6217

Dancing and dreaming. Both zipped by. Got to bed late last night after dancing was over. Read myself to sleep, but sidetracked my dreams. Seemed as if they were about dancing and being in a place I was familiar with and had traversed in other dreams.

Anyway, the net result was to awaken without any clear dreams, just fogs and swirls of dream smoke in my head.

Today begins the start of the 2nd 6-month sojourn here in the garden. The garden has filled out with lush growth, flowers and blossoms, cacti flowers, and the buds of fruits that will come to be harvested later. I feel good about having made a decision to stay here and not move. Moving would have been anxiety-producing and stressful. Better to sit still for a bit longer and let things cook.

L is off to her friend's today to go to a Finnish-American event and later a sauna, etc. I am getting a late start, but will soon be moving about, foraging for food, and gathering my thoughts. Might have been a nice day to head for the beach if I had done so earlier. Getting late in the morning to make that journey.

I'm finding that I'm getting irritated, easily, with people and things--little things and various people. I'm reacting to being corrected. I say something and someone corrects a point that I made and I feel myself shut down, go numb, retreat into my inner silence. I feel it's not worth the effort to defend what I said (mostly because it's not something I would die over) and just close off. I feel like I have better things to do than exchange nitpicks with others.

I'm also having real difficulty reading pulp fiction of any kind. The more literary works I've been reading make the pulp writings seem superficial and trivial. One thing is clear though--out of this process I'm really noticing what it is I would have preferred to have written. It's like a roadmap of what I would like to write.

So into the day I go. Marrying, carrying, ferrying my load of blither and my pack of mumble. Pushing back the curtains to reveal a silly singer. One who is practicing his notes, his scales, but never intends to sing before an audience. There are factors involved, and a history of delivery that makes for crazy melodies.

Word pumping exercises. Like ten-finger practices but with a different ring, a different sound. Audience participation, please. Make room for the fans, the dedicated minions. Scatter notes and measures everywhere. Fill up the stadiums with stalwarts. Churn the butter of the crowds and pull them into reality.

What is all this about? Who knows, but the language flows. To where and for what is another story.
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Hours lost and gone. Sleep and reading, plus meandering and wandering. Almost finished with the O. Henry stories. Sense of loss at seeing them end. They've been so rich and full of life. Now they begin to recede and disappear. Each story filled with its own mysteries and magic.

It's now later in the day. The gardeners have left and the place is once again quiet except for the trills and chatter of the mockingbirds. But even they subside.

Will be running out to handle a few errands--mostly to replenish my kefir supply and perhaps take a bite to eat. Then, it's off to dance once again and a return to the final story. Saving the best for last.

And with this passing, I will unwind the chronicles, make ready the ports and heave a hawser onto the docks. Gentle pressures build and magnify. There are telltales and increments, designs and simple icons. Whispers gather and deliberations form. Out of the surface rises the ripples of descent. Markings cover the flat, still borders. Rituals are performed and then forgotten, silenced by the weight of time.

Cascading sequences align. The particles are poised and blasted into energies. Enormous forces merge and dance. There are no other sounds.