they say that life imitates art and back. That when great genius is mocked some restitution is sure to follow in remembrance of their accomplishments. Space travel and fissure bombs and nuclear medicines all would not have come to existence if not for some free and wild thinking psychosis running wild and creating fantasies that others only dream of.
As a chef and mother the best I can create are food choices and necklaces and homecoming gowns with twenty dollars. I write poetry and prose and factual piss-pot misery that entertains my readers and friends. I am the stuff that legends are made of. I am a myth and a mystery to the doctors that treat me. What I am not is mundane, even though I may feel my life is at times. My imitation is that I presume to be a relic of sorts from way back in history, only in this day and age and time. I don't belong. My music is wrong. My hair is wrong and my clothes and style are either too far ahead of their time or too far back. I am inter-dimensional and I like it that way! A transcendentalist's idea of achieving eternal peace is lacking in today's society where no one wants to keep still.
I want to stand still as a rock in a meadow full of fireflies and night critters. Fear has grappled me and kept me company far too long only the fear is not for my own being but another's. Under no obligation other than morals of community, I weep and lament for all the ills that may prevent my offspring from becoming herself. I, like so many other species, want so badly for my progeny to succeed otherwise my whole sole purpose would be lost on this world. Let's be realistic, beyond eating and defecating and urinating and procreating, all other things are optional. I finished my tasks and had some fun along the way and even reinvented some crazy fantasies of my own. Marquee lights are not in the works for me. Just maybe a bed and a tub and a glass of ice water and some sleep.~mobe's love to her all and her all to her loves.
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