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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1158300-My-Patient-Saint
Rated: E · Book · Biographical · #1158300
After some hiatus, the re-invention of my morning pages. Both am and pm.
It seems too long since I've visited my little corner. Fall has closed in on this little port, so sitting outdoors to watch the city wake is a chilly option not taken. Below the cool air my love and I are pursuing a new house with great ferocity, which leaves little time for the casual moments that aquaint me further with the goings on.
It is a trying time for both of us... How does one who is afflicted by their art successfully pay it little attention in lieu of finding our den to hibernate for the winter? He is wonderfully patient with my tantrums that seem to be occuring with greater frequency during this "artist hiatus", he shares the same affliction yet some how seems to be handling it with poise and practicality.
My art is both my sickness and redemption, in order to make any comprehensive sense out of these tiny creations I must spend time with them, else they look like little more than shattered fractals that have been spat out of my head, some encoded message that only the old government code breakers could get through.
There is something stirring deep with in my belly that wants out. The little monster has something to say and until I am able to sit qiuetly with it I am only confused by the low rumblings and feel a bit maniacal when trying to keep it quiet.

I dream of the season ahead and our den and finally our creation again. Thoughts of dark rainy nights bundled up in turtlenecks and long woolen stockings comfort me, warm like the resplendent fire to my back. High flames burning through my wine glass casting diaphanous womb-like shadows upon the old oak desk that is home within home.
I can hear my lovers fingers dancing atop his strings from the next room. It is his dirge that is the fire that burns through me. The low trot of his notes dancing through my womb casting out the shadows.
After we have spent enough time massaging our little monsters we will come together. In front of the fire our fingers will waltz and massage one another....
September 19, 2006 at 2:19pm
September 19, 2006 at 2:19pm
The morning is upon us again as are the clouds, the wind and rain. Walking around my little corner today every muscle remains taut, they refuse to wake and it would appear that every soul near is in accordance. It is a corner wide protest to this cold damp air, and even the smiles are tucked behind heavy woolen collars. As romantic as the fall may be, it is a corner of heliocentrics.
The house hunt continues still with fervor and growing frustration. Yet Liam and I have reached new resolve. As badly as we desire our time for creation, love making and great raids through the night that help greet the sun, we will stay focused and positive in our sacrifices. Our dream home is just around the corner and even in our absecnce it swells with love and art in anticipation of our discovering it.
This is presumably the harvest season so I will look to my dreams and in my lovers eyes to find our corpulent crops. Our endevor proves to me that I have truely found love. I am a lucky women to of found such a patient saint, now I may fully embrace these dreams. It is clear now, if we remain dilligent in our hard work, what we reap will be large and nourishing for many seasons to come.

© Copyright 2006 Tiffany J Z (UN: tiffanyjz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Tiffany J Z has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1158300-My-Patient-Saint