R&R

I have written two 1000 word pieces this week. One was a personal essay for my writing class. The other was a piece I am writing for The Porpoise Divine Life and which I shall order you to read when it is published online. Both took me ages to do, much longer than I anticipated. The shape threatened to hide itself from me, to present only its nothingness and thus send me bonkers. Both pieces I procrastinated over because that is what I do at the best of times, and also because I have become used to blogging my thoughts out as they happen, here in dear Discombobula, my public online loungeroom *fluffs the scatter cushions*. I feel safe here in my created spot.

Out there, performance anxiety strikes. Rouses the shoulder demons whispering sour nothings.

But they're both done. I'm not all that happy with them, but they're done. I did it.

Sometimes the earth spins so fast, I feel like I could fly off. Today I am off to my art therapy session and as some sort of reward am staying up there in the Ranges, amongst the trees and the smell of freshness, intoxicated, for a few hours more. Get me some kinda grounding, maybe hug the largest tree and tether myself to the earth. To what I know. Mindful of how little that is. Wanting to stand still. Wanting to fly. Feeling the terror. Feeling the earth. Wanting the third way.