Being Impatient.

Waiting is something I don’t do well. I’m a little prone to impatience. Seems I expect everybody else to apply levels of priority that accord with my own, and I expect everybody else to be as impulsive as I am and go into freefall alongside me.

Pretty unrealistic and unreasonable, no? Pretty damn stupid.

So here I am again, connecting with my old friend John Barleycorn and making a post that I will probably want to delete in the morning.

Karen Mattheson’s Breisleach says it all. The mire and the mountain top that madness makes manifest.

I’ll be off to bed soon. To sleep, perchance to dream of gambolling cows and lollopy dogs. Good word, lollopy.

So many disconnected phrases and statements and questions and speculations flooding through this unbalanced mind at the moment. They keep asking me to write them down, but that would be embarrassing. Especially if it turns out that they're not disconnected. Life seems intent upon pushing me along the fast lane at the moment and I love her crazily for it, but a part of me wishes she understood that I have trouble finding the brake pedal. It all comes down to who or what is in control here. And a line from a favourite Dylan song just insisted on being heard:

And the princess and the prince discuss
What's real and what is not.