I feel desperate, but that’s not the right word. I’m not panicked. I don’t feel that rush of adrenaline that says ya gotta do SOMETHING NOW. I don’t feel lethargic, like the desperation took too long and now I’m just depressed.
Not that kind. I don’t feel worried or stressed or like I got to know what’s about to happen. Funny, cause I’d think I would feel all this, but I don’t. So maybe I don’t feel desperate, but how else to say….?
I’m wanting to remember. Quite bad. Very bad. The deep kind of bad bad that feels so alive I can’t not hear it. And feel it. I feel you deep bad bad. I hear you calling me. I hear your need for me to stop and yet to go. For more and yet less. To say richer things with less talking.
To worker harder softer. It seems so clear in flash and then it’s a muck. Like muddy muck, like playful muck if I’d get in. And maybe that’s the point at last. To just get in and see what swimming in the muck muck is like. To just muck around in the mud. Nothing special about the everyday mud mucking. But I like my lines straight and curvy and I want the mundane to sparkle. I want it golden honey soothe my mama mind washed up on the dishes shore let me live again kind of yum. I want to remember it’s all ok, whether they need me to lay down to fall asleep or I make them cry it out, whether they eat graham crackers from the floor or the coconut curry I spent hours to make, whether they watch television or only play with wooden toys… I want to remember it’s ok. That who I am is way more important to them then the details of movement. Then the details of organic. Then the details of timing. Time time timing you spin me right round baby right round. Ready settie here I go.