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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Honeyed
Honey Bee A new paper diary entered my life this afternoon. I spent the money on a new diary (a large Moleskine, intended for use as a sketch book) instead of on a movie (Sin City or Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe) because I've been needing a new paper journal to take to Japan. I talked Max into believing that he, too, needed a new journal. He is new to journaling and had that "I can't buy a new journal because I never write in the old one and/or the old one isn't full yet" response. I assured him, old hand at journaling that I am, that old journals never get full, they just get replaced by pretty new journals. In fact, I have done everything in the book in the last 25 or so years since I've been journaling to actually finish a new journal. And I've filled up maybe, maybe a half dozen journals. Maybe. See, me? I'm sort of a journal slut that way. I see a new journal, fall hopelessly in love with it, buy it. I write a half-dozen passionate entries in it. Then it becomes tiresome to write. The journal's flaws (which I had been determined at purchase to ignore) start to loom large. It's too small, it doesn't fold out flat, the lines are too close together or too far apart, it doesn't have lines and needs them or it has lines when it shouldn't, the paper is too rough, too smooth, too thick or too thin... I write a few more entries just out of guilt. I write one or two more entries after that just to convince myself that I'm hopelessly out of love. I have abandoned more journals than some women have men--or the offspring of those men. And though I was once a serially monogamous journalist, I've become a honeybee of a journalist. I go from journal to journal, leaving one behind only to pick it up years later. Some journals jump dates in such a way that I am convinced that they will one day cause my biographers' hearts to break. Which is assuming a lot, I know. But you know? It's time to run. Just A Minute! I have just a minute to say that I am grateful. I am grateful for Lewie, for Kev and Kel, for Max, for journals, for flies, for honeybees, for birds. I am grateful. I am grateful for a group of ants, the ants whose corpses I found floating in the hummingbird feeder this morning. Was it a message from the universe? A sweet death? A message of Doom? Of M.A.D.ness?.
More lies:
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