I will never judge you.

A message to all those of similar hearts, with love from gracious LOOM:

As long as I am living,
and for much time afterwards,
if my name or mouth or sound resides in the ears or minds or hearts of another
living
aching
blundering
body...

I will never ever judge anyone.
I will never ever judge you.

We all want to be loved.
We all want to be held.
We all want to spout and feel free to do so,
intermittently and spasmodically,
we ache to be filled
and spilled-
our minds are vessels for real light,
so let's have them!

Let us relish in their delights because without a
thinking
aching
blundering
being that is US-
what do we have but an empty void longing to be filled with pretty pain
hopeful sorrow
beautiful longing?
(And what a crusty world that would be!)

I trust you
and I trust others
and I think that because of which,
my mind is okay with just spouting a mile a minute and not really thinking about it
or re-reading the text I write
and it doesn't matter who you spout to
or who cares to listen
it is the knowing that someone is looking when you are not-
and someone is caring when you think impossibilities-
and there is always someone out there
searching
for the exact same...

we all are
at different times of the day,
but we all are.
(everyday)

I will admit it took me so long to get to this point,
but I am here.
And living...
and you...
you are too.


(You are there though,
I know this about you.)

I think you are one of the most beautiful beings I have ever met
and it didn't even take you saying a word to me for me to realize such.
You are effervescence in a candled jar.
You are glowing my room from here,
and have for a while.

I think this is half of the reason why I am
ACHING
drawn to you.
The other half is not-knowing and that is the best of
best.

Your mind is so powerful
you don't even have to write
or speak
or see faces-

You just are
and I will always believe it.

Burden box meets inspiration.

Dear Jonathan,

How divine it was to see you. I didn't know what to say.

You could have written another novel while I watched you speak in those chairs so lucidly.

I almost forgot to look at eyes instead of your perfect spectacles. I should have shaken your hand.

But you signed my book and I hoped to keep my distance, however I wished your magnificence contagious.

You took the envelope willingly and I am so greatful. Did you get it in the mail that one time I sent it to you? In which case you'll have two. And you can give it to Nicole while I read her novel just as well.

Thank you for the beautiful realities you've created and truths you've shared.

Be well, Jonathan.

I'm sorry I've been slow on the box work. Burden Box will be closing in a month and it would lovely to get just one more letter, even if it's not from you, but how delightful it would be. Don't tell me if you do or don't. You've done plenty enough already.

Cordially,

Burden Box Project

[Readers: recall, inspiration from Joseph Cornell, A Convergence of Birds edited by Jonathan Safran Foer and earlier entry.]

Another catharsis.

Jar tucked under the bed for the lame things I obsess over.

The jar as the preist in the confession booth.

Except this is optional and I choose to spill than retain.

Children like letters too.

[It's funny because she wasn't at school at all; she was at camp.]

[A lovely make-shift envelope to some just as lovely.]

Less than two months remaining.

My mailbox expires October 31 and then I'll have to give up the pretty key.

I have an aim, and that is to receive just one more submission before this date.

So just a reminder...

You do not need one of these envelopes [!]; by all means, use a plain one.

Be well all.

[boxes 3 and 4 in progress simultaneously.]

A thimble, not nimble correspondence.

Thimble reciever:

There's a little thimble on the table beside me.

It's got many ways about it and holes hardly porous - having been poked alot. Decrepit and platonic, but never finger worn.

Too tight and asymmetrical.
Pretending to function; functional for appearances.
Traveling in purses and bags along side crumbs and mints.
How natural it is to get lost beside its surroundings.

Not to catch tears, not to drink in reconciliation, but rather to fill with an interminable flood of infatuation. It will jump and flip in the excitement of anticipated filling. And how fast it will drown in its contents. Alas thimbles don't breathe!

(filled and overflowed)

It's a listless swimming with an addictive rhythm. The passive versus the penetrating. So grounded to the table of cautious passion. So careful as to worry the inevitability of its tipping.

(tips)

Still enveloped, surrounded, covered in the sediments laying on its side - a hopeful side that can only crumble and sogg. And a year will pass this way trying to get back up. The safe place before the flood. Establishing its larger base finally, all light-headed. A recovery quite unrecognizable but thimble thinks itself stable.

Already impatient.
Willing to dance and dive and be permeated.
All over again.

...
How weary it will be.
Tip, tip, so quick.
The only time I'm no Lorris. The only time I'm rapid.

I'll wait in silence dreading the very idleness that is the answer.

The rain and the city's rustle will take the place of that silence just as well. And I'll hope that the wet droplets will spare me 'from all emergencies of passion and fill me [only] with the spongy serenity of a lack of appetite.'

Two months and a year.

Thimble, you'd make a better key chain.

Thimble giver:

dear thimble, you snubbed and berated the tiny fake top hat, terrier, iron, boot, car, ship, plough, and wagon and dreamed of fulfilling your dreams and proper usage over the phony recreational representation. you were disappointed at the initial result of your freedom (albeit captively) when you were selected over the real thimble to be given as a gift token to someone else. what do you ultimately miss?
the poor thimble will never find belonging.

dear thimble, you served more of a purpose when you were alongside your classically unrelated Monolopy pawns.
you were stolen, and sat beside what you emulated - belonging? diminishment? you were given away, with the illusion that you held meaning, contempt, and served as more-or-less a symbol of what which you are neither.
on your own, you are useless. hardly forgotten, you are told.

but go ahead, compare yourself to others, dream about being a real thimble, being stabbed over and over, protecting someone else from harm.
go ahead, live in the past, dream about collecting dust in an attic inside a cardboard boxed set, growing old with the ones you say you loved.
or rather, go ahead, accept living in the gutter, make a home within the depths of a travelling purse, living in fear of being dumped at any minute.
dear thimble, you will never know or stop to fathom that people admire you, and spend time writing tributes to you. you are put on an illusionary pedestal that is so high it's practically sarcastic.

Dead letter.

Dead letter mail or undeliverable mail is mail that cannot be delivered to the addressee or returned to the sender. This is usually due to lack of compliance with postal regulations, an incomplete address and return address, or the inability to forward the mail when both correspondents move before the letter can be delivered. Largely based on the British model that emerged in the late eighteenth century, many countries developed similar systems for processing undeliverable mail.

- Wiki

I think I think I think a little too often.