The Light Line

   
I try not to offer advice, not so much because nobody wants it as because nobody wants it. Which is, actually, liberating and great. You'd (which means I'd) think it would make life easier, as if you got off the hook, as if the dreams and thoughts you wanted to share disappeared the second you claimed you forgot to share them.

They don't. Pains and foolish or at least misguided certitudes hop forward (though "hop" is too much action and "forward" seems obvious so forget that last little bunch. But whatever; life is life and we notice what we notice and we love or hate or don't notice.)

Three choices seem enough: Love. Hate. Ignorance. Any variance adds up to some collective confusion of those words or the thoughts we attempt to express with them.

This must be confusing even to anyone who understands it all (and those people-if any-both scare and energize me) as it confuses me letter by letter. But that's no reason to give up. Hell; it's not even a reason to pretend to quit anything. Right now it glows as quite the opposite.

And so: here's a phoebe perch waiting through this fall and impending winter and most likely a bunch of spring, surrounded by its neighborhood (perhaps friendly; maybe otherwise) and unmarked by clawstrikes for months now. The stick in the middle, the light line, is the thing here. Which is odd, and not just because it mostly isn't.

MJ