Shoo, fly!

I like to think that people catch at least 75% of the socially awkward things I do on a daily basis for their own amusement. Here I am, sitting calmly on the back porch typity typity typing away, looking for all the world as serene as Meryl Streep conked out on Codeine, when along comes the first black fly of the summer...ZIP!!!...into my headband. This has happened before; I'm an adult, and it's a fly; I love the outdoors and am used to critters after living in this house as long as I have. And yet the only thing I can think to do is to tear into my headband as if I were possessed.

No matter how much I resist it, there is a teeeeensy strain of the irrational somewhere inside me.

What a beautiful day to be up on a porch overlooking the city. Flies be hanged!

I find

the art of becoming to be sometimes
the most difficult of things. Here freedom
meets responsibility,
not for bills or children or
husbands or wives or homes
with caving walls or crackling ceilings, but
for what the Past was and who it made me out to be,
for the things I learned to lack and the way I lived out Love,
eking out a beggar's feast for lack of good soil, rain, and a gardener.

I become in the crawl space between confession and mercy.