turn me loose

wondering, wondering … 
if you're wondering too

six-seven (as without the electronic ears the residual natural ears no longer can distinguish between “fifty-seven” and “sixty-seven”, I plea for patience) and ninety-four percent on 7H porch, windy up here above the clouds looking up, across and down upon earth, sky and sea, and Monday seems cleared now, evidence of blowing rain through the night judging that the porch rail is wet and, from the rail, standing water on the floor two or three feet back. Appears a day to walk, a morning for the walk. Between my away schedule and Robert’s exhausting worknights, at least couple weeks have elapsed since our last walk in the Cove. 

Speaking of, a long and longing one, part of that dream seems to have been in the front yard of the house where I grew up in the Cove, and on the boundary between my front yard and the one next door. There’s no touching in these dreams, close but distance, no touching: recently I read, maybe while on the cruise last week, that if the right brain and the left brain are surgically separated, each brain continues its own individual functioning such that one might be two distinctive beings, and I wonder if they would struggle, fight, and drive each other insane? 

Sitting here typing with the right hand and therefore left brain in control, I’m curious, almost anxious about, and certainly quite suspicious about, what’s lurking up there in the right brain and being suppressed during my waking hours. 

Here’s the thing: when I started first grade at Cove School, and we were learning to write, practicing handwriting with chalk on the blackboard, I wrote with my left hand then switched to my right hand as the writing passed in front of me. Apparently, based on the fact that the first day in school when our teacher had held up a yardstick and told me to kick at it I had kicked with my right foot, Ms. Violet Hayward had decided I was right-handed (I actually remember the moment of the kick seventy-five years ago), the teacher made me stop writing with my left hand and stick to the right hand. In later years, learning a bit about right-brain left-brain differences, traits, and functions, I’ve wondered who and what I would, might, have been had I been allowed to be left-handed as at times has seemed more natural for me; i.e., what’s  up there that is still longing to be free, and is it possible or likely that the real Bubba escapes in dreams while the left brain is asleep. Paul in prison when the earthquake swings the doors open, his chains fall off; and waking, the guard panics. There’s a hymn isn’t there, Charles Wesley, the fourth stanza, 
“Long my imprisoned spirit lay, 
fast bound in sin and nature's night; 
thine eye diffused a quickening ray; 
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light; 
my chains fell off, my heart was free, 
I rose, went forth …” 

... maybe Wesley wrote that puzzling bit of verse in frustration and protest of the left brain’s tyranny. 

Anyway, here am I -- Brer Rabbit fighting to get free of the TarBaby and screaming "turn me loose" while Brer Fox laughs -- send me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9svyIqwbOg

DThos+

images pinched online