My whole plan for some sort of consistent behavior in anything seems like a lofty one.
I am simply not inclined to follow straight paths and it seems I am a creature of the tangled woods
of my imagination.. so be it.. there are so many constraints that must be and therefore it seems that those I would impose upon my art and writing have been more of me thinking that somehow I could be thought of as having my act together and well for me it truly is an act.
I have nothing together and yet the fragments themselves complete me.
I find myself in these little crumbs of words I have left in cyber space and sometimes
like today I attach something to them .
I like they are mysteries and that they simply meander but not without meaning.
They mean something at least to me... they are décor.. they are art they are this house that some might call a soul. They are a window looking inward and there are ever so many rooms in this house.
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