sentimental for that dewey mountain air.

These days always get me. The music slows, the piano comes in.

I am not here anymore. No, i'm in that cabin in colorado.

Aaron said if I were to lie down on the boarded floor, I'd look like his grandmother's eccentric carpet collection, accompanied by her dog, the part played by my hair.

Oh but we are at the jumping off point. That part where if I do not grab life, take of it what I want, compose a good CV resume, well then it was all for not.

Lord, my mother was always a poor woman. Not with money, as she is that too, but in spirit, in soul, in movement. She never was one to dance. Never one to make a fool or a scene or even hurry a step. Day in and out, they weaved around her as she snoozed on the couch, waking now and then to engage in a game of solitaire at the downtown insurance agency.

These are things that haunt me as my father asks how my schooling is coming, what my next plan is.

Well, father, i'd like to make some grilled cheese (gruyere and cheddar) and perhaps some midnight crackle cookies, some honey wheat flaxmeal sables, some world peace for the night my friends come over to watch it's a wonderful life, and we'll turn on all the christmas lights. Woah, woah woah. But wait. It's 11:30 on a Saturday night. This happens every Saturday night. "Guys. What are we doing? We can't live this way for ever, gotta make ourselves some money or get thrown out with the bathwater" How does one create? How does one survive off of this creation? I do think i'd like to fly from here.

It is only in this tension, this push for I need more time, that I do actually do. I do actually produce. Lord, when it comes to the jumping off of this ledge, when it comes my time, Lord, let me fly. I know grace is the wind. I know you are in charge. Oh, but what good is life unless we are not ourselves? And how does one know oneself if we are always being enough for what we're in? Mmm.

I'm not afraid, I just need you Lord to teach me to be poor, but rich in spirit. Oy. I think I trust you. I do know you loved Cal, and you loved Adam. And you love us. But we are grass. So is it too much to want poems and sentimentality and making things with our hands?