Stigmata

I had a lot of very strange, vivid, half-sad dreams last night, haunting things that left their taste in my mouth and mind upon waking. In the one I am recalling now, stigmata appeared on my body. I felt despair and horror when I looked down at my palms... blood was oozing out in little spots from all the lines in my hands... and eventually a central spot emerged, pooling red. I kept wiping my hands on my pants and on tissues, thinking I was imagining things. I frantically ripped off my socks and watched the tops of my feet... after a few moments, blood started welling up out of the white skin there, too. And then it began dripping down my face, warm rivulets into my eyes, down my cheeks... all the time I was wiping it away with great agitation, rushing through corridors filled with people, hoping no one would notice how much I was bleeding. I found a restroom, a big, empty public place, and ran my hands under the water, washing away the blood... I splashed it on my face and it stopped for awhile and I thought, Oh good.. it was all in my mind... but then it started again. I felt so very, very sad... and I was surprised by the lack of pain.

That was pretty much it. Standing alone bleeding in a public restroom, staring down at my hands.

So strange.

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Long time without words... I guess I don't know what to say here just yet. And so, then... time for some more silence.

Sometimes...

...I'm in love with everything. I'm in love with my best friend. I'm in love with the way the trees toss around in the wind. I'm in love with..... good bread, the wings of the birds in the sky, the way the water riffles on the river, the feel of skin on skin...

I am trying to find my way in this world, as late as a comer as I seem to be at this point. I have some years left. I have some unpopular opinions, and I have a history of keeping those to myself. No more.

And so it goes....

Ah, yes.

The beginning. Beginning again.

The new and the green

This is a brand-spankin' new blog. Before this, I had one for a short time, in blog years - my first was started in April of 2004 and I kept it for over a year. I deleted it yesterday morning. I think that my desire to have a blog is the same as it was the first time - I want a place to go and write and not have it fuck up my life in the way that paper journals have. Whoever reads this - and the numbers, I'm sure, will be counted on one hand - won't matter in the scheme of things... I can write what I will, and it really won't matter to anyone. That's key. The inside of my head is wet and sloppy and full of misfiring neurons. And even if they're firing correctly, they're neurons, and I'm human, and my life is short. So I write.