the thing about making things hidden is to put them right in front of your nose. that’s said by experience. literal. figurative.
if I’m kind, I’ll give attention as observational, rather than judgmentally. habit wiggles its ears, entering the room. tonight I think, I’d rather not even observe with a mind to correct. would that be ungenerous to simple honest seeing sight?
there was a point, young-time, and specifically so, when I changed. long recognized as pivotal, yet equally so, untouchable.
a black cowboy hat with white trim, a sheriffs badge, (and sorry, but) a holster and toy gun. no boots, just shoes. I was a walking talking dream on my sleeves. but costumes are symbols for water running deeper than common sight – props are just props, but past wet roots is an answer to the question of not what – not about furniture – but who.
I remember the day. I was young. suppose no one yet had ever said an unkind word to me. thus ill prepared, another kid said something to invalidate my fantastical view of life. just now the feeling – what was damaged was my sense of the poetry of myself, my life in whole. and yea, my choice, feeling smaller, feeling judgmentally curbed.
how did it really feel? my happiness went to sleep.
alright, no discussion heals history. neither is that why I am here. what I always left tabled when remembering was & is who was I before my path went another and half-hearted, blinds pulled down sort of way.
when I looked I looked no further than the point of change!
anger has had more appeal than a wondering thirsty sight. is it about vibration? confusing calm versus a loud noise? even today I notice some second glances when confrontation’s in the neighborhood. but it’s the traditional ice that once sank a boat. mostly underwater.
I’ve both fondness and faith in free-association. reasons might render understanding, but no illumination. it is more than embarrassing to forget so thought-fully, so shadowless. maybe a notion in palm of simple kindness? do I wonder what that child would think of me now? but more my place to hold the sugar here in place? forgiveness. generosity.
looking is not a passive process.
what you bring becomes a lens.
there’s a notion that much of our sense of self is rope-bound onto place and people. change those two and history takes a break. I never did that intentionally but by circumstance. moving home, arriving seven hundred miles from my life time geography, a different me came into the light. what was discomfort was now nourishing.
maybe enough, saying hello to a ghost?