All these war words on our minds. AWAD's selection is bellicose which means warlike. Nothing to do with full bellies though I'm getting one. Not enough marching since the last time I wrote in this in this journal. A freak accident with a truck hitting my cousins house and my new-to-me car, wrenched my spine. I've been flattered by it. A silly accident, injured by my own car slamming into the house.
Yesterday I helped Neil prepare his room for open house, I covered a wall with collages from under the sea, and outer space, to the inner workings of the mind. It's all one thing.
During during our writers' group meditation, I could feel the energy trying to climb up my spine and and immerse itself past the injury, but the cat yowled and we giggled. The energy retreated and then surged past the blockage and I was thinking about Windex. The cure-all in my Big Fat Greek Wedding. Wendex cures everything. Maybe I should spray Windex on my spine, or on my feet. Never surrender to defeat.
This is ridiculous, I can't deepen. I can't write something pithy. Maybe I need to spray some Windex on my pen. Or on my mind. Making collages yesterday to heal the date, indelible on the brain, 9/11, like Kennedy's death over and over. I was at JFK high school. Art, my first language, is what I used to heal myself. We all need some Windex for the soul so that we may heal, so that I may see again with a clear vision, nothing between my thoughts and the air.
Last night I dreamed I was on the hill of my childhood and the harvest moon passed in front of Mars.
9/12/2003
Writers' Group
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