so much nothing.

there's so much to say, that there's nothing in the world at all to say. the days are hot and heavy now, like a quilt that makes you dream you're in the desert. searching for water, parched and dry. i dreamt of this recently, i was burning up when i awoke. two men jumped out from behind a building with guns (in my dream), and i saw them and ran up the mountain and was safe. they could not shoot me down, though they tried.

a friend tells me this is me running to the refuge of the Lord.

i have run to the refuge of the Lord my whole life. it is the only place of safety for me. too many times i've walked boldly into places perhaps dangerous because i had my Rear Guard and Shield with me.

my husband requires i carry mase (i don't even know how to spell it), so i can shoot someone in the eyes if they look at me funny. i think, i'll probably shoot myself and then be in a world of hurt.

i got some in my eyes once, it was rolling around in the center divider of my camry. i reached back for a pen, one of my then faithful bic crystals (i used to hoarde them, but one finds when one hoards things, they turn on you. like a little gang of rebels, they conspire to frustate and not flow. to not be dependable any longer. this maurauding gang of bic crystals still inhabit my home but i'm disbursing the naredowells, i'm tossing them away full of ink. changing my preference to a retractable gel pen my husband and daughter got me for mother's day. they've taken to getting me pens on gifting occassions. which is nice. i get to try out many different types. the only trouble is, if they get me non refillables, i run through them in about a week. if not less).

so i reach back to grasp the bic, and it has some red peppery looking smudge on it. for some reason i rub my eye. i proceed to have a reaction to said gellified pepper spray right as i'm driving down the road. fortunately i didn't cram my fingers in both my eyes. only my left. so one eye is sealed tight against the raid, the other, trying it's best to pick up the slack. and i, trying to remember not to wipe my good eye.

i don't know that i ever cleaned up that mess in the camry. it is entirely possible it could happen again. i did deposit the rogue pepper bic in a refuse container at some point (though not immediately, i remember picking it up a few more times and thinking, oh no, better not rub my eyes. of course while driving. that is what makes it fun).

i've a poem i want to write about mase, but i won't spill the gist here. i'll let it continue to simmer away in my crockpot, and hopefully it will be something edible when it arrives.

not a complete letdown like the nonfunctioning band of bics whom i reluctantly part with. nothing worse than a pen with all that promise bottled up inside, just waiting to be let. then, nothing. no release. no poem. no aid to convey my otherwise pent up ideas to the page. only hot heavy days and dreams of deserts.