I am here to do the Sunday routine of rounding up all the disparate journal entries of the week and gathering them into one form. Making a cursory note of where I have been over this week, where I will go over next. (Click through here to read more about it.) I did a cursory neaten this am. The porch has become a kind of playground for Nat and I find the remnants of offices and stores and orphanages tucked into the corners. There is plenty of our adult toys tucked in the corners that I feel the need to round up all of her kid ones and return them to her room. And then it is so ahhh in here that I can work. So now I type and I get to the moment that I am typing and I finally get to the word cake/slave. If I am a slave, let me be a slave to this moment. The one where my ankle aches and I have a kink beneath one shoulder blade, different side, shoulder right, ankle left. I am a slave to this body with its human limitations, aches and pains, fears and obsessions, are they mind or body are they a combination of both? I am no slave to my fears and obsessions. I will mark them and let them spin out before me, worst case scenarios, feeling every twist and turn in their twirling possibilities. And then my best case scenarios, equally as hard to muster the strength for, to see them with my weak and near sighted eyes. Why are they so hard to pull up, fantastic situations where my shoulders are relaxed down my back and the line of light rises from the ground up? Think and see and speak in stories. Think and see and FEEL and speak in stories. Think and see and feel and speak and WRITE in stories.