Deepak Chopra chants to me while I’m sitting in the dark but chilled room. Must have been about letting go as I’ve been hearing that message almost continually. Maybe it’s time to stop running away from it and just answer the door.
Disappointment stood at the door when I answered the knock. A familiar face, but estranged long enough that I wasn’t exactly sure who he was.
I asked disappointment what he wanted; I had to stoop to look in his eyes. He needn’t say anything.the eyes, after all, are the windows of the soul. Not sure where I picked that up along the line. Doesn’t seem like something my dad would say to me.
I’m constantly picking up tidbits of philosophies. Philosophy of Life philosophies out number man kind. I was going to say living kind, but that might be a stretch. There are definitely more philosophies than are human beings on this planet.
Today has been a slow moving day. I have listened to a lot of different music. I’ve got my six-carassoul CD table ready for random play. This is my favorite way of listening to music since I don’t know what to expect.
In the darkness of the kitchen, I have been listening to heart meditations Radio. Michael Whalen. Deepak Chopra. It’s one of those nights. I find that if I don’t spend a little bit of time in this place, my day doesn’t have as much significant. Looking through the eyes of kindness. At least this time I’m not getting jarred out of good thoughts and into an advertisement. They should outlaw stations from doing that: Getting you in a nice calm mood, but slam down a Carpet Company irritating commercial. New flooring. Time for some more music.
This blog was supposed to be about the lyrics that Skeeter Davis wrote about his love walking out on him. Old song. Maybe 1960something. Sixty-three? I must have been paying attention in my formative years. I was surprised that I did get the year correct. I was only three at the time, but so impressionable.
I didn’t know anything about Skeeter Davis before I read the Wikipedia page on her. Mary Frances Penek. I remember the hair from those days; that’s really what scared me from wanting to be a girl. That hair. My hair was more the skater’s hair. Dorothy. I want to say Hamel, but I don’t think I have the correct letters for the Gold medalist. It’s fuzzy and not coming to me.
Dorothy Hammel. I wasn’t too far off. Everyone had their hair cut to match her wedge. I desperately wanted it short that I’ve not had my hair long ever since. Hair basically drives me crazy. If it weren’t for the strange looks I get from people, I’d wear my hair even shorter.If I don’t have to mess with it, our lives are so much simpler.
The Skeeter Davis song didn’t get me as many words as I thought would happen. I might as well call five hundred words a done deal and try again tomorrow.