But SF Gate’s Mark Morford is just a big happy slice of reading pleasure. I look forward to Wednesdays and Fridays because of him. I never thought I’d thank a columnist, but…

But here’s the thing: The wise ones tell us that whatever you focus on, expands. Wherever you direct you attention and wherever you put your energy and your heart and your concern, that thing will suddenly seem bigger and more important and potentially all-consuming.

I love the moments of random elucidation. Of getting it for a second where before, you had no idea that you didn’t even get it. Or didn’t get it as much as you do now. An entire universe just materialized that has always been there, but we were wearing blinders or the fat folds were flopping over our eyes and we just didn’t see it there before. Probably bumped up all alongside it, but nary a sniff of the pleasure.

I just had a little whiff.
But it’s personal.
And I’ll talk about the thing in general, but not about it.
Because I don’t even know how to.

Had I the discipline and the fkking balls to write when it hit me, I would have an entirely different post than I’m writing right now, in the sobering hours afterwards when the experience is a trail of dust particles mixed with glitter across my accessible memory-scape. Because you know, whole continents of my memory are no longer accessible. Turned into nougat-filled gray areas that spark at random but not in production.

What I don’t understand is why you can’t get it more often and why I so rarely keep it after I’ve been shown. Why I can’t stay in the refreshingness of an illumination or treat it as a lessoned learned and actually remember it (or remember to apply it)? Why I need Newton’s apple to fall on my head and remind me of the actual laws of existence over the laws of my invention? It’s the most frustrating, foul thing I figuratively repel down the face of. Instead of a sponge, my brain is a rain slicker.
And the rain is, always, a language I haven’t yet learned.

And the fact that I love when petit revelations come, in this case, doesn’t make me appreciate them more for the clouded times, where I live, where they have me wait whole months with no communiqué. Not for the sake of relishing them more do I love them, not in the name of any Theories of Opposites. I love them because I know that they’re rabbit holes, long ones, The China Syndrome, that they open up new worlds of understanding and hopefully then investigation, that I want them way more often, that I want life to be more of that.

I’d like the dreaming to be stylings of reality rather than distractions from it.

I’m so sick of our addictions to everything and of the results of those addictions clouding our vision, stuffing our ears with cotton and weighing us down with empty packing bubbles. I’m so sick of my own. Of our Ambien-twirlings in the royal court of our little individual snow globe lives. Where is the Vision, the clear day, the sharp breeze, CURIOSITY? And why isn’t it automatic? It’s like, just try, Lauren. I know we’re accustomed to the lives that we’ve built, to the things that we tell ourselves that we are, to my constant protestations and my same old style, but I wish we’d cut those harnesses and let them fall away from us.

That’s my rub, that I don’t get it all the time.
That I always think I know what I’m talking about, then later realize that I’m a bonafide horse’s ass. In girl flesh though but still with a pony-tail.

I’ve learned how important sleep is, how its loss affects my entire world. I’m learning how important happiness is, how its presence changes absolutely everything and how life is about that. That it’s one of The Mysteries.

That if I knew how to maintain my own happiness, I could fix everything with him.

I don’t want to spend my 27^th year inspecting myself in the mirror like I spent the first 26. I don’t want the flaws memorized and the lines etched and the fear innate and the connections unsure, the breath stolen and the impressions manipulated and the inventions believed and the hands cut off and the cycle not felt. For there to be massaging of the circumstances at all, whatsoever, regardless of how you might react or where you might take it because that’s your thing and not my realm. I don’t want to get into the conspiracies at work. I don’t want to engage frustration. I don’t want to choose the right words. I don’t want to consider…anything anymore.

What I do want my 27^th year to be about is energy and inertia. I want my perspective smacked, my complaints not tolerated, a better pair of eyes and probably the purchase of more dresses. I want to learn how to be completely honest. I want it to be about getting it more and not feeling like my expectations are selfish. I want it to be about talent discovery.

So that by its close, instead of saying I want, I’ll be saying, I am.