|photo by Anders Jilden|
Feeling better after me and Roe’s vacay, still on a dark stage talking into the void, but the floor’s been swept a bit.
Listening to aboriginal music. A lot. And getting into it. The didgeridoo. I know it’s ridiculous, but it somehow makes me feel at home. Giving no credence to past lives, I guess it just hits me the right away. I don’t think it’s cultural approbation if you enjoy the sounds quietly to yourself making no claims to fame or anything.
Today’s a beautiful spring spent mostly inside writing and reading, but I don’t have cabin fever. I’ve cleaned up our rooms and the way the sunlight hit them through the window, everything seems spacious.
Reading little stories here and there-a good one by Neil Gaiman called Down to a sunless sea about an old woman lamenting hideous things that happened to her son when he was a sailor of the ocean. And an irritating book by a cosmic philosopher that’s too cosmic. When will people realize that I AM isn’t all that, just two words that mean what they say, such as I AM God, I AM bored. I AM eating sweet potatoes.
Maybe I AM unenlightened.
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