The dogs are throwing themselves down on the bare floor, rolling their eyes + groaning Lurch-like. Yes, it’s moving time again.
Excuse me.
i just popped over from Theme Thursday. And it seems i’ve set a theme and not responded to it. 

Hoping this will suffice. 

Minotaur / plate #20
Seeing clouds as a fingery low moving mask of smoke racing through the deluge of watercourse is where images become the skeleton of a nightmare.

Yes, the water came down during the dark time. I hurried out at first light to check damage or if all had been spared. The lilt of the rain forgave some of the walls leaving them dry, soaking the facing walls and smearing chalk beyond recognition - yet, still interesting. Looking deliberate, softening the drawing into morphic shapes with more possibilities than the original  state. Is  this formed by another? A message shaping up from another pedigree force? Perhaps next rain will work through this smudge to expose an image sharp as arrows. 

Let  smudge be smudge -  just so, I’ll be satisfied with this question, waiting for the chance of an answer.

Drawing leaves behind evidence. 
Some times people like you more.
Some times people like you less.


i’ve lost week to deadline. That's just how it goes.

i dreamed of an old friend last night + got on to memories i have not thunk possibly ever.
Relay in writing, i like that.

In high school art class there was a small yellow + gray streaked glasshouse off to one side that sat out into a small light shaft between buildings. It was off-sight of the art teachers so they had no clue to what was happening inside. You had the teachers buffaloed.

But now thinking about it, that green house was a fishbowl to the cafeteria across the way.

A potters wheel was wedged between short bleachers of plants + supplies. i preferring hand building — since they said i was no good at throwing pots, the product being too chunky + far from elegant. But that didn’t keep me from trying. i was in the process of making, as a neighbor friend was enhancing. This friend was obviously in need of a something to focus on. He chose one of the still wet deep walled mugs + slowly, oh so carefully carved out a niche on the front side + added chips of tiny mud, choosing any array of micro triangular, tubular + spherical pieces all into an area one inch in diameter. He worked so carefully it was scary, + so close his nose scraped the clay. When he was satisfied, he straighten up, + a with dawning on his face that happened way too in-often, looked at me wide red eyed + awestruck.

It’s the universe Imploding!

It has been a wicked deja vu week.


Real life rang false.
He carried a doll wrapped in scrap paper in his pocket. 
His mother sent a note along with him, 
only just this morning, 39 years ago,
Excuse him from whatever
he wants to be excused from.


i have been thinking about Escape Speed lately.
What it takes, to make us get up, out the door, over the comfort threshold + onto our next adventure. Perhaps just out of the way — so the door may close.

Sometimes dramatic. Expelling oneself + not looking back until everything is so very tiny that when you turn for a look-see all has transformed. But of course, it was you doing the transformation.

Drugs can do this. (i didn't say that.)
But i will say this about Escape Velocity;
i’m guilty of using it’s potency in the past. Moving to the coast, to coast, to coast, + then eventually back to the other coast. Sort of pinging in space, never landing for long. Sure. it took up a bunch of time + energy, but when i look back on it - a flash. A lot can happen in a jiffy.

Sophomoric, i know.
But there you have it. Once, + again, the human condition.

i practice active fleeing in my mind, i said.
He leaned into me + whispered, “I know.”
He wasn’t kidding, he had known.

Change that happens positively,
is not irreversible.