Chase the horizon line

In my dream this was a running away, but first breaking things and knocking them over on my way out of town.

Nails, screws, bolts, pins and needles scattering and falling across floor boards spilling down gaps and sliding into corners. Old wooden legs scraping and creaking as they slide and finally give way. Upper stories crashing and cracking behind me.

I can feel blood rising to my face, angry eyes on my back turning to tears. Is this anger or a search for a fuller life? A complete and complex absence of feeling, a black hole.

Nevermind the pins and needles, it's where I'm going that concerns me now. The gray is lighter today, not in color, but in weight. I feel I could lift and duck under it - would I be going in? or out?

Another chance of rain

 Clouded. I want to remove the fog. Nevermind memory, long gone.

Right ahead of me, a soft curve fading to dust.

Tree line reinvented as horizon cuts the top fork, clean.

Telephone wires a staff for notes, or letters.

I move closer – to the day? the fog? To my questions?

To the window. I see the rain pooling on spiria leaves.

The weight is exhausting, like a pack I’ve picked up thinking it was mine only to find its that of a much more equipped being.

Over bearing. I feel the child is clouding mother. I mean there is false choice getting in the way of true selection.

<Ahhhhhhghhhhggggh. A low groan indicates I am in the midst, in medias res. This is deep, murky shit and I don’t know if I am more worried at how long it will take to wash off or if I’ll leave part of me lost in it as I struggle to claw my way out.>  

You don’t get credit for living

Spaces are opening around me and I have my head down, watching my feet make prints in the snow, sliding in the mud, watching the trail of discard behind me.

I am not running, but I am rushing. Hollow, and dull, the ideas come they just don’t thicken.

I need arrowroot, cornstarch, cream of tartar, flour. Something to gum up, give weight to my mass.

She rolls and I quiver.

I want to sit quietly and work reverently.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Don’t give up yet or it won’t count. 

You are doing a good job.

 Order.

Sequence.

Weaving. No, woven.

I feel absolutely certain of nothing except maybe that if I keep weaving these ideas, thoughts and memories together in front of me, they will begin to make some sort of sense.

Threads coming together, image or pattern appearing.

As I weave I notice how the product is the same whether I’ve pieced it together from every cardinal direction or carefully laid a frame east to west and one by one, threaded from south to north, travelling west to east until the frame is full, taught.