Reading

Write a word, a phrase. Followed by another and another. I'm not convinced. All I want to do is read. Summer windows wide open, stacks of books beside the couch, in my lap, cool water and fruit in a bowl. Reading theory and history and folklore, science fiction and fact, fantasy and myth, Gorging on it, drowsing as if with too little beer. Luxuriating as if no one will call, for hours, for days.
    Roll me over, call me for supper, pour me a drink again and again, I have notes to take, breaks maybe for coffee and dreamy walks.
    Let the words flow into my sleep, let me start with a nod and try again to polish off the chapter before I lay the text, splayed open, on my chest.
    My yearning pulls me here, to this desire. So simple that if indeed I had days to squander, I'd be a fool and seek diversion elsewhere, forgetting this one true love and seeking distraction in some shiny, moving thing.

These Three Words

An article I read  a few weeks ago put a small bug in my ear. The piece described the need to move away from the ironic stance that has swept not only poplar culture but contemporary art these last several years. The author made a case for meaning, hope and mystery. These elements have gotten a bad rap by certain arbiters of taste, coming off as sentimental.
    I have jotted down these three words and have reminded myself how much my interests relate to them. Separately, I've never been too strong on any one of these words. together, though, they are better.
    I invite one and all to meditate upon these three and see how they can be further inserted into the life.
    Meaning.
    Hope.
    Mystery.
    That Reiki workshop sure is taking it's toll on me.