in the space between
any given stimulus
and your response
lies the power to choose
which vibrational route
your destiny pursues

He thinks he knows me
Like a book he reads.

But God, must I feel
For the metaphors,
The magic, the depth
And the world between the lines
Left unseen...


-- Eleanor

I cannot read between the lines
You own them,
For they are not mine
To twist and turn and compromise
So tell me, do you think it's wise
To make me read between the lines?

The mind is the greatest obstacle that stands between us and happiness.

Too old to be a child
Too young for adulthood
Society's no man's land
and yet here I stand

If you can really love someone one day and say straight to their face that you still love them unchanged after you parted ways for many years, what do the people in the middle get? What do the people in between the year you took a break and the year you meet again have left for them?

Oh! A temporary love, right?

The kind of love that you call "less," when you feel you have no other choice and you can't live a day alone so you settled for it.

And when a better option shows up as your old and true love comes back, it is the love that you can easily drop, the love that you easily get tired of, the love that you regret at the end, the love that you take for granted.

And behind that love, are persons-- dropped, regretted, and taken for granted. Right?

I don't know how I met you. Inspired.
It's like you appeared out of the thin air.
Newly created...

I held my own, just barley,
As you looked at me, across your dinner table at mid day or earlier.
Like it was early in the morning even though it wasn't.
Fresh and geeky, tidy and neat, And on a mission!
You smiled, laughed and winced in my general direction.
I answered your questions, one worded like.
You answered mine before I even asked, I was mystified.
You're like a feather, from a native chiefs head dress,
Dipped in ink,
Then blown onto a piece of paper made of pure flexible gold,
Written into existence by divine inscription.
Dawson Creek...

I made a sculpture. Five so far,
I cut my thumb, multiple times on this one, multiple times.
Sorry. To number five and to myself,
Bad skills, bad counter-pressure,
Blood, scars, band-aids.
Blood on five, scars on me,
Pouce Coupe...

Between for me equals the space between,
Between Dawson Creek and Grand Prairie,
Like Pouce Coupe, is "cut thumb", in french.
A mother tongue language of somewhere in me, undiscovered.
English is my Papa tongue, the language of, "let's get things done!"
Both pretty good. One definitely more productive! Go!
Pouce Coupe, the undiscovered middle ground.
A french name for an English town.
Pouce Coupe...

Like this sculpture,
Art from the space between, Like the memory of you,
My "lost" friends,
Memories like driving there and home again.
Through memory lane.
It's like Pouce Coupe, the memory of you.
Like the scar, the cut thumb, the memories good and all my bad.
And somewhere in between I'll meet you all again,
Most likely in "Pouce Coupe".
The unpredictable space between,
Pouce Coupe...