting more than a few moments killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

Maybe it was the urgent pressings of Others wanting their Shrines made manifest killed me. (Albeit temporarily.)

And maybe, the distraction of my sheer horror & disgust of Our State of Affairs (& Suchlike)... well, I do hope it doesn't kill us all.

...

Maybe, maybe, maybe... But we all die many times everyday & it doesn't stop us indefinitely.
(Just think about all those cells dying & replacing themselves daily, on your epidermis, in your mouth, your liver, your colon...)


And so I begin Again.



(And to those of you who have been waiting: I never stopped loving you.)