oh, how I used to write... loud and long and clear... how I used to write letters... letters full of laughter and tears, rhymes and reasons, poems prayers and promises... it was magic...

and I am remembering (from a distance)...

though the words are simple and few...

she's calling to you...

there was a time when I did not have to work and I could sit and write whenever I felt like it and the writing I did most was correspondence... it was a time I wrote to people one by one believing the person I was writing to truly cared about me, cared to know me, and dared to love me... and they took the time to know me and they showed me by knowing just what to say or do, just what gift would be perfect to give... and I wrote without inhibition, with the freedom of expression borne of unconditional trust in our ability to communicate and above all else, trust we meant no harm so we could always give the benefit of doubt... that way we'd never find fault or offense and feel secure that there'd never be any reason to close the door or leave the other behind, at least not in our hearts...

and every one of those people I wrote to in those days still lives deep in my heart in spite of the depths of sleep and dreams, so many broken dreams, so many broken promises, so many broken hearts... oh all the lost souls wandering in seemingly aimless circles, wayward whists of wind wearily spiraling away from the center, the certainty, the security, and entering that conceptual nothingness known as oblivion...

and somewhere along the way I forgot, or lost the will to believe that people actually can care about each other... I want to, deep down, believe strangers can care, even from far away, even when, for all practical purposes, they are too far away to have any real knowledge of the life I live or the person I am... can we love that which we do not know, really?...

good intentions are good... there are no perfect people, only perfect intentions... but what good is desire when it is sitting on a shelf, when it is poured into words, when it is not actualized in the physical reality... wishful thinking, fantasy, wanting something so much it becomes real belief (but real enough to touch?... to hold?... to take your hand and pull you closer?... to kiss with innocence or affection or passion?... all in your mind)...

it may be that there is nothing wrong at all with this way, with accepting the illusion of desire as visceral satisfaction, as allowing the belief to become more real than the daily life, the physical touches... it may be the best way for humanity to go, to choose the spiritual over the physical...

and here online, it may seem easy to let the words take the place of the body, to accept the safety that comes without the scrutiny of eye contact and body language and having to physically do (live up to) the words in every day life, moment to moment...

beautiful words written in a half hour or an hour, dressed up in graphic design (eye candy) and edited for clarity can so easily become more powerful than the drone of the television or empty whining of the other twenty three plus hours of each day...

and maybe that is best for humanity...

I'm not so sure about me...

coming home, alone...

most days I find the same scene, the mess, the clutter, the slovenly lifestyle without creativity or energy or life beyond the television and computer... and I squeeze some music in when I force myself out of the hole in which I've buried myself... and I remember something about how it feels to be loved truly in physical spaces, to share daily life with a soulmate... a smile embraces a lonely tear as I read Kary Mullins dedication in Dancing Naked Through the Mind Field... and I remember what true love feels like, for I have actualized it in physical space sharing... I have given, I have received, and while it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all (for how else to truly know the potential of life), the time passing after the loss, the time with shared love in the physical spaces in the daily life stretches infinitely as each moment feels like an eternity...

and emerging from fantasy...

to truth in mind bubbles

(telling?)... suddenly yes, the affirmative, the eyes open...

leaping into the daily life in black and white the inspired mind does not need to create a fantasy or illusion, does not need to believe in the possibilities of what might be, but only to accept the visceral experience that the five senses provide right now...

I get home from work today and find Precious is home from her vacation up north... she runs out of the bedroom with a big hug and holds out a bag... presents... dang if she didn't get me chocolates... lots of chocolates... but that's just the wrappings... the gift, when I look into the bag, is the 40th anniversary two DVD set of Mary Poppins...

and all the minor frustrations of life and memory dissolve into moments of sincere caring demonstrated through actions that prove someone listens and hears and cares to know...

and so though the body (and mind) cries out for sleep (and other forms and levels of love and sharing), we put the disks in the player and after exploring the disks for a few minutes, press play and lay back to watch and laugh and sing and giggle and share the magic of the story and songs and, for me, memories... oh precious memories... and I close my eyes and sing...

and then I sleep...

and dream...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)