My relationship with the things I write are funny. As in, unusual, though sometimes haha. Sometimes they make me snort laugh. Those are fairly obviously the haha. I love those. I think it’s important to be in a relationship with someone who can surprise you and make you laugh a lot. It’s pretty much my number one quality. So the fact that I can do that suggests to me that I (we?) are doing alright.
But the other side of the funny is my ability to have something come from me, whether impressive or witty or hilarious or whatever, leave me, onto internets or paper or sidewalks, and never be thought of again. Most of the time, it’s enough that I was there in the moment to free it from the confines of my brain and allow it to exist. On some level, it makes me a bit sad that I don’t have it anymore, but it frees up space for the next thing that is coming. Often I can feel them coming, especially if they’re large and emotional and seemingly all encompassing. Those are frequently things that I’m happy to channel and set free. I had one of those not long was my M post, about the mourning of something that needs mourning even if it took me a really long time to acknowledge that. It comes when it’s ready and while the moments (days, weeks?) leading up to it can feel stifling, overwhelming, burdensome, once it’s out I feel so much lighter. I can breathe again.

There is something working it’s way to the surface now. It’s nowhere near as sad as the last thing that found it’s way to me but it’s certainly a presence somewhere inside. My tendency is to sit quietly and wait for it to show up, not writing anything else for fear that the thing in question will be diluted.
That’s the part that is kind of funny for me.
That suggests an egotism that can only allow things to be written when I’m inspired. How funny (unusual) that I accept the reality that musicians need to practice. Sportsing people need to practice. Yoga doing peoples need to practice. Limber doesn’t stay unless you make it. Ball catching doesn’t stay unless you make it. This habit I have of only engaging in hobbies that are like falling off a bike (who forgets how to do that?) I think falls into the category of self-deprecation a little bit.

Writers have to practice writing. It’s true.
So while this isn’t the thing, it feels like a tribute of sorts to the thing. I know she’s there (not all my things are a she, but this one is) and I know she’s coming and I’m kind of excited about it because it feels true. In my mind, the best stories are true, and whether or not they really happened is immaterial.
Is it strange that I find writing in rhyme more difficult than just writing? While it creates a lovely sensation of channeling Dr Seuss, it’s damn hard to make sense of things that come, much less make sense of them in a rhyming scheme that flows without trying too hard.

But practice makes better. And so I practice.

I am a burgeoning gift to myself
A present, a presence in tune
Made manifest in a mellifluous madness
Shared by all phases of moon
I am neither virgin nor vixen
A complex surface tension of art
That carries empathic compassion
To the depths of a passionate heart
That beats, yearns, hungry and open
With a resonance of the wild
The ripe appetite of a woman
The beatific delight of a child
I am intrinsic to nature
And in nature I feel at home
No more a maiden, not nearly a mother
And certainly nowhere near crone
I embrace all possible future
But I’m not defined by my past
An evolving and constant creation
This die will never be cast.
There is a strength to my beauty
There are symphonies set free in my smile
Inhabited by languorous melody
With delicious intent to beguile
No one but my own dear self
I desire to invoke and engage
The goddess who dwells deep within
Who cannot imagine a cage
That was built to contain all she is
She can honestly only soar free
To love true, to be loved without limit
As we all are destined to be.