What I Really Want

What I really want, without doubt, is to go back to sleep right now. I have been awake since 2:30 a.m., and I am getting nothing accomplished. Some wild hair wants me to go ahead and get up, take a shower, eat and all that fun awake stuff. But I refuse.

Sure, in a few weeks, when the time changes, it will be time to get up now, but I am holding out. Between the shitty job done at the Oscars, and the Sequester; I simply refuse to face reality right now. But don't panic...I am still taking my anti-evil pill. Otherwise I would turn into someone that belongs in Slytherin House.

I saw a post in Facebook today, from a republican friend, who says, 'Who give a rat's rear end about the Sequester? Why shouldn't government workers lose their jobs like the rest of us have?' Of course, I am loosely translating for her here...That teachers, cops, and firefighters are government workers doesn't seem to register with her. And the most stunning fact: that the Congress won't lose any jobs, is shoved under the door.

However hairy my own background with the police, I really want to have them around during, say, a break-in to my apartment. I would also invite them to any fights that seem to be shaping up in my future. I am not a fighter, per se, and trust in the police to stop the other person before they get to me...and things of that nature.

At least today, I have a reason to get up...my Borderline group is today. I truly enjoy getting together with other people that are human in the same way that I am. It's not a tragedy if there is a whole herd of us. And that pretty much sums up the human condition, ladies and gentlemen. My mental disabilities give me a lot of comfort, after all. Every time something outrageous floats through my head, I can chalk it up to one of my disorders. Since they cover the spectrum of all human emotion and thought, I am never without something to blame my thoughts on...including my creativity.

In other news, the unicorn meat eating cats have accepted the rain in their lives as a part of a spring ritual that they cannot fully fathom. The dog is harder to convince...the cats have litter boxes, after all, while he is stuck going outside without an umbrella. It's amazing how snotty a two year old stray dog can get about being pampered. I blame the cats entirely in his case. They have given the dog their attitude about being waited on and played with and fed properly. And there's no undoing the damage now. Believe me when I tell you that, right now, he is asleep and snoring softly, with his head on a pink satin pillow embroidered with butterflies. It's his favorite...

I just have to face, right now, that 6 a.m. is early afternoon for me. When, what I really want, is to be hours from waking up. 

Budapest

I picked the title for no reason. I have been rolling the word around in my mind for a day or so, and love putting the almost silent "h" at the end. It's the same sound that comes out of a fresh cream puff, when bitten.

I am thinking about reading some of my poetry at Liminal: an Alternative Artspace in Roanoke, this Thursday. The only weight these words carry is the time it has been since I last read. A bit of nerve is required, and the poems themselves, but I am hoping it will inspire me.

I had a creative writing professor long ago, who explained that story telling is the oldest profession. Whatever happened in the dim past was conveyed to others by stories, told at the end of a cold day perhaps, around a fire. As soon as humans could invent an alphabet, off we went, making the audience of the fire circle that much larger. But the writing tradition remains rooted in the oral tradition always. And the reflection of that connection shines in the reading of works out loud.

It's not as if I will be boo'ed off stage either.  But there is a way to read a poem, or short fiction, or any kind of fiction, and it is that, that I am rusty at.

But enough about me...have you ever wanted to go to Budapest? It's an ancient city, and would be mad fun...you know it would. At least that's the thought that I entertain, sitting in a small, cold corner of the world, where the winds are wild over the fields. Of course, there would be coffee and pastries, and glittering lights...

But which poems to read? How about this:

She dresses him
careful
as always. Sends
us out
of the room
as her mother did.
Dressed him
in those clothes he
loved for
his garden.
Bare now
frozen to the ground.

We had discussed
possibilities
that I curl him
into a cardboard crate
bury him
with the cats
in the backyard.

St. Francis standing
just as godlike
as any.

He loved his garden
He loved his garden
He loved his garden

I love the cats
scratching
toes deep
in wood.
While I refuse
to think what
to put in the
pocket of the
father
I love when
he is dressed
in his best.

A Climbing Rose

Hello, All. My mojo is coming in starts and fits at the tag end of winter...the days are slowly getting warmer and longer. It's almost time to change the clocks. I really protest this change of time thingy we got going on in this country, but I waste my breath.

So be it.

I completely missed the Oscars last night, but caught up with them this morning, without having to go through that limp ceremony that was called a tribute to James Bond, and ended up being a tribute to the music of one of his films...I hated to read that; I love the Bond flicks and books. But, at least Adele got a nod for her song, "Skyfall". After all, Barbara Broccoli's revamping of the series, that had gotten old and tired under her husband's hand, deserves official acknowledgement.

Back to the real world...the unicorn meat eating cats can tell that it's almost Spring, and I happily let them in and out numerous times a day. They aren't the only ones that can feel the change in the air and the light. Spring would be a time of unmitigated joy and wonder if it weren't for the fact of the Time Change. However, this is the time of year that I feel like pawing in the mud alongside the dog. This year, for indoors, I am going to plant impatiens. I think they will do well at the entrance, and inside as well, considering the lack of natural light in the apartment.

I miss the garden at the old house, but it's just as much fun to build a new one. And I have a place for a climbing rose, finally.

As for me, a change in my health is about to make the sluggish lifestyle I adopted a few years back, obsolete. If I don't change my ways, I always find my Higher Power has something to say about it.

My experience of my Higher Power has been changing, lately, as well. I feel much closer to it than I ever have before. I, who have never been without a sense of the Divine. I don't feel 'holier' than...sometimes I have felt picked on. And I am more 'anti-organization' than some folk...I don't like Religion. And I don't like the patriarchal connotations of the word, "Higher".

What I feel around me is simply Power, in all the best sense of the word. And I feel an answering of that Power in me. And I believe that one day, I will completely answer that call, and away from my body I will go.

Enough of the Divine for now. I didn't bring you here to discuss the Universal Power, but to share time with you. It is, ultimately, all that I have to give...along with some kindness and attention. So it's a good time to say that, "I love you" here and now, in this Spring. It will be one of millions, but like no other. So, I leave you now to reflect on your presence in my life. Let us reflect together, away from this page, about the coming months of Spring, when all are new, once again.

Raisins

I put off writing every morning and then it is 4 days later...whoop!

Saw the first pics of Kate's baby bump. Is this the Queen's first great-grandchild? Anyone know?

I have been surrounded by death and the ceremonies that can accompany it for the past two weeks, purely by circumstance. In general, I don't 'do well' at funerals...they trigger some horrible memories, and I have made a complete ass of myself at some before; acting solely from stress. Dissociating at someone's sister's funeral is an example of how to be unfriended in the real world, and quickly. Even if you are hysterical, it's not even remotely welcome.

Even at my own mother's funeral, I made some inappropriate comments, to lighten the intense stress I was under; thank gods my parents are both gone, and I don't have to do that anymore. Still, for one reason or another, I am stuck going to funerals, mainly because others want me to go. You've been there, I am sure.

But casting all gloom aside, I can honestly say that I believe those who have gone, are at peace. Indeed, I think they are on a very marvelous journey...

The daffodils start to come up, although we are still getting wintery weather. But, as I have stated before; spring firmly starts for me in February. As March approaches, I can lay down the limp flag that February is spring, and pick up the vigorous flag of March is REALLY spring.

It's my brother's birth month and as long as I remember, Mom started decorating for spring on March 1. To my Mother, spring was all about birth (my brother in March and me in April) and rebirth, as defined by the Resurrection.

My memories of Spring will always be strongly influenced by my Mother's view of the events above and her thriftiness about it all. She had to pack 3 holidays into one, all of which required presents or candy or both; and she had to do it on a minister's salary.

We always got a new outfit in Spring. This is a tradition in some cultures. I don't know where she picked this up, but we got the benefit of it. A new pink or yellow dress, hat, white gloves, and shiny Mary Jane's for me, and a new suit with short pants for my brother. His outfit always came with a bow tie, like Mr. Rogers. I still remember the feel of those white gloves, at the end of the time when women wore gloves everyday, and everywhere.

Then the artificial grass, a thing of wonder, in the Easter basket(s). And it was a less-chocolatey basket than is found today. It always looked too good to eat, and pastel jelly beans were always scattered in the grass.  And boiled Easter eggs that my Father ended up eating, as we just admired them. And tiny boxes of raisins, and orange slices, and small bags of peanuts, cooked in the shell. And there was always something extra, in the basket...new pencils, or a brightly colored ruler or notebook. Or a new cup, to drink milk and kool aid out of. Something that wasn't consumed but lived on, after the holidays.

She did this for most of her life...though the new outfits disappeared as her life got harder, and we got older. The last basket she gave me had a pottery Easter egg in it, lavender colored with a bright, painted flower on it. In our arrogance, my brother and I told her we thought getting Easter baskets, at our age, was so childish.

What fools we were.

I am thankful that the story doesn't end there. She started making Easter baskets for her only grandchild, toward the end of her life. And while I did the manual labor, standing in line and shopping, she always 'arranged' the basket, so that it would have maximum, visual impact on said grandchild. She knew how to please.

So I stand in the local market and sniff their potted hyacinths, paperwhites, and daffodils, until they come up in my neck of the woods. I look for the tulips, and the bulbs on the iris. I search for the shoots of the new, green grass, and let March's winds bring dreams of my Mother. Because it is Spring; the time of the Mother everywhere...

Mushroom

I have become one, in this last leg of winter, and the newest days of spring. I would rather be a daffodil, but only the crocus are up...The unicorn meat eating cats are wild about going outside at all hours. Their kitteh clocks are telling them it's a new season. And so they are so surprised when they step out into the cold, and a gale force wind strikes them square in the ears...

Nothing has struck me as news worthy lately, although maybe I am just blind. Of course there are a million things going on, but what I really want to know is, how is Kate's pregnancy going? I can only think the British press has been asked not to take pictures, but the paparazzi around the young couple is so intense, how could they escape notice?

I wish I felt more like a lagoon: placid, caressed only by clouds, and balmy. Instead, I am stuck in some dark, damp cave, and if I turn my electric heater off for one minute, my skin gets clammy.

Although I was struck by the sunset last night. Dawn is always my favorite, but this sunset had beautifully clear colors, with dark, black clouds in relief. It had the palest of yellows and a hint of green, and above the clouds, the wild, winter sky blazing with stars. I often go out at night to see the stars, a left over from living in the country. I miss the massive star fields I could see in the country, with the lower, man-made light. But some evenings, when the Huntsman can clearly be seen, I forget all the troubles of living in a small city. The moon is just as bright, and there are more fogs here, which I love.

The trees stand in their inky shadows just as clear, and the lavender plant is just as silver. Only, if it were true spring, I would have wandered into the day by now.

But there is something fine about still being abed, with the electric heater posting out the heat enough to take the chill out of the air...and the dog snores, and the cats lie in pools of fur.

Happy Sunday. 

Slow as Molasses Creams

The unicorn meat eating cats move slower and slower. The winter wears on them, although the unicorn herds move more in the winter time. I know, because I once spent a winter night, outdoors on a deck at the Old House in a sleeping bag, to watch the stars. And, after I got my service dog, Eddie, he would go out into the misty night to bark at them.

Today is a day I have started much too early. Max had to go 'outside' at 3 am, and it has all been downhill since then.

The 17th of February is the anniversary of my Mother's death. How fitting it was that she passed right after her especial holiday, Valentine's. And so, that is the only softening agent at work in me toward this eminently boring day. Really, this holiday engenders in me the same emotion as a good Chick Flick. Total ennui. Lethargy. The same feeling I would get from eating vanilla pudding until I am sick.

 I say this as someone who, until informed otherwise this weekend, thought of "Hellboy" as a good Chick Flick. It is, after all, a romantic comedy...And today, I am off to buy the newest of Chick Flicks, "Skyfall", the latest James Bond/Daniel Craig thriller. Instead,  it was pointed out to me that my sense of Chick Flick was a 'bit rough' for the real Chick Flick fan. I mean, JLo isn't in any of the movies I have mentioned. Or Julia Roberts...

As Douglas Adams so eloquently pointed out, the last thing the universe needs is a sense of perspective.

And, just to make the holiday personal: my apartment is all off-white, with dark woods and splashes of red. I love it. Love. And so, the after effects of going to the local market, and encountering walls of red and pink, flowers, candy, clothes, you name it, is overkill.

And this is followed by the all green holiday, St. Patrick's Day, that is followed by pastels come Easter. It's just too much, I tell you. Too, too much. 

That's ok. Today is therapy group day, and my head will be set straight before I know it. Today, I actually get to see my therapist. And for two hours, all will be right with the world. Here's hoping you enjoy the equivalent. Good Morning.

Chocolate Mint

I had a stand of it at the old house, along with some pineapple mint, which was very beautiful and really tasted of pineapple. Did you know you could grow mint in flavors? I also had some orange mint, very distinct, but not so much as the pineapple, which was also hard to grow.

And we are living in an age where the first Pope to resign in six centuries has just done so. And that's enough of that.

Meanwhile, the useless holiday creeps toward us...really, I can sustain this disgust for weeks on end. There is no more commercial holiday on the calendar than Valentine's. I know. Those of you who love this orgy of chocolate, roses, and cards are sick of my attitude at this point. But we complain about the commercialization of Christmas, and not a word is breathed about Valentine's. What is that about?

One day out of the year to celebrate Love? Particularly, romantic Love? It's as if we celebrated Christmas once a year, and then didn't go to church the rest of the year, or read one's applicable spiritual tome, or practice what Jesus preached the rest of the year. Valentine's just pops out of nowhere, as if to say, "Romance? I'm all over that. Here, have a flower." It has the reputation of a bit of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am variety that is insulting in the extreme to me as a woman. O well.

The commercializing agents: the card companies and the chocolate manufacturers, the makers of sparkling wine, and the weekend resorts that run specials, make a boatload of money this time of year, and I suppose that irks me the most.

It's like having a Dog day, where one shows one's undying affection for one's pooch, by giving him a treat on that day. When really, dogs are there for you all day long, and even in your sleep. 365 days out of the year, from birth to death. What more is it that they can give? How else can they express their devotion?

No, I hope Love is not as flash in the pan as all that. But a silent, quiet strength, that upholds both partners in life. And now I will crawl off of my soapbox and leave this holiday alone, and look toward Spring.

It is the Year of the Snake in the Chinese calendar. It's a shy, quiet sort of creature as they see it, and not some westernized, evil version. And the local market still has not marked down their calendars for sale, although it is almost March. How cheap can one get?

Time to text my therapist.

Cold, Coffee, Chocolate

I'm not cold, but I have one.

Going through the local market last night, was an orgy of pink and red covered chocolates. The key to buying them is the day AFTER Valentine's Day. Which is not going to work for most of you, I realize that. However, for the die hard chocolate fan, the day after any holiday is a winner.

The lovely colors inspired me to buy a "party bag" of Reese cups. The only other good thing about the upcoming-upchucking holiday? The local shelter, Angels of Assisi, is having a photographer come in. For a donation, you may have pictures of you and your most beloved pet made...

Yes, yes. I am yet another American who has 'babified' her pets. But, at least, I haven't babiefied any cutsy pets. That is: my pets are, on the whole, rough and tough. Minkins has had the easiest life of them all. He lost his mother at birth, and was hand raised by me. It makes him terribly shy and very affectionate. Georgia was abandoned at the local pound by her family, which was moving; at least, that's what they said. Rat Face was found in a field, scrounging food from the neighbors, abandoned. That's all of the unicorn meat eating cats.

Max, the dog, was abandoned on a country road, and lived off of the good graces of two families. When one family moved to Virginia, they took Max with them, out of concern for his future. He is classified as 'unadoptable' by the pound...he is possessive with his toys and food, and also has seizures.

He is the one I will be getting pictures with. None of the others has the time or temperament to stand for that kind of nonsense. You can view all of them on my Facebook page.

Back to the horrible holiday. You do realize that much saccharine can cause cancer, don't you?

Fruition

Ok. I haven't started the search for my new Spring color this year, yet. But I have changed my diet to: a meal followed by fruit. Sometimes the meal is the fruit, other times, simply a chaser. I have been seeing bathroom kitty a good deal...

I know, potty mind in the morning is something no one should have to face before the 3rd cuppa. Let's hope you are well on your way to that. The unicorn meat eating cats have given up the hunt in this mud, but they can smell Spring coming like the promise of a firm handshake on Valentine's Day.

Speaking of...my favorite (not) holiday of the year. Let us all drop out of warp speed for a moment to celebrate the most useless holiday of my existence. The trip past the idea of 'romantic love' is nice, but the followup is simply dreadful. The gigantor boxes of chocolates, the 2 dozen red roses, the lace undergarments, the fluffy handcuffs, ad naseum, to things I would rather not think of, on my stomach.

Juxtaposed with this is peripheral damage, or the only manageable side of Valentine's Day. The fruition, as it were, of all that sweaty romance: Valentine's Day with one's children.

My mother sweetly gave my brother and I unique Valentine's cards for most of her life. I still have some of them, tucked away in small boxes, and one special creation that lives in my fire chest. If nothing I have survives, after a disaster, I will have that message to keep me going.

As Spring approaches, this thought of my mother, with the anniversaries of the births of my brother and I, and some cloudy, genetic memory of lambs and a green, green grass keep me willing to embrace a bit more of this grey winter. Which still has gold and purple and silver to recommend it.

And so, load her/him up with wine and chocolate and retreat into the petal-strewn boudoir, the pillows liberally sprinkled with glitter. Dust off the champagne glasses, bite into that raspberry cream, and think of creative ways to spread chocolate on oneself...Let's see what happens. 

'Like' Me, Dammit

Ok, it's that time of year to get tough with myself. You know what I mean, don't pretend you don't. This "eating a healthy salad for dinner and following with a box of chocolates" time of year has got to go. After all, it's almost spring time, and the magazines will be advertising new colors of nail polish and predicting the favorite color of the year in no time.

Just because lately we have run the heat and the air conditioner on the same days, does not let us out of our duties to start shaving our legs again (for those that do, no judgement...) and creating that sugar scrub for your feet that you can make at home.

Also, this whiny attitude of "I don't want to write my blog, today." Yeah, that attitude. That has to go. I feel the lack lately, as I hunker down in bed and pull the covers over my head. After all, that's why we all take those anti-Evil pills, right?

And this time of the morning, what with texting my therapist in the grey dawn, and going over my tax returns and bank balance obsessively...this has to go. What has to go for you? I bet I have named at least one; if nothing more than that you are dying to know the recipe for the home sugar scrub.

After all, Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" is playing at the local Symphony Orchestra, long may it wave, and a surer sign of Spring, I don't know.

On a relevant note: I have been going to bed at 8 pm, and then taking the dog out to pee at 1 am. I am cleaning for others, but not myself, and wearing perfume has become irrelevant. There are currently 4 layers of blankets on my bed, along with the body heat of the animals, so that I may adjust my temperature through the night, at whim. Dust and clutter are everywhere. And my car needs to be cleaned...

What more can I say? It's time to text my therapist.