i finally found it. i didn't wake up with it like i did yesterday--and there was no real call for it--my coming into inspirational being--so i just continued on looking through all the video interviews with all the women chronicling their time in history at the women's building. otis. my friend is going to go to otis--because our fates, it seems, are no longer intertwined at this particular juncture. i am here now, writing. i tripped into wikipedia--which is my favorite way of finding words about words written to illuminate with ideas those things that have been written about and refered to by others throughout this long journey through time. ohhhhh, the long journey through time. and i found this phrase at the bottom of the wiki article on inspiration that says it is not really studied in psychology or anywhere else and i wondered why? why is it so easily attributed to two thousand year old divinity--this idea of inspiration that caused each precious word to be put down in some biblical, qu'ranic, or otherwise sacred order, such that what was included was included. how did runes get to become the ruin of the world? or shells? or beads? or bits of string theory that cast the ordered pattern of some universe to unfold as dna in a hymn of hers sung from the mouts of unuttered something. i have a bald head staring back at me now. i am as bulbous as it is. round and doughy with no hair to hide under or masquerade as not. i am free of what has been grown since 2009 when i did this last time. it takes two years, then, to grow a luciousness. 2014? my youngest child will be 15. hmmmmmmmmmmmm. life and time and what lays before me as possibility and probability re-factored in the unending book of unwritten mess of unstilled heart--distilled? unstilled? beating, still, here on this bed under these covers under this fabric left behind, i find mysel here. here. still here. i am still here. i am hearing that click of fingertips on keyboard and clicking to make the fffffffffs stick less in the spaces of this inbetween of some kind of unfolding thing that thinks itself here out loud. thoughts made visible in more than pithy bubbles. what is this vibration? it took 'til 3:03 on the third day of this new year to find the rhythm in these keys keying themselves into song. song. psalm. i am here, without solomon, not singing my psalms or songs. where is the holy book? i have a bed framed with all the masterpieces of my pieces of mastered and piles, too, for the words that i didn't read in the brain that can not hold all the gluten free things there are now--floating about on a rhythm of unread, untasted, unbetrothed. free. free. gluten free. glue free. hot glue gun given away to a could be art maker entrusted to me by her goddess mother as someone who might make things--life--space--possibility--kindness in the wider world of a whirling world swirling itself along. what does one want to learn from learning? what kind of schools do fish swim in? what kind of flights do birds fly? what kind of quiet is possible within the sound of these fingers finding themselves pushing patterns onto no page. patterns onto no play. here, in the hearing of this moment filled with now--a resounding what whats itself off the patterns of not played. there is so much, still, to give away. away, there is giving. and this is all i know. here, in this here of having heard myself.
here, i stay in the darkness all day, under the warm covers, shielding my head from the sky. i am growing hair this year.
this year, i am growing hair.
now, i have something to do.
this seems like a kind of good fun.
i rub my stubble in the yummy directions of spirals.
it is the first time i remember, ever, massaging my head.
i'm dizzy some these days--and my sight is blurry--and last night i had a fierce kind of pain in my head on the left side. i don't remember ever having headaches before this now.
i imagine all kinds of possibilities for these symptoms of no inspiration to write until 3:03 on the third day of january.
but now, it is 3:18 and i have completed all the confessions and stories that spin themselves for this missive. fifteen minutes--that was a good run of inspired, i suppose.
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