Notes from the Red Bird House

I liked today. In fact, I've liked the last several days. Hmm... Let me count. Alright, I've liked the last week. The entire last week. Granted a week isn't a very long time, but I refuse to let that fact diminish my liking of it. A blind curve. I'd wanted one for so long - a change, a super cool, amazingly positive change - but I'd given up waiting for it. I drudged through work, school, writing, and tennis without ever knowing that in one moment, one teeny-tiny moment that nearly didn't happen, my life was going to change. It's nothing I wished for or imagined I could possibly want. Yet.... Suddenly, I found myself drowning in an unexpected and inescapable beauty. And blue. Yes, blue. A haunting, distracting, perfect blue that seemed hell-bent on reaching into my soul. I tried to look away. I did. But found I couldn't. I just couldn't. Beauty and blue. My downfall. And my fear. First instinct - Stay. Second instinct - Run. Decision - Head Fir...

'Judge not, lest ye be judged". I think I got that right. I suck at the Bible and as an atheist, I don't see myself getting any better at it. The phrase came to mind tonight and I'm going with it. If it's a misquote so be it. I don't worry much about being judged. Which is probably a good thing given that I've been judged a lot. A lot. A lot A lot. Because I'm this, I'm that. Because I do this, and shouldn't, I'm this, that, and the other thing. I should like men, accept Jesus Christ as my Savior, stop cursing, eat fewer donuts and more cheeseburgers, drink less or more (depending on one's perspective), live in a better neighborhood, like to read, drive a better car, stop sleeping with married women, be more ambitious, give to charity, blah, blah, blah. Keep in mind that I'm not breaking any laws. No one is saying that I should kill fewer people or steal less. Yet I am consistently and constantly guilty of something. What's the b...

I have a secret and I'm not telling. Not this time. This time it's mine. All mine. Well, I guess it's not all mine. Ok, so half of it's mine. She is free to tell. At least the part of the story that's hers. My story, my part... the part that I'm not telling, that's mine. My secret. I do love a secret. Mine, not other people's. Other people's secrets come with fear and worry and a bunch of what ifs. What if I spill it? What if I forget it's a secret? What if it slips out? What if I tell? What if I suddenly turn into a shitty friend? I don't like those secrets. But my secret... I love it. Because it's mine. My secret has power, it's own subtle yet insistent power. Sometimes it begs me to tell, but then what would I have? Nothing. The sly, denying smile would fade, the butterflies would flutter off. It's power would be gone. It would begin to tarnish. Someone would ruin it. So, I'm holding on. What's mine is mine. And r...