Train Station

Scheduled blogging is like scheduled sex. Delivery doesn't happen like that. Delivery needs space and magical factors. Even so, I follow all the linear steps to get there, half-hopeful that the train will come for me anyway. I sit down to relax, close my eyes for a second, and the phone rings. It's always something, someone needing, and I just can't respond this morning. I'm here and this is where I want to be. Everything else will have to wait. So much better than sex, really, this waiting place. Restoking the fires, invoking the muse, feeling into my own breath, masala chai steaming on the table.

I'm thinking about models and how much I have to say about that, medical models, social models, psychological models, spiritual models. Systems and stories, myths and more.....it's taking shape.

I answer the phone just to push the pushing back, and I hear the news that he got the wrong front door. I have the receipt in my wallet. I'm across town and Lucinda is oozing out silky wonders at my back. Dude, don't know what to tell you. I just leave it at that, hanging.

Models and how they collide into each other. States of consciousness, so apparently different. My job to weave the mundane into gold. But, jeez, front doors.....doors and tiles and lights and mortar and fixtures. Who cares, right? It's where I spend most of my time. That and running the potty upstairs and downstairs, making and remaking tidbits of food, picking up trails of toys. By the end of that day, I reach for People Magazine, and that fits perfectly with the little I have left.

I leave myself hanging all the time. Not this morning.

No time to write now, all the time just goes into being. Finally ready to begin and it's time to go pick up the girl. What to do....I miss you all when I'm not here. Stopping by for a short visit. See you soon.