laramie

It's gorgeous: the trees have leafed out and blaze in the sunshine like proud torches of life's slow gold-green fire, sentinels lining the street, standing guard over the houses. There was a heavy dew, struck by the morning sun: tiny, glinting, crystalline spheres tipping the myriad spears of grass. Even crumpled bits of trash looked like treasures nestled in the velvet green. The lilacs are swollen, ready to explode into fragrance, wreaking the magic by which Spring always comes as a surprise.

Pardon me if I wax too poetic. The poem generator I discovered through the link on EliseM's page has set me off. I played with it for hours. It hit me like a drug, such a heady experience. Like I'd spent a long winter cooped up in the carefully built, four-square house of Prose, and suddenly slipped the bounds of syntax to run wild in a jungle of rampant concepts, undiscovered similes, impossible hybrid creatures of the mind. I was exuberant and couldn't find it on the list of moods when I made my journal entry. I generally like poetry to have more sense to it, but the dip into random reconfigurations of my own journal entries seemed to be an oracle, shaking up my assumptions and preconceptions and showing me my own in whole new lights. Like a visit to the fun-house mirrors. It made me laugh.

Before this I was inspired by something else I encountered during random explorations through LiveJournal, someone's story idea about the return of magic happening slowly and being presaged by an increasing reliability in the predictions of things like the Tarot and I Ching. I was trying to imagine what it would be like to have a truly reliable oracle to guide my choices in life. It's something I've wished for. There are so many places I could apply for work; where would be best? On which of these streets will I find a free parking space? Where can I find people who could and would like to buy some of the marvelous bookmarks I've made? Will the city expand my street into an extension of Highway 77; should I get out while the getting's good? Let alone, ‘what's the winning number for tomorrow's lottery?’ If everyone had the answers it would certainly be a different world. The lottery wouldn't be worth much divided between all the people who entered, but it would be great to have the answers to some of those other questions.

Meanwhile: The yard needs raking; the rose bushes need to have last year's thorny dead stalks trimmed off. It would be nice to get rid of the weeds under the Lilacs before they get a good hold, and to trim off the dead limbs on the Cedar out front. I'm expressing ambitions some of which exceed my abilities. I may be able to do the first couple things but my knees aren't up for weeding and I'd have to get hold of a chain saw and assistance to trim the tree. Some pagan friends expressed interest in Cedar wood for a Yule log; I should get back to them.