Trisha’s posterous

I'm back after a short departure, after another ducking-out of this cyberworld.

I miss the medium too much, feel compelled to write on walls and inside bathroom stalls, on metal, or on hard wooden surfaces, scratches across the skin, the wrists, chalk on sidewalks, paint on canvass.

Exacto knives and oil paint.  Paper cuts and charcoal.

Horror and bliss.

It's all right here.

It's all right here under the circus tent, the blue night sky. 

I have a trapeze painting in mind, a series of three, little white stick people flying through the air on a dark background, stick people swinging between fear and freedom, between despair and delight, stick people leaping across a universe of stellar collisions, blackness, sunlight, through rain, leaping and swinging high above an ocean, a garden, a sidewalk, a lake, a river.

It's just air.

Oh this holy mind.

Oh this holy heart.

In secret I really love myself.

Implicit in being a bright light is the snuffing of it out...

I will not be snuffed out anymore.

Will not be 'guilted' into sex or relationships or marriage anymore.

I miss love.

(Thanks Dr. V).