True Self Sighs Big Relief

It’s one thing to freely meander with a loose destination and flexible purpose. This was an early attractive attribute when first embarking on acquaintanceship with what was not a particularly new web-world but which this explorer was a bit tardy in checking out.


A different and less preferable creature takes shape if that laxity becomes too intimate with influences that result in focal scattering; partly here, partly there; toes want to feel the wet sands of an oceanic shore; fingers are reaching to fondle a chalice filled with pleasurable beverage, however the two options exist far from each other.

Now I am no stranger to belongings that litter what we know as our globe. But when it comes to seeking convivial terrain for purposes of creative expression, well, fun as these passions must be, it is still helpful to know that a mind can get settled where intrusions are minimal, allowing for at least one train or track to gain enough positive momentum rather than seven or ten components twirling in place, barely knowing they’ve identities or memory of why they were called in the first place.

So it pleases this rambling dabbler to imagine that a shift has taken place; offering evidence of what some claim about time, that it does not really exist. Thinking something has disappeared, allow a bend to stoop near despair that whatever was good will never again be known.

When all of a sudden: new lands have been discovered; little developed, open space; plenty lots available, so here is one where nothing exists. You can create whatever you please; all you need to do is learn the tools: what each is for, how to use them; start swinging, digging, dreaming. No hurry whatsoever. Half the fun is just coming to the new space; sitting in peace and solitude; happy to spend all day with an empty notepad. Heading. What will be the heading?

Now there, over there, shall the funny poems grow. And over there I shall dig a place for consciousness to wind like a happy serpent, and up on that mound shall be the house where all my dirty stories may finally become collected under one roof. Oh and here will be the little shed I come to when I finally decide to study drawing and painting. But no need to leap ahead; tis enough that the once-lost love of the literary has returned and it will be enough to try and catch up. Since when did these excitement pulsations ripple through my entirety? Long ago, too long ago.