Mantra

I suppose I should be emulating Samuel Coleridge and writing my own opiate-induced epic poem before the good stuff wears off... but my muse doesn't work in that way. Vicodin has completely failed to invoke Kublai Khan, pleasure domes or, really, anything. Unless I shouldn't be able to hear colors.

I can't tell.

As for my muse, she's asleep. After working her usual wonders with the kids and taking care of me as I tried to form words and gum some eggs for dinner, she's all funned out and is sleeping the sleep of the just.

I tried to find my inner island of peace and sanctuary during some rather un-fun dental work today, and I completely failed. The immediacy and proximity of the surgical instruments, and the method in which they were being employed to exact payment for past sins... it jarred me back, all too aware of what was going on.
The only image that I could focus on that would stay through all of the noise and pain was Tammy. Not surprising, as she's always been there for me through the chaos, mess and insanity of my everyday life.

Here's to good women with endless patience, beauty and the ability to cope with it all, with astounding grace and love.

I'm running out of pillars to put under her.