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Amber Paulen


I don’t have much to say lately. It’s cold and I’ve been sleeping in long hours because the slant of the sun is not enough to wake me. I’ve been having to draw the blinds of late, neighbors have just moved in. Our bedroom window and their front door are near enough for a conversation and in summer, with the windows wide open and the balmy breeze blowing here to there, the neighbors are in the bedroom. But it’s winter and I’m hibernating. I’m reading long books and trying to sort out a mess of thoughts which never seem to make any sense, even on paper. Surprise!

And no surprise. The longer one thinks about any one thing, the less sense it makes and so I must turn to Krishnamurti to iron out my wrinkles but then the passion driving the abrasive thoughts are gone. I’m not sure which is better, smoothness and an even keel or the overly jumpy assumptions come to through my misanthropic musings. Maybe they’re both offspring of the other and I shouldn’t even be thinking about that too much!

Happy New Year! and Happy Befana!

I’ve got John Cowper Powys and a pot of beans on the stove. I’ve got grey rain and grey stone buildings with terra-cotta roofs and smoke billowing chimneys. I’ve got a ticket to Michigan in a month and a half. I’ve got a big lake three paces away which reveals the weather introvertedly. I’ve got mountains out there with snow peaks whose wind comes cutting through, but I’ve also got heat. I don’t have much money, but who does? I’ve got love love! The Grail Myth and Glastonbury Tor. I’ve got cats cats! with fluffy warm fur they curl by the heaters and stretch and purr. I’ve got a book in progress that somedays reek like an unmalliable stone and other days dance like a maddened hen.

It’s mad world, maybe I’m mad with it, maybe we all are; and maybe trying to make sense is the most mad way to pass the time that there is.


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