Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why, then ’tis time to do ’t.—Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?—Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?  (Lady Macbeth, The Tragedy of Macbeth, Act V, Sc. I)

I would like to begin this post with some articulate hook.  It isn't happening.  (What is an it?) The string on the turn of turmoil has been pulled and released.

Somehow I've got to clear my head of about two weeks worth of social grace and expected formation just to get back to the twist of imperfection to which I am tightly wound.  Of course,  to do this I must discuss fat thighs and diaries as if I am Bridget Jones.

Don't scrunch, wedge, or analyze.  If you've read me at all, you already know all acorns have a seed.  All fruits are flowers first.  If neither of these lines bear truth, sue me.

I live in the land of a loamy utopia with a man who loves me not.

I've met a man in the land of beyond, who is one step forward, ker-plunk. His hand is on my back while he pens beautiful lines as a tribute to our twine.  Actually this is a lie, not the beauty, but the lack of sharing his perceptual intent.  There must be a float I can take before the proffering of his next line.

 I know a metallic man who knows me back, who wants me to hold his hand, or perhaps just shoot his wife.  He tells me few men look at hearts, that I'm not easy, and damn what a woman.

I love a mole, and we share a covalent bond, but kikitara~  There is only so much one can do for and with a mole who lives highly warm and blindly burrowed between sheer layers of giftedness  and his self-doubting ecotope of darkness. 

Lately though I've left my heart nesting in bark on an OS shelf, and I've thought a lot about the flight of the soul and molecular reformation.  I've survived one more anniversary of Smashing Pumpkins, crying because the babe would now be 21.   I am here.  She is not.  There are no pretty horses ready to ride.  All have a blemish.

Swoooooooooosh.  Since I  can, I'm spun out and looking back over my shoulder, laughing upon climax, hearing the chime, noting the time, and thinking more and more about the lull of childhood, Woolworth marbles, Pa's slingshots, and long coils of life, complex and often unattended,  contorting this shape I consider my own.