moments in space, without time

Even when no one is listening, sometimes she talks.

I love days like this … days undefined by the fight for survival, unencumbered by a search for shelter or employment … a day to just be.

Infrequent they are, these days of space to be, to breathe. I cherish this time, the house emptied of its human company (though not the need for cleaning, a task that falls upon my shoulders for a roommate disinclined and unobservant) … time on the heels of a Christmas, beginning with its Eve, made sacred and special in oh so many ways.

S.p.a.c.e. I love the word, the concept and the reality. I love the word more than most any other word in the world’s languages. I might even love it more than the word “love.”

And since I’m aware that few are reading my blog, even fewer commenting any longer, well, there’s space in that too. Usually very sad space, lonely space. Space undesired, negative space, space that puts the blog’s survival in peril; that is a bridge to be crossed in the months ahead.

At this moment, I cannot complain. A field of snow and the white-drenched Rocky Mountains, visible beyond, are at my eyeball fingertips. There’s no living creature in the house save for me and Atticus (and there’s a story there about his fate and future and whether it will be told is to be seen). A decent drinkable cheap beer (Blue Moon, from Colorado’s own). Berr Symon in his holiday snow tie. Music through the phone (Velvet Underground) and a sun such the bright direct ball of light in a clear sky that a little part of me can’t help but wonder: Why didn’t I get the fuck outta dreary damp cold wet gray Washington state sooner!

Rhetorical question; the answers are known to me and the powers that be (and that handful who understand the effect and impact of weather).

If there’s such a thing as a traditional Christmas (and there is), I didn’t have it; neither last year nor the year before et al. (No emotions attached, simply a fact.)

Sometimes I consider starting a support group for the wayward, oddballs and outcasts! I also contemplate starting up a group for writers, a group for those with constant upheavals (no shit!), a group for the longtime unemployed WHO ARE TRULY SUFFERING.*

(*lazy asses content to suck off the government and preach their entitlements are not invited.)

Will see what the new year brings.

Space. S.p.a.c.e.

What would life, undefined by that fight to survive, be like with comfortably manageable obligations and responsibilities and space to create and be?

I don’t fucking know. I might, however, as the years progress and near inevitable closure, be willing to find out.

This is all as, fittingly, a young Patti croons “Distant Fingers” into my spacious being, reminding, among other things, that there is home, distant, far from earth and life and the fight to survive.

Home: so far yet always within, without time, in space and of it.


3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. trayflow
    Dec 26, 2011 @ 16:24:18

    I just want you to know that I am reading every entry. I don’t always have the time to comment. I think of you between posts and wonder if all is well (as it can be). Merry Christmas and. Happy New Year to you!


  2. allycatadventures
    Dec 26, 2011 @ 19:38:17

    @trayflow – and to you, trayflow! btw, I’m enjoying seeing your cute tykes grow up right before our (public) eyes! time flies oh so fast!


  3. cruisekitten
    Dec 27, 2011 @ 14:56:01

    I read you religously, but sometimes not the day it is posted.
    Please know there are those of us out there who read and sometimes just don’t know what to say in response to your artful prose.


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