October 27, 2000: the small clocks run wild
Today, I am going out to the farm.
It's going to be a small gathering of this odd family that I seem to have been adopted into. I'm taking my own tent and sleeping bag and pad and everything else, I have a flashlight, and I'm really looking forward to this.
I packed a notebook, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to spend any time writing. We'll see what happens. I have the long trip with just myself and my music and my thoughts ahead of me, and I'm looking forward to clearing my head a little bit.
(I just realized I forgot to pack a hat. oops.)
Spent last night with Chris, doing some talking and cuddling. He's housesitting for me this weekend, so he finally has in his posession a key to the house. Not just any key, mind you, but the *only* spare key to my house that I own. (I need to get some more copies...i think there are some more keys to my place up at BWH, i just have to get *up* there.)
It's strange, but for the moment, I'm not getting tired of being with him very easily. He's not doing a lot of presumption, which helps immensely, and he understands how protective I am of my private time. The late nights are starting to affect me (I am going to be completely useless on Monday, I think) but I'm having a good time.
And on Sunday, there is pumpkin carving and gaming and life will be good. And maybe, just maybe, i'll get to schedule a massage for next week, too.
I will be She Who Runs With the Goats.
MmmmmmmEEEEH. *goat noises*
Your instructions for the time I am running off in the woods, my little cabbages:
Read/listen to this.
If the power were granted you
to break out of your cells,
but the imagination fails
and the doors of the senses close
on the child within,
you would dare to be changed,
as you are changing now,
into the shape you dread
beyond the merely human.
A dry fire eats you.
Fat drips from your bones.
The flutes of your gills discolor.
You have become a ship for parasites.
The great clock of your life
is slowing down,
and the small clocks run wild.
For this you were born.
You have cried to the wind
and heard the wind's reply:
"I did not choose the way,
the way chose me."
You have tasted the fire on your tongue
till it is swollen black
with a prophetic joy:
"Burn with me!
The only music is time,
the only dance is love."
I am trying to remember my own stories.
So much of what I've been doing lately has been little, mundane stuff; not the stuff of good stories or even amateur literature. Too much of my time is spent commuting, listening to NPR, avoiding cooking for myself, trying to keep up with even the little housework that I do. This is my transistional season, slowing down for the cold and rain ahead.
The tree outside my bedroom window is turning a flaming red and it breaks my heart that I haven't had time to sit in my wonderful bedroom lately, in my colorful rocking chair, and read. On Saturday, I gardened and did housework instead of relaxed. I'm not sure that was the best use of my alone time, but I felt it necessary at that point. (The kitchen was naaaaaaasty, and I'm sure the cats appreciated the clean litter.)
And, well, I'm feeling unmotivated. Lazy. I think love does that to all of us; slows us down, makes us unwary. I could protest, I could revert to my formerly zoomy habits, but...
...I don't feel like it.
Maybe next week.
Don't tell, okay?
