Suggestion

Dean

Myself

I like luck.

Change.

These being maybe ill I write them that way to free my friendship as greenness allied with beck and feeling.

Chaste moments of blaming ross for their giving happiness to my father and his mother's womanliness.

I remember that if I give myself the thankfulness that I remember badly.

Decoupling intention and result:  Why strongly live for my own changes?

I need to deal with the suggestions that continually pour into me from reservoirs of the needs of other people as collected in the past which make me mother to softness without feeling.

That knowledge gave me good; now, I have pain from knowledge.  Read that as the loss that I have to give.

Chores:

I remember for myself the good things that felt like hope.  I know that when I say that anybody is who I know that they will believe that it is freely made a mess, that is to say, logged as blame.

I am apparently trying to give.

I was here to be my own laughter.  I like that.  Now it is the lambent love of rest and poetic fabulous positivity becoming easy that reaches toward my illness.

Lack of rest is not friendly.

Tie my pain to glamorous hopes running toward veils covering my tests, with the object of making love peaceful.
                                                        *       *       *
                                      [This is where I get to what I'm saying]
           


I have shouted and screamed and wept and collapsed into my own bones, not knowing that I can not feel what the Goddess made -- loved, pale, rosy, cruel, and failed -- with her champion, as home.  She did make my moment free.

Craning toward the morality I cried about, I see that it was nothing for flesh and nothing for love.

It was all about safety within my own shamanistic craft, i.e., glamor.

You can like my flame or you can like my pain.  The rest of my striving for life is here because I made it feel foreign in that I could not both be good for my love of peace (naked hate of strength and stability and change; and anger) and my desire for freedom.  No savior of my mother is able to bring beauty or art to freedom.

Apparently, once again, it is I who have made it difficult to love me.

Momentarily, a lack of being is not changing my injury.  It is knowledge, peace, and cancer that are my effort.

You are what you desire.

I desire justice.  Life is my yearning for happiness.

Loudly where justice is, I drive for change and peace.



This way is being.

Lies are looks.




I have to admit that when I write I do not always understand at the beginning where I will say. 
I have to start somehow and somewhere and I prefer flatly recording what I have relied on to start with even without explanation or a description of whatever extension or resonance these plain words may have for me to being true to what are perhaps better organized redrafts.  I think the reader can tell what is important and coherent without my drawing all the threads together.  If not, then I will simply have to return to the subject from another direction and do so at that time because I do not wish to pretend these words did not happen in this way and at this time.

I would like to know how to incorporate what are important bases of my thinking into what I have to say, without dismembering and replacing and repositioning what came to me into a smooth facsimile of what I in reality brought forth or felt was there to say.