[Morning Freewrite]
This morning I look out the window to snow.  Big fat fluffy flakes falling.
Slowly and far apart.  They are not going to accumulate, perhaps, but they
are enough to remind me that I am in Pennsylvannia, not California.  I wish
for winter.  It is, perhaps, the best season of the year.  When suddenly
things are not what they seemed before.

I had a dream last night about a mountain.  Katahdin like it rose above
treeline with ice-rimed slopes waiting for me to tread on them.  Several
times I went up to it intending to climb it and several times I reached the
base of the rocks and decided that I was not yet ready to ascend.  A storm
was brewing in the background and as I descended the second time snow was
beginning to fall on the icy ground.

There was a part of the dream where I was in a machine.  A toy that Kevin
Lussie had.  A kind of truck that ran on tracks but you sat on it like a
motorcycle.  It could do things like rear up so you had a view of the
world.... But it seemed you were always in danger of falling off.

I think the important things in my life right now all revolve around hiking.
The people I have met and like, the things I like to do.... Actually;
independent travelling.  Hiking is one that has little overhead.  Skiing is
another.  So these sports I like to indulge in because they mean I can set
off into the wilderness without too many look backs.

What was it that I was doing here yesterday?  I was complaining about how I
never do things?  I think the new bottle of Saint John's Wort doesn't work
as well as the former one.  I feel depression worrying in from time to time.
It's beginning to get me moody.  Nothing so bad as before I hiked Trail, but
still not ideal.  Still less than I am willing to tolerate in myself.  I
suppose I need to switch back.  Am I just to cheap-skate to do that?
[End Morning FreeWrite]

Last night I wrote severalback-of-the-envelope poems.  I don't know how they
should be formatted yet, but here's the text:

coffee
I can feel your venemous loops
passing through my veins when
will the silent screaming fetal
curled nightmare end?

Please
Please help me, I'm broken.  A sodden feeling.  Of weight.  Of weight.  I
can't lift my head.  Ground against the dirt.  Harpy digits dig into my
back.  Please help me, I'm broken.

And this morning:

sexuality
repression becomes acceptance
grow into the light

Am I writing more now because I'm making time for it?  Or because I've just
decided to write more?

I've been doing a lot of stuff with.php now.  It looks like my new poem
gallery is looking pretty good by now.  Should be simple to add more things.
Maybe I should look into being able to include a text file verbatim, though.