Casting Dreams Crossing Time

Writing in the stream of my consciousness has always been comforting for me. It gives me clarification. Sometimes I imagine Faulkner, pages and pages of the dance in the rise of the moon. Sometimes I imagine Solzhenitsyn, one line, moon rose. Sometimes I write until I fall asleep; sometimes that takes days. Sometimes the thoughts take so many pages I tape journals together. Sometimes that takes more than three. I knew in my heart comfort would arrive for me, it always did. All I had to do was change my mind. The cabin was the perfect place to remember my peace. It was Bear’s cabin. I sat patiently waiting for the miracle of inspiration. Journal Number 52, you’d think the muse could help me with better titles. Humming again . . . I never knew what I was humming until I stopped to listen. If I stopped humming to listen, I had nothing to listen to. It’s difficult to think and listen at the same time; unless of course you are thinking what you are listening and then there would be no need. I said a silent thank you to Bear, he heard me, he always did. Bear had been the first person to tell me I wasn’t crazy. Actually he hadn’t been the first person to tell me I wasn’t crazy. He was the first person I believed. He told me that you could only really listen in the tiny spaces between thoughts. The truth, he told me the truth. The song I heard was an easy catch. I could name that tune in three notes, maybe even less. “I once was lost and know I’m found,” was chumming the Amazingly Graceful backwaters of my brain. I change the words to songs sometimes. Semantics matter. I have never liked the word ‘but’ it negates everything before it, “and” is a better choice in most cases. The space between thought is different from the space between thoughts. We forget that a lot especially when listening. Today’s topic is TIME: Total Imagery MacroEvolution. I clearly heard laughter sounding in my head. There were only a few souls who would find my quantum sarcasm amusing enough to laugh. I looked up and there he was, sitting on the bed. Long ago I quit trying to explain visits from other worlds, other dimensions. It is far easier to keep silent about my visitors than to explain, than to try to justify, my ability to see these spirit people and the ones sometimes mistaken for spirits. They are not all discarnate. I had long since resigned myself to telling only half of my story, only half of any understanding. People had so many lengthy and inadequate explanations of spiritual forces. I smiled at him. He was so familiar. He smiled and then he laughed. He and I were good friends. We went way back, lifetimes of dreams back. He laughed again when I reminded him. We had had our fun together. We enjoyed each other.