Wind barreling hard along the river. Dreams I have visited before, as if my brain is tired of conjuring new images. Will this do? There is no ideal: can we say this at last?
Who around here is in charge of admissions? Power structures in which I am embedded against my will and yet, once aware of, grow oddly - perhaps unsurprisingly - passive about undoing. The turns of Mary Magdalene, which I stubbornly insist relate not to conversion but degrees of insight. The sense of ahead, the sense of behind. The graves of long-dead dogs.
Salvation by degrees is an error, salvation in non-relational contexts is also an error. Scripture about where I long to use my tongue. Our Greek origin. Our amethyst.
Writing early in place of prayer, as if driven. A world without metronomes is what error? Driving back from Hadley I wonder if I've got it wrong, these recent insights around gender and power, the specific way they play out in my living. Can we measure willingness.
It feels like opening a space in which one can only be hurt because the revelation of desire will not be reciprocated, may in fact be used as an attack. What are you waiting for? Who taught you to want that way, speak that way, be happy that way?