I’ve not picked up a pen to write by way of prompts outside of my own thinking in two weeks now.  There were days I did quickly check-in, but felt some aversion to the cracking, the squeezing, there just wasn’t a need to be expressive, me in my grinding walnut shells, expanding lemons.

Sequin was the one shiny prompt that almost brought me out of my circularized stupor, along with the past lives book I’m reading to understand karmic patterns, the evil side of the Brian Jonestown Massacre album my neighbor loaned me along with a stack of healthy macadamia nut cookies for Christmas.  I liked the salt crystals on the cookies, their Satanic Majesties’ second request, the evil music side best of four, the one with no picture of standing men, just swirls.

I’m here with my cup of too black coffee, feeling better after a dream of elaborate dance productions in which I take the high seat, move over an absent man’s stack of books, not afraid at all to be in that presiding bishoprics’ position, taking in all of the performing congregation, each of the eyes pointing in my direction.

I’ll show you how I love you, he croons.  There back to the light of sequins and how they are multi-faceted (sounds cliché’) and can take the lights from all directions and glimmer-glow them back into a slit of cat-eye wonder, but to figure out a clear line of sequence, to delineate which light caught which of the fish scales first, might be a waste of an entire lifetime.