a still life is the last I will see of you

I have a ghost. I think. Not a mean ghost. But it is affecting my constitution. I don’t want to sage my home, because what if it’s my mom, just kind of making a little visit now and then?

Then again… Probably not. My mom didn’t like to “visit people” when she was alive. Her very idea of hell would be having to do it even after death’s {supposed} sweet release.

This ghost has been giving me strange dreams; my sense of its presence always coincides with them. They are sometimes really good dreams, the kind that make you want to stay asleep forever. But the overwhelming feeling I have upon waking is… unsettled. Not scared exactly. It’s murkier, more fluid, than fear.

I can’t remember the details of the dreams, these are lost to the blue ether. But when I wake, I know something has been there. Dipping its white-tipped fingers into my sleep, messy and tangled.

It’s like looking at a picture hanging on a wall, and you stare and stare, not because of the contents, but because something is off. It’s not crooked, but it’s not straight either.

I was not opposed to this ghost. I’ve never felt afraid or angry. But the ripples in my reality are increasing in frequency, duration and depth and so maybe I need to sage. Release and cleanse.

Maybe at least I’ll be able to fall asleep before 3am.


Dirty streets, dirty sheets

I’ve been tasked with “journaling my ass off” and yes yes I have my paper notebooks, thousands of them everywhere, whispering. But maybe maybe I will ALSO start doing it here again.

Fun (?) fact: I have owned loafe for 20 years. My entire “adult” life. Back then it felt like I was riding my wild horses in the wide open spaces of a wild west. and meeting a lot of strange, wild people along the way.

But those days are no more. The internet still has its dark corners, and plenty of shadows, but the mystery and wonder, the possibility, is gone. Nothing feels wide or open anymore. And those dark corners aren’t mysterious now, just mostly gross and dirty and shameful. Besides, I’m a boring old lady. what was once sad but forgivable in youth is now just merely sad.

yet here I am. So I guess I am still looking. for what, I don’t know. Not then, certainly not now. 58 years into this mess and I’m just as lost. I hold no illusions. I’m pretty sure that whatever it is I seek, I’m not going to find it here.

But see.

SEE.

I’ve started thinking lately that maybe it’s not about the FINDING. Maybe it’s in the SEARCHING. You know? The journey not the destination. Etc.

And the one sure thing I can say about loafe is that she helped me get across some rocky terrain, giving me a bit of light while I was stumbling around in the dark. Trusty and true.

I suppose that’s a truth for all of my journaling, here or in my notebooks. This place was different though. because it was public. I was putting something out there, and anyone, anywhere, could discover it. read my words, find some thread of connection or truth, and a pathway between worlds would open up. loafe was tapping into something heady and deep, thrumming beneath my feet, vibrating in my bones. A direct line into the pulsing aching blue. And sharing it with someone else, even for just a blink of an eye? it was magnificent.

I lost that pulse. I forgot the path. but I would so love to feel that hum again, the beating inside.

and what writer (even a ’writer’ like me, in quotes) doesn’t like having an audience? social media is a cesspool full of bloated rotting corpses. Not going to find any saviors there.

So where to go?

Duh. The one place I could always go. The safe place. Where I can loafe and invite my soul.

So maybe I’ll start dusting off the furniture, open some windows, let in a little fresh air and light.

Probably not tho, it’s all just a lot of work.

We’ll see.


When you can’t sleep

I am feeling the words calling to me. What’s that quote again? my hair is being pulled by the stars. I’m not talking about leaving. No. I mean the stars, they are talking to me again. Or rather, I am listening again. Wanting to listen again.

What will they tell me. What will they have me do.

Too many stars.

Too many years.

Okay. I’m listening.