b e a n s t a l k . r e a l i t y.
The older I get the less I believe in reality, which is not real, and the more I believe in fantasy, which is no longer fantasy.
A friend gave me a drawstring pouch yesterday filled with dirty one dollar coins. Just like in Robin Hood.
I adore it. He told me to buy a pizza. How could you spend treasure on such a beast? Nay, I say. I will spend it on notions.
I also hope to acquire (now) a similar drawstring pouch filled with beans, that I may throw out on any occasion that pleases me. Walking down the street. Driving through the country. Jumping on the bed. Wishes, you see.
I am very good at wishing on things.
I wish on pennies, I wish on dandelions, I wish on stars, I wish on time, I wish on magic, I wish on superstition, I wish on the way his breath intakes. It couldn't hurt anything to add beanstalks to the mix.
When baby is born I resolve never to stop sewing grass and flowers on the ceiling, or to planting stars in the ground. Not at 6 months, not at 2 years, not at 5, 7, 12, 15, 18 and then some.
We'll construct the world together, we three, playing our soundtracks, telling our stories, lighting the paths we stumble down. Fireflies in palms, pockets out turned, nothing but light on our breaths.
And I don't care for the people who can't speak this language.
For the people who left Neverland and are indignant at those that didn't.
Because they are not real, either.
And their reality is not ours.
I can't believe that every day I break down another grey brick wall.
Smash it to smithereens with a wish, a kiss.
To let the fields spill out.
I can't believe how easy it's gotten to find what's real and what's not.
To make flowers rain down from above.
It's pretty beautiful to be this way.
A true back-stroking from God.