Remembering What You Forgot You Love

After the age of 7, I lived to read books and write. Sometimes I just practiced handwriting for the sake of feeling myself hold the pen and seeing what it looked like. The actual words were of no importance to me at all. When we went to Toys R Us, my mom would ask what I wanted and all I wanted was paper; when I was 12 I obsessed over the Japanese stationery my dad gave me, and that obsession with paper stays with me now.

There is nothing I love more or hate more than a blank piece of paper. It contains within it all the potentialities of greatness and discovery within ones own brain (our biologically-given grey electric matter), our minds (that thing that makes us so strange, so who we are before we are ever taught anything, as observed in the personalities of human and animal babies) and of course,  the shaping and exploration of our own talents...whatever we may believe those to be. 

When I opened Myths of Creation a year ago (almost to the date), it was because I saw our neighborhood was missing a place for me to shop an affordable eclectic selection. My company, team and customers have since then evolved into something more about expression than objects. We are now the home of local poets, and artists as well as Japanese stationary, coloring books for adults (in difficulty, not subject matter), meditative crystals, incense, and well, objects that encourage us 

It's so easy for me to forget that all I do is in service of having the means and experiences that allow me to take the time to write, and to be brave enough to show it to anyone.

Here is a poem I wrote two nights ago. I started with this calligraphy pen because I just wanted to practice lettering because it chills me out. When I looked at it two days later, I had a poem.

In all of the time I spending making sure I have my shit together, running a company, and folding my clothes, and taking out recycling, its difficult to take the time to remember how much I love the feeling of a pen in my hand, and the words themselves, and the exercise of potential embarrassment every time I share these things without a caveat.

In honor of the fact that every time I check an astrological report, theres a bit of retrograding in the air (come on Mercury,too?), here goes nothing....

Magic 

or laziness, disappointed by my lack of genius, 

settling for a lackluster study and a dimly-lit love,

There's no salt or sweat

after one a.m. Our sticky skin

at night. Now it becomes fall and

the fear is dull and heavy like

the early evening curtain. Dead leaves

on the floor from the flowers you

left. Crunching underwood when my throat

is dry from not talking. 

Outside, the puddles from the first

cold rain sit

while the mosquitos hover above

my legs as if they know how I light

my candles every night, praying for the

flames to recognize a light inside

my own grey

matter.