I Hate Messes

All the dark tires have been pounding the snow and ice into a dirty, oily mess.  The sky has called in reinforcements.  More white flakes fall, hurrying to cover the evidence of how disgusting and dirty humans are.  Trying in vain to cover up the pulverized gray of a chemical, soulless habit.

(Don’t let my husband know what I think about driving.  A Singer 911 has stolen his heart.  Maybe his soul.)

Cars just seem so incredibly dirty and out of place in such a beautiful world.  But I feel that way about a lot of houses and buildings and especially signage.  Humans build with no thought of how their haphazard creation will blend (or not) with the environment.  Well…some humans anyway.  Aesthetics are a luxury of the pocketbook and the imagination.  Meanwhile, strip malls and four lanes turn an erstwhile forest into a hot mess.

When Ambition Fails

When I finally get a mind to work and I begin to really focus, a defense mechanism hums to life and after a series of mysterious clunks, my brain says “No.”

All the little idea clouds keep floating along, picking up speed but then suddenly collide with a brick wall that wasn’t there before.

“No.”

“But I want to do this!  I want to develop a platform for the next two books and I want to cleverly brand myself and I want to harness the science of imagery…”

“No.”

“Okay.  I’ll just watch Buffy until you decide to work again.”

Rebellion

Why is it so difficult for me to stick to the traditional small stone format (brief description of a thing)?  Is it because I view the world differently? (An interrelated web of lives and things and feelings and energies.)  Or am I just bad at describing “things” and I know it?

It’s like trying to move the ring finger independently of the other fingers.  It’s not just a weak muscle in me…it’s formed differently.  It will never work beyond its own parameters of interdependence.   Or will it?

Or is it because small stones are somewhat boring to me?  I can get lost just watching water boil or a flower open.  I’m easily absorbed in observing but I seem to have this serious aversion to describing what I’m observing strictly in terms of the thing.  It seems much grander to me to talk about the feeling it invokes or the way it lends itself to another idea or thing.

There is a chance I am truly mad.

My Guardian Angel

A thought crosses my mind.  As a soul ascends through the unknown echelons of being, suppose once it reaches a certain density and bliss of being, it turns back to its former self to guide and protect when its asked.  Suppose our guardian angels are ourselves?

True simultaneity occurs and as I posit the question to myself, I feel my awareness drop down into my heart and there is the enigmatic feeling of seeing myself from both points in space and time.  It’s like warp ten.  The improbability drive.  My consciousness is momentarily split between worlds but somehow in both and I feel a great undying, unconditional love for myself.  (No typical easy feat with all the self-doubt and shame of three dimensional living.)  There is also a sudden sob of gratitude for the safe harbour of this momentary knowing that I am always here, watching over myself.  Because when it comes right down to it, I simply would not trust anyone else to the task.  No God, no angels, no spirits.  My inner and outer worlds are mine and mine alone.  No one would be better prepared than myself.  Is this some exaggerated form of narcissism or does it make sense?

A passing thought.  A mystical experience.

The Brightest Shade Of Pink

I almost missed the most spectacularly deep sunset because my house has unfortunate awnings that block the view of the sky.  The shade of pink was like an Indian wedding.  Vibrant and irrepressibly sensuous.  I couldn’t stop looking until it had faded and my tea across the room got cold.

Purrrrrr

Sometimes, this feeling

twisting up from that place,

intertwined up through my ribs

pumping juice, euphoria

into my heart.

my core smoldering

a secret power,

intoxicating

sensuous bliss

reaching up for the higher chakras

all the time whispering softly

“you are a woman”

 

Benny

A sleeping creamsicle cat.   An apostrophe of self-sufficient warmth, short little tail tucked and stretching towards the cold little nose, seeking sanctuary under the white paws.  Eyes closed.  Brow furrowed at some enigmatic feline dream that sends the ears and whiskers twitching.

Frontal Shift

Yesterday had all the birdsong and promise of spring, with temperatures soaring into the 60’s and most of the snow cover melted.  There was an extra energy to the day…an uncharacteristic feeling of motivation and glad augury.  All I could think of was gardening.

This morning while sitting in a chair and gazing out at the clouds, something deep shifted and suddenly it felt like winter again.  Everything looked exactly the same but the promise had gone out of the air.  I even stepped outside to test the air, expecting it to suddenly be cold again.  But it wasn’t.  And yet somehow, it was.  Inside me, at least.  The weather says a cold front’s coming and winter is returning to us.  I’m feeling it already.

So Many Things I Want To Say To You

I find out things with my sister are worse than I thought.  My heart sinks and a part of me instantly goes to work building a wall inside.  This is what I do.  I protect myself with distance.  And with pretending it doesn’t matter that much.  But this is an old defense.  One that I barely pay any attention to any more.  I figure if starved for attention, it might bugger off and go away.  Because I’m desperate and no wall can cover that up.  I remember the dire hopelessness of youth before I knew how to make myself better.  My emotions would swallow me whole and there was nothing but the despair and my anger that it consumed me so completely.  I never guessed it could be any other way, even though people would tell me so.  I never believed them.  Never even entertained the possibility.  I was my emotions.  I’m desperate to tell her these things.

It’s hard to pinpoint how it changed and I honestly didn’t even remember that version of myself until this thing with my sister brought it all up to the surface.  I want to help her know it can be different.  I want her to learn how to claw her way up through the mud to the top of the pit and how to stand at the top with a defiant triumph in her heart and a sneer on her lips for the pit that thought it could contain her.  I want her to know that feeling of intoxication when she first realizes how infinitely powerful she is.  That feeling doesn’t last.  But you never, ever forget it.  And it’s memory is enough to kindle the fight in you when the next thing comes and swallows you up.  You almost forget how you conquered the world.  You almost let that silly little thing eclipse your entire being and trick you into feeling small.  But then you remember the time you stood at the mouth of your pit, laughing down at it because it thought it could beat you.

Jon

The physical sensation of a particular bad memory:  Thinking of Jon and how much he loved me and hurt me at the same time.  Wondering why.  Still wondering why after all these years and then with a little shock I realize I’m staring directly at a picture of a bowl of cherries.  That was my name.  He called me Cherry.  The cruel coincidence seems to pull all the blood from my fingertips and my lips while my stomach clenches into an immediate churn.  A nanosecond later, the blood that was pulled to the core, rises up to my head and the heat of it burns my ears as I realize, this is anger I’m feeling.