When I have nothing to post about, it feels like a waste of Internet space.
I would like to post when it's meaningful, if not to others, to myself.
And since nothing really awesome happened today, I started digging through some very, very OLD 3.5 disks from back in the day. Before Geoff, before kids...back when I was a single chick trying to make it on my own. I lived in a tiny little house (I called it The Cottage) just down the street from the doctor's office I managed. I dated, I fell in love, I was hurt.
Rinse and repeat.
When I wasn't out partying and being a general moron with my heart, I was home at my computer (a 1993 dinosaur), with a big glass of Mountain Dew and my cats.
And I wrote. Poetry, a journal, letters to people I didn't even want to see again. I went into darkness and back out so many times in those days. Lots of my poetry was written for my eyes only, but as I reclaimed myself, I started writing to express my need to get out of my head and back into LIFE.
In comparison, the poems before April 1999 were dark, full of pain, and general wallowing in self-pity. Geoff came along and my life was suddenly worth living again. Because he made me believe in the human race again with his optimism, his gentleness, his sweetness. Finally, a good man with aspirations, with a heart...that loved me for who I was, not who I thought I was.
Here's a poem from May, 1999.
It just started itself in my head after I stood in front of my fridge, playing with my Magnetic Poetry:
I am in a garden-dream, of
Luscious shadow, in a
Sleeping forest with elaborate music singing
A symphony for eternity.
I am picturing a delirious summer and the purple storm
With its essential rain.
The stars are whispering their crystal secrets behind
A day-time sky.
If the story is to be told, it is to be spoken of quietly,
In the realm behind the trees,
And to be found in the pink of the roses
That know the reason for the sun.
No sound but what the wind makes,
In harmony with angels captured on earth.
This is a delicate place, where the light drips onto the green,
Catching fairy-threads and gossamer under the canopy.
To sleep and dream is what the swaying of the trees
Teaches you, soothing your eyes closed with a gentle hand.
Breathe in the mist of time, that does not know the year,
But only the majesty of what it mirrors.
Lay your head there under the branches
Of what is ancient, silent and wise.
Feel the pulse of the earth in the turning of the leaves
And the lazy sweep of the clouds above the orchestra.
Here is found restful peace, in silence that is only waiting to be heard.
May 25, 1999