I have no clue what I want to say other than I want to say something. I guess this will come out as something of a mess if only because everything seems to be that way right now. I could rant for an hour about Christians but I did that recently. I could talk a while about the pirate party except I couldnt because I'm not publicising those stories. If you want to know them you have to ask specifically. I could talk about how great it is that I am going home but I figure that is a given already. I could mention that I am physically crashing but that would not come as a shock to most and I don't want to be complaining. My body never works right. End of story. I could add pictures of the beautiful fall foliage except there isnt any. It has been way dry so the colors range mostly from dying leaf brown to dying leaf brownand it has been rainy so they arent even on the trees. And I havent had time to sit down and write anything for a while. Thats not entirely true. Its more like I have this slurry of emotions begging to be put into words but they are unruly and will only join in couplets or quads and the occasional tres for intrigues sake but they dont build on each other. They are kinda on hold in the magic book of colors waiting for inspiration that cannot be bound by time or time that is not infected with a groggy sleepy eye shutting disease. So I have for you nothing . . . except for what I wrote in chapel. . .because I actually found chapel on monday. . . and paid attention to the important parts. . .
The word Paraclete means Holy Spirt. We figure it was created just because it rhymed. Who knows?
Use your freedom in such a way that you do not impinge on the freedom of others.
And then there was this:
Color Me the Story Book (9/20-9/20/05 chapel)
Red and green with black and faces
Different names in different places
Glass shrines for the divine
Sun shining through between the lines
Tell me what they mean
These stories I have seen
Looking down at me
In this mottled light we all look the same
Kneeling and praying in glow of Holy flames
And our private stories all seem to blur
With those around in patchwork color
So tell me what they mean
These stories I have been
When I am colored not as me
Behold the parakeet with spiky shoes- Jn