from the pages

In Tacoma/Washington life fell into the rabbit hole of Alice in Wonderland.

In Denver, I try to climb out. The walls of dirt are high, rugged and slippery.

Each hand grip brings no longer hope, except expired, and a prayer, some winged some wingless.

Each foothold carries a plea: “Don’t let the wall crumble, don’t let me fall.”

I began at the bottom of the well — The Well of Tweedledum and Tweedledum and Cheshire Cat at a party commanded by the Queen — so there is no direction but up but there is one way worse, the worst of all possibilities – buried alive by collapsing walls.

I ask a higher spirit and the house (where I reside) why must I move?

Normally the answer arrives if not by insightful intuition then pen.

This occasion: silence.

Not (even): “It’s not for you to know (yet.)”

Silence. As if no one is there.

The “consensus” — it is agreed that this is a move not desired but forced. It is agreed that the timing is awful. It is agreed that the man at this helm is unreasonable — nee also unreasoning — thoughtless and so absorbed in his own perspectives (narrow) that seeing another’s is very challenging and unnatural for him.

How did I get here? — those journal pages throb with those contemplations and answers and attempted answers.

How do I get out necessarily occupies now.

How do I move forward when in a well (flash to hole in the floor of the home of James “Buffalo Bill” Gumb in “Silence of the Lambs”).

If the dirt walls cave in, is that such a bad thing?

I am NOT going to go there.

But what awaits at the surface 20, 30, maybe 40 feet up? What sort of world exists?

I don’t know; I can’t imagine.

I query again the walls of this house that I like so much: Why must I move.

Still no answer. Only an image:


I don’t know the meaning of that either.

Is it a scene of comfort?

Or fear and terror in the (personal) knowledge and (life) wisdom of what goes on behind closed doors.

A picturesque facade of comfort and warmth and coziness remains a facade.

Sometimes journeys (particularly those arduous and of enduring hardship methinks) do more oh so very much more than test mettle, strength and grit.

Sometimes they require trust.

Sometimes they require faith.

Sometimes they require courage.

I seek the message and meaning in all things, seen or unseen, imagined or real.

Yet I still am unable to divine the reasons for this move.

Only silence. Response withheld or absent? As if no one is home. The no one includes me.

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