Saturday, August 21, 2010

adventures in purgatory

I'm pace-hunting. That's it, pure and simple. Pace-hunting. Finding my beat, my rhythm, and normally pace-hunting works okay for me because I'm setting it myself and I'm head-swaying to the pentameter and its all good. But, these days, I'm head swaying to my pentameter and my feet are marching to the beat of my mother's and my fingers are snapping to yours, or his or hers and the list goes on and on.

That's how it is when you're living in some one's place. Someone who is not you. They've got it all tuned just right for them and they've got all their pendulums swinging and it's all just right. Just right for them.

My purgatory is living in my mother's house. Bless her, its got to be just as hard on her as it is on me. And, trust me, I'm searching for my temporary place in it. I know its hiding here somewhere, after all, her home was my home for a couple dozen years in the first place. It must be in the back of a cabinet or something.


Belgusa said...
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Belgusa said...

keep marching I am pretty sure the beatniks had no rhythm and I am also sure that you can find anything you seek...lovin and prayin for you everyday

Ruthie said...

schedule some Dutton time! We want to fee you.

Ruthie said...

and by "fee," I mean "feed."