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.


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.