well of course I'm still fixated on barbara allen.

she's one of the antagonists to the sorrowful dreaming maidens, I suppose, or no, because then she does sorrow. after the tripping lightly down the stairs. I was going to say she was the counterbalance to the maidens in the castle, because of her self-determination, her sureness of purpose, however mean-spirited and misguided. but then again, the story has different versions, everyone's got their own sequence of events and has cast and re-cast, as desired, as necessary, all the important parts.

young man, I think you're dying, she says, and trips, light as feathers, down the stairs and out into the sunshine, greedy in her haste to be away from the pale face and the demands, the protestations of love. if I had you, he said, I'd be happy, without you I'm nothing, and she said no thank you, I can't bear the extra weight, I have my own soul to carry around and that heavy as can be with all the world pushing down on it all the time.

barbara allen hated gravity.

(I have no idea. of what this was going to be, I mean, or say. I guess this is that wild writing thing, huh. it's fun, I must admit. very freeing.)

I had originally intended to post a bit of singing. but first I have to figure out how to do that. I miss the blogger options I used to see, before this hand me down mac. but I am thankful for it. I just wish it did what I wanted it to do. you'd think the thing had a mind of its own, the way it frustrates me some days. I still haven't figured out why imovie cropped my photos.)

and a different night, with the lantern lit.

a picture from the other night, outside the shed.

I just took some cool self-portraits on the outside of the shed.

silhouettes, very low light.

this isn't one of those, it's just a cameraphone picture from some other day in the shed, can't remember which exactly.

the pictures tonight are on my digital camera, the poor beat-up thing. I still haven't printed them. I keep deleting some, taking more, deleting again. I don't want to put the files on the computer, I'll never do anything with them. I want to go in somewhere and just print off all the files, even just regular photo size. though I do think some would be nice blown up (if grainy) and even big on paper I could add details to with pen, that would be fun, doesn't have to be serious glossy photo paper. (plus it's probably cheaper. I hate spending money. at least not until I sell something. I realize people will say well, you have to spend money to make money. I don't care for that argument. I'd like to make money and then spend money, thanks very much. I'm aware this is probably somewhat unrealistic. again, oh dear. I'm stubborn, it's true. sometimes persistent to the point of near-ridiculousness. but I figure at some point in our continuing discussion, the universe and I will come to some sort of understanding as far as art and money are concerned, and I'm hopeful that the universe will see reason at some point and realize that, when I'm a determined woman, I generally get my way, either through charm or through sheer -

oh shut up already, the universe will say at that point. fine, whatever, you win.

just stop talking, okay?

(ha. just like a woman. always wanting the last word.)

yes, I know, it's just isolated bits of nonsense. I comfort myself with the knowledge (the belief? the hope, maybe, yes, the hope, definitely.) that I'm only seemingly incoherent because I'm speaking not only in tongues but in several of them at once.

I still have that novel to write, about the middle-aged woman who leaves everything to live over a bar and sing blues at night and sleep until noon, and the big ruckus between the pentecostal church and the strippers. or not. whatever. ah, the bliss, just the release of the ideas, as they come, as they go, and not a care at all for the sense of them. or the sensibilities that might be so delicately, so pruriently offended.

I did sit down to write something sensible. but this was more fun. I'm too lazy to spellcheck and since I switched to safari and this mac (which I'm growing more fond of, by the day) I don't get the same spellchecking window come up, and I don't like that, so I'm just not using it. so it won't be until later, if at all, that I notice the errors and inconsistencies.

so these are the things I keep forgetting.

that when I don't talk, when I keep all of myself inside myself, I end up sad or angry or hopeless or - oh god, the misery - all three at once.

that when I stop making things, however pointless or temporary, I shrivel my heart up and start to eat it, the bitter, unforgiving taste of it so meanspirited in my mouth that everything I say comes out hard and dry and unloving.

that I'm not alone in any of this, even when I'm completely by myself. that I don't have to bear it alone.

I've just looked up both intention and resolution and am pleased to report it was, indeed, intention that best suited the meaning I was reaching for.

in the response to mark's comment on the previous post.

I love when that happens.

is that very odd? do you ever experience similar word-related thrills? it was the same sort of thing as when the bamboo piece this evening slid perfectly into the rolled painted construction paper I had wired to the box I was making. things moving into place, seemingly without effort or intention.