it is both

easy to make me happy, and easy to drive me nuts
right now I am so irritated because I can't go on All Things Anderson, I link to it, and Safari shuts down, over and over, and over and over. I can go other places, I just can't go there.

weird mood, jangly inside. Not bad mood, not sad, just odd, shifting feeling.

I have been thinking about A. a lot lately. We were all together last 4th of July. Then we all went to the shore two weeks later. Yesterday it was just my family of three, and same will be true at the shore. They have moved, and she is dead. I will send them a dvd of last years trip, when I make one, but I don't know how, and I currently don't have the heart to learn. Memories walk with me. What a difference in just one year.

I would feel better if I would work on my writing, but there is this unsettled feeling that wont let me land on anything. Paint paint paint, the smooth glide of colors, to have them stain my fingers, and fleck my nails, another layer to the dirt that is under them. Whenever I want something too much, I try not to want it at all.

The russian sage is right, Bob is upset that I charged it, but as I look down the driveway, it looks exactly right, and I don't care that he is upset with me; but I must dig the darn holes! For he wont stop rolling his eyes at me long enough to help. Feeling my scraped off skin, and weary arms, are befitting, a justice, a payment for such reckless behavior, as continuing to buy plants and expand beds.

Looking for something, that is the feeling of today. I am a seeker. Is it a lost something? A forgotten something? An unknown, or undiscovered something? I don't know, but like a faint bell it sounds in the distance, and I hear myself jangle an echo back. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like I need to shed it. Like an itching, but it doesn't truly itch, but I'd like to scramble out of it, and be free. Free to what? What? What? What? What is it that calls to me?

Like forever bursting on the inside, and forever still on the outside.

I am pacing internally. Plant the plants. No! read the book. No, find another book, one that echos, one that teaches. No, finish writing your story. The paint, the paint, I need colors to flow, pour over canvas, pour into my eyes. And my body is still, but it is so uncomfortable with the internal tossing with no direction chosen, which way to go, what to do?

To be more.

seek to be more.

too heavy want to cast it off, and flit about, light and free, everywhere.
feel trapped here, with this heaviness, this heaviness which is me. Which doubts, and makes every attempt at reaching for something, hard.
Why not do it all?
It matters too much. Too much to me.
So what? It's okay, jump.
I wish to be so much, yet I am nothing
nothing, but a fractured fragment of the universe...of God. Even a speck of dust catches the light as it falls. You reflect what you choose, Imbue what you choose. My how lucky you are. Choose your hue. You will not figure it out by standing still, so you must move forward. Never forget, how gently you are held.