stone white, so delicate
Last night I dreamed that someone was going to make a movie about my noble and dearly departed grandfather: Papa Wilbur. I'll not tell the tale of this amazing man now, but just know I was thrilled to know they were casting the young Gregory Peck to play the part.
I said to myself, in my dream, that Peck was a much better choice than Laurence Olivier.
Or even Lawrence of Arabia...
Today I felt miserable with myself, so I baked a chicken this morning while taking a shower, and then I stared myself down in the mirror until I brought tears to my eyes.
Aside from the encouragement I lent myself by assuring the terrified, confused little misfit in my mirror that I would take good care of her, I was also fascinated by the transformation my eyes make when beginning to cry.
They become very, very blue, and a little moist, and then the white becomes pink.
Another overt emotional expression which I am powerless to conceal.
I think someone found my journal. Did you find it?
I'm lost. Very, very lost. Wandering in a wilderness, so to speak. Please no one misconstrue my moments of clarity as being any sort of directionality of intention. Directionality implies linearity, anyway, and we all know just circles aren't linear.
The firm foot of the Compass which is supposed to bring this circle just is out of sight because I'm attached to the mobile foot which has strayed very, very far.
