Sunday, June 20, 2010

Mellow Yellow

I generally dislike yellow. Typing it, I've oversimplified the word even - what a curious assembly of letters, a rolling syllabic duo. Lately I've either cured my aversion or put it into retirement.

A yellow scarf, t-shirt, nail polish, dress, and quart of paint now adorning two furniture pieces. Like the Yellow page of a child's learning book, all these similar items assimilated into one unlikely place - with me.

Little yellow tokens of my willingness to embrace New and move forward, perhaps. Maybe like taste buds changing with age, my visual taste is changing the accepted layers of deliciousness; I'm merely experimenting with parameter expansion. The yellow furniture came on a whim, I just pulled a card at Home Depot. It worked with the burgundy and green tones. Done deal. New furniture. Bingo. Fresh, change. It fits perfectly.

Admittedly reluctant to embark on the JH Gypsy Excursion v. Summer 2010. I'm happy here and now - Florida made me deliriously, delightfully appreciative of dry air, wildflowers, topography, melting snowpack and everything that is late springtime Wasatch. Maybe I'm buying yellow faith and courage, attempting to transport these wildflowers and this feeling with me in my travels. I've never in my life drug my feet like this - I guess it's partially due to how deeply I've tread these familiar places over time. And I'm a little tired of the process of vagrancy - sucking in breath for upheaval, building momentum. Getting there.

I'm finishing the remodel just in time to drop everything, hop state lines and relocate myself. That's like taking the gift from under the tree, unveiling it from the wrapping, seeing the photo on the outside of the box but leaving the scene without actually opening it or playing with the contents. God willing, the house will still be here upon my return. I'll absorb the newness of it all fully when the CFS of the Salmon drops and the huckleberries have been plucked into shriveled oblivion.

Still moved by an undying thirst in need of quenching. Just moving slow this time around, my youthful affections grown into deep and abiding love. I've sown wild oats in passionate, girlish whims over the course of the past summers. Sweet, perennial fields wait now... to be danced in. Slow dance, this time.


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