Are you sleeping... are you sleeping... brother William... brother William?

No I am not sleeping. I wish that I was sleeping. Have to post. Have to post.

This sick, man does it linger. Now my body is racked in coughing and just oh so very sleepy. I plan to do nothing this weekend but lay and sleep and read and write and sleep more. I'm hoping I can kick this thing by Monday and return to some semblance of health by next week.

Work? Don't ask.

Still, being sick means that the earth continues to turn. This is Imbolc, one of the most holy for me, and I've celebrated it by launching blackwingedboy.

The rules of the new journal are simple. This is a place for me to write in the universe that I see and experience and live in every day, the one that holds my spirit and my belief. You, of course, can choose to believe anything you'd like to after reading. The entries won't all be complete stories or scenes. The entries will sometimes, maybe very often, not make much sense past a general abstraction. The entries will never be about me, unless I play some cameo part in them. The entries may come daily or monthly, or randomly as they wish to. They may be very flowy or sparse and staccato, or poetry, or pictures. I am not in control of the entries. I just do what they want.

I've enabled commenting, but I'm not enabling myself to respond to comments. That's because that journal is not of me, nor do I want it to be of me. It's my little tribute to the most important thing in my life, on a night where it shines brightly.

And it's the launch of the first of my yearly projects.

So, happy Imbolc. Think good thoughts of me and those you know who are sick or having a hard time of things this month. We promise to do the same for you.

Beannacht Leat.