intuition inn

if something is poetry in itself, does putting words to it make it - found?

here's another paradox:
you can carry words everywhere with you - and it carries you everywhere with it

dreams of orchards -

- the generosity of rain

listening to a downpour. study music!! : ) good feelings.

today was a day of being economical about language and eating, math, laughing, conversation, toast bread, econs, more math, thinking, watching children and the sun grow sleepy, good time spent with special people in clean, well lighted places : ) there are wonderful people around me and i hold them close

"i'm so tired but i'm not done with work"
"aiyo jaz just go and sleep. if you don't sleep right, your dendritic spine will start to die and you lose memory. serious"

--
"... being continuously aware that the bounds of personality are not reproducible by a sharp black line, but that each of us flows imperceptibly into adjacent people and things" - reminds me of a conversation i had with mr yong and michelle a few days ago about voices and meaning (non-meaning doesn't mean the lack of it, but rather when it is not effectively conveyed - rational inversion) reminds me that all creation is esoteric in a dimension of perspectives.

trying my best - beginning to settle, things are in comfortable shades of warm amber and calm maroon

trains traversing

who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
            it’s
                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves

( ee cummings )

timshel

these days are passing like a boat on water.

if we think it is enough, oftentimes it isn't- we all have a little more to learn.

as i am reminded of my insufficiency, i am humbled by grace

---

“okay i’m going to walk into my house, and i’m going to leave you with this question. can you guess the question?”

“(laughs.) of course i can.”

we are the ocean

have spent the past few weeks or so, immersed

during our late night conversation we took turns to talk about what we are thankful for, a consistent sort of closure for everyday - in recounting my thanksgiving i realise that these different art forms are not lonely at all, and unknowingly i receive so much more than i can ever give.

last night a friend read aloud a growing repertoire of six word stories.
tonight i am collecting memories written in five bullet points. (they are all special and brilliant.)
tomorrow i will give five friends typewritten, homemade things : ) and then after school, continue working on another work-in-progress with 20 wonderful humans, discovering new vocabularies through our bodies.

never want to tire of the things i love : ) we are all His art

maybe there are places in the people we love that we can never reach

and for that, you are Monet painting light

even the sun knows your name

at the end of the day, i am just thankful that i will always have a hiding place. that however i manoeuvre this constant that is change, and though my insecurities and fears may put up a fight-- here is a refuge to run to. here is a grace that is sufficient - however we change, You stay the same

till then. till the end of this race.

You are with me as I work; savouring my concentration,

enjoying my fascination, keeping me through all the scurry.

Secret as a pebble on my tongue - steadily holding me in Your gaze