I’ve been the absent gardener yet again. It’s a bad habit, I know, I know. Disappearing from the world, but I haven’t; I’ve been jumping into the pool with both feet, into freelancing (and it’s a ride.) It feels like the most natural thing I’ve ever done, and also so surreal at the same time.
Self-employment is turning me into quite the lion.
And yet I feel weak tonight, apt to crumble like brown sugar from the slightest temptation. More snake than lion, and it is Friday the 13th, isn’t it?
I had a dream not so long ago, that I got a 13 tattoo on a Friday like this one. I’m sick, so not this time. But maybe next time. I’ve come up with the comeback to the tired old anti-tattoo remark that “You wouldn’t put a bumper sticker on a Bentley.”
…To that I say, “No, but the Sistine Chapel wouldn’t be half as breathtaking without Michelangelo’s work gracing its ceiling.”
I’ve been percolating poems. Dark, barbed little things. I’ll try not to vanish on you again, you wonderful readers who stick around for all of this.