My Time

Since I have not typed a single word onto this site in over a week, any regular readers I may have had are probably giving up on me right about now. This lack of inspiring insight to share does not spring from a lack of learning. I have been learning greatly, but it comes in blurbs of information -- facts that may be too short to entertain the blogging audience. I enjoy the sentence-long epiphanies, but even when I attach all the blurbs, they seem fragmented. I could elaborate on any one or two of them, but then they would not stand alone as well as they already do. So, if free association bothers you, you should probably go to the next blog. However, if you would like to read through my fragmented thought processes, you are welcome to try. I am literally flipping through my sacred notebook and pulling out the sections that follow. This is a privilege and probably will not happen again. Be glad you found it today.



What if I write everyday, and it's all in vain?
What if my fingers permanently cramp around the pen, but no two eyes ever really grasp the words?


I feel as if I have been separated from beauty itself for far too long. This is effecting my poetry. I need spring.


I want to live in a city at least once in life.


When do I get quiet enough that I can hear a poem before I write it.


Why do people say "a-whole-nother?"


I want to minister in downtown Greenville.


I want to take a water bucket and drippy soap suds into the middle of the worst places and wash the dirty hands and faces of the world's poorest children.


My notebook is burgundy. Burgundy is such a serious color. Where have all my cute poems gone? I need to switch to my polka-dotted one. I need bright photography -- the kind that makes me live it out and write it out.