under my awning

a bed on a platform, a waking thought calmed, a prayer or a quieting, undressed and it is the quieting that leads to an openness. a compliment to the journey. a compliment to the commitment.

dashiki and curls.. I keep watering these plants. I’ve been warned and I must respond, I do not wish to be drawn, dried and wilted, ineffective. it has been made clear, there isn’t another trip for me. somethings must be released, let go. a person not need to kill so many versions of themselves.. writing what can not be spoken.

I have sent this invitation, but added no address. so it sits here and I know that love will find you. see me play with the north and south of my being. and they say love is not such confusion, but I have found that in almost every instance, dynamic and communication need not be what is called healthy but perhaps what is known to the parties. we can watch them navigate dysfunction, and learn to accept and navigate our own. the spectrum is spelled human. the human is the sum of spectrum. I cannot help but feel that Jung’s Psychology of Transference is written this way, the flight and the grounding of acceptance. my feelings are a rotation of french press and mata, each serving my day, feeding my creativity. I’ll admit I crave a bit of recognition from you. transference and its counter. you are not my mother. and I am not that child.

some things cannot be planned, no we cannot plan an evolution, but it is good to accept things are for you, know without a drop of personal risk, vulnerability is for you. it is not a confusion, even if it is a sadness, that one cannot be as available for the renewal of your discontent, as you would have them, projecting yourself that way, you clip your own wings. so go ahead, it is but a door inside doors leading north and south upon the singular hinge of your intention. find me instead inside the bottomless cup of the created.

Art credit: The initial blast from the hydrant — Myron Davis. 1942