Gardening in Pajamas
I yam what I yam — a twittle

Who says I can’t wear pajamas weeding beds or watering sweet dreams? Nightmare shed, my song self I don – truth wakes wide-eyed.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
I’ve never attended Burning Man and have no desire to, but I love the festival’s concept of “radical self-expression.”
An example: often I garden in my pajamas.
Invariably, my neighbor Arlene will slap her knee in amusement if she catches me at this. Others overtly disapprove.
Which until very recently led me to think twice before heading outdoors, donned in flannels and a puffer vest.
Yet who says the club called humankind has to have a dress code? You wear your jeans or sweats; my inner Popeye — I’m working on embracing my male psyche, Rebecca Romanelli — will wear whatever the fuck he feels like.
I’m shedding the nightmare of others’ edicts and becoming what mystics call my true self so I can sing, sing, sing…
The Adventure continues.
Thank you, Carolyn Hastings, for introducing me to twittles — small, incredibly frustrating (sometimes) poems of 100 letters, not characters. Thank you, Lucy Dan 蛋小姐 (she/her/她), for providing a home for this ‘noodling’ on authenticity.
And thank you, dearest readers, for pondering with me.
