whimsy and suspicion

If my posting habits lately have been any indication, you may note that my brain is working on overload (even I have trouble keeping up with how often I've posted). The need to output “information” has been vital (although it’s not vital information) because there has been so much input lately, and my brain is a slow computer. I can remember three things at once, tops. Maybe four. After that, give me my day planner or my calendar or a pen to write on my arm with; or, of course - for any thought too big to fit on a 'to do' list, give me my blog. Once I have a thought or a theory, or come across something I deem to be exciting, onto the blog it goes. Whether I’m ranting and raving (politely, of course), drawing horribly amateur doodles as a mode of personal therapy, or telling you things you probably already know – I have lost the ability to keep it all in. In fact, it has become a part of my pre-conscious instinct to write it down; usually here. Like an electronic version of show and tell.


…I appreciate that you come back here to see what the day has brought my mind, and what my mind has done with it. In fact, I may love you for it. But I’ll save my odes and poems for Valentines Day (a day typically used to exchange these types of flattery).

In the meantime, I would like to acknowledge a fact: at times, I make no sense.

I made a comment yesterday (on another venue for personal thought) that sounded something like this: “I am holding hands with Whimsy, and I am loving it.” In saying this, I must admit I had a wee moment of self-satisfaction. There is a little nerd inside of me – let’s call her Mildred or Gracie or June (or maybe there are three?) – who likes to say things that won’t make sense to anyone else. “I am so poetic” she states with pride, pushing her glasses up with one index finger. This joy usually ends, however, when someone actually makes a comment like, “Um, what?” In this case, my mom came to the rescue of my flailing ability to communicate with normal words and said, “Elaborate, please.”


Elaborate!? cried Millie.
Elaborate!? repeated June, with a bit more emphasis.
Does this thought not speak for itself?? said Gracie, aghast.


“No; no it doesn’t,” said everyone else within earshot.

Now, I don't think my mom meant to set off the little nerds in my chest cavity (pipe down Millie). You'll have to forgive the girls mom; they're a bit moody. To explain the thought I will say this: I suppose that I enjoy turning things that aren’t things into Things. Like whimsy. It’s not actually possible to hold hands with whimsy (unless, of course, Whimsy was an actual person’s name. Dreadful thought). But yesterday as I dreamt about the things I dream about, my little heart started to pitter patter its way toward the clouds – and it was then that I realized: I was holding hands with Whimsy.


That didn’t make any sense. says Mille.
You are entirely gone, aren’t you? confirms June.
Gracie, at last, has no words to add.


Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date.

With Whimsy.