Letting go

They say that love means, you don't have to say "sorry" and I suppose, anything goes.
They say that love means, you let go. Let the hand slip out of yours and wave into the distance
without regret.
I don't believe these lies.
"Sorry" is an expression of love. Vulnerable love without ego.
Letting go is surrender. When the ship slips its moorings and sails
without you
It may have a splendid journey - but you are not there.
Love means you need another chance to say "sorry".

American Idol

How to understand this phenomenon? I have to admit I am addicted and I need to understand why. It's not the singing, after all. Most of the talent is minor at best. I try to analyse what I enjoy so much. If I am honest I suppose I am feeling a sense of superiority - seeing most of the contestants working so hard but succeeding only a little, is reassuring. It tells me that if this is the way people function, I am not doing so badly. Even when I fail, I am human like the rest of them.
But surely my enjoyment is not just sour grapes. That would be so mean-spirited. I have to hope not.
I do feel the excitement of the contestants and experience their ups and downs with them - a kind of vicarious thrill. I am happy when the best and the brightest (and even the most attractive) are voted in and get into cheering them on each week - rather like cheering on your favorite hockey team. I like some of the music - although many of the songs are butchered beyond belief, and that is not fun to hear.
Simon is important. Without him I wonder if I would bother turning it on. The Canadian Idol show soon lost its appeal for me as the hostess (I have tried to forget her) was very irritating and the panel members insincere and artificial. Yes, it is Simon that really does it for me.
He is so honest and accurate in his withering comments. He is the ultimate cruel-to-be- kind paternal figure. He is Idol for me.

Good days and bad

Why does waking sometimes freeze the heart with reluctance? Toe out of bed draws back in icy terror at the day ahead.
Yet the hot shower beats consciousness into each cell
and by the time the body is scoured dry
the mind has purpose and forgets to cry.

Yet other days waking opens with potential
covers thrown back and swinging into the day
bright with intention.

How can days be so different?
Or is it simply the brain's perception.
Kant hinted at it.

Deluded brain
a chemical stew
unable to tell false from true.

Blogging

What is the point of a blog?
Words dripped in the ether like a syrup feed go unnoticed by even the thirstiest pancake. Congealing into a sticky pool they blob untasted sweetness. Wordwaste.

CHILDHOOD

I look down the tunnel occasionally
try to see the beginning where I crawled in
dragged out from one tight passage
into a longer darkness.
glimpses of candy apples and warm crusty
bread. Slaps of the leg when I pick too
many holes in the loaf as I carry it home.
running with icecream cone falling slap into the grass
the icecream upsided in the dirt, spaniel dog licking it greedily.
laughter and stories, singing of Ireland - a home
I never knew- would never know.
alone in an adult world and sure they
were all wrong.
when would it be my turn to show them?
Injustice. Boredom. Waiting for life to begin.