The storm has passed in time for the actual snowstorm coming our way, toward this small corner of the world. The unicorn meat eating cats frantically go out and in, in and out; as if they know they will soon be all indoors. Ratty is awake with me now, content for once. He can howl as loud as Kerouac ever could.
I wish I felt new, after this latest storm, but I do feel clear, like the storm clouds leaving yesterday before the sun, to reveal a blue that I had forgotten. I love rain and snow. It's a real grief I can't hear the rain in my new apartment. But grinding gray skies, day after day, is too much. The only remedy yesterday, was some dark pink tulips, and yellow daffodils.
Gray skies like that remind me of ancient gods making weapons. The gold fields and the razor sharp shadows fill the fields with ominous signs. The trees are a refuge, as always, but now the underbrush is cold. In the fall, the underbrush is newly brown, and drips of moisture onto the dark, crisp leaves below. The naked shadows of the trees is new and their silhouettes are beautiful holding the stars in their hair. But now, I am desperate for the daffodils coming up eagerly, and the hyacinth, and all the spring flowers that herald the change.
There is no green mist. The green mist that hovers over the trees before the blossoms come out. How do people who live in large cities endure? It is no wonder to me that Detroit is falling, like some medieval city, to a neighboring king. I have seen pictures, and there is no green thing there that I can see. The city has ground down it's citizens with it's gray temperament, and now they have nothing to give it in relief.
I have been to the green places in Washington, D.C., but the gray winter has taken hold there. Freezing the hearts of a political party, so that they deny the old their food, and the young their caregivers. I, in my anger, roll the legends of the fall of Rome around in my hands. It is not as if the history of Rome is obscure in any way.
The Congress has forgot the end of the story...the bread and circuses, now with not even bread to appease the populi. They only remember the arrogance of the order that set the last legion, onward to march as long as one man could move forward, to the ends of the earth. Which small village saw the last man lay the banner down? In what place had he eaten when his life overcame duty, and the pride of Rome?
I know Sequestering will affect me in real ways, the longer it goes. I have a food bank now, of which I am not ashamed. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say, and Congress has forgotten that, too. So I will have something to eat.
But after the storm of the last week, the prospect of facing lack of mental health care is truly frightening. Daily, psychologists already labor with very little compensation...and that's about to be cut, which is already down to the bone. My psychologist is a specialist, in Borderline Personality disorder, and should be coaching two people, at maximum. He is currently coaching fifteen, all women.
And while Spring in no way affects these burdens we all share, still it is something: to stand on the edge of a field on the edge of winter, and watch the small life come out to feed.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Monday Dreams on Sunday
To realize I am mad...means I am come back to reality for a moment. I reach for help, a hand to grasp, anything to keep from being drawn down further into the maelstrom. Nightmares beget dark imaginings. They don't go away when I wake up. I call a friend. I hope for an answer and receive reassurance. Meanwhile, I chat on Facebook to another friend. I am insane in my chats. I scrabble at the sides of a well, with no bucket or chain to grab hold of.
I call others to help me. Someone must offer reality. Someone tells me that my thoughts are delusional. It's not real. That is reality, but not for me. Surely my dark thoughts are more real than the truth. Coffee, breakfast, pills, shower: they whirl around me, demanding attention. I do not have it to give them...toss something overboard: breakfast, shower. I drink coffee and take my pills. Did I eat something, too? I can't remember. My body is not shaking. Maybe I ate something. Too much planning to take a shower, although there is a new shampoo I would like to try. Something I bought several days ago. It is a long time ago, now. And I am far away from it.
My madness, on chat with the same friend, reaches a fever that will not break. She has to get off of chat. She has things to do. I call someone else and cry over the phone. The world is mad, my street in particular, and nothing exists outside of my street. There are tasks to perform. If I drank, I wouldn't be able to make it. My success is problematic as it is.
I have spent many years in reality. It's like riding a bike. It requires a small trip down the road, with a bad tire on my car. Then I am back. My favorite thing to do in the morning: making my bed. It is tidy, but luxurious in it's own spartan way. A Queen retires to a nunnery. The bed and floor are plain, dark wood, and gray carpet, with the simplest of cream blankets. But there is a pink, silk pillow, and a silk embroidered footstool, and a lamp made of marble. Other dark woods gleam in the corners, concrete. Wood is as concrete as stone to me.
I still cannot take a shower. There is no reason to be so vulnerable. I layer up against the cool of my rooms. The kitchen is disorganized some. But everything is in it's place, where it needs to be. This week, there are lemons to put in my water, and the slice floats there, like a small whale sunning.
I put in "The Sorcerer's Stone". I call the friend I am having delusions about, that day. The soul I have picked to obsess on. It so happens it is someone thoroughly grounded in reality. I can hear my unreality babbling the details to her. I have to confess to hallucinations to keep from sounding insane. I tell her casually that I have contacted the authorities about them. I was treated courteously by them. A Queen in a nunnery, indeed.
No pill or therapist, or shower or pillow can help me now. I am alone on the phone. Is everything tidy? In case the authorities show up? Are my animals safe? Not too much on the carpet...I couldn't vacuum if I wanted to. I have been diligent. Not too much dust on the cherry wood, or the gray carpet. The heirlooms in the glass cabinet gleam as they have since the days when my mother gave them to me. I think I am surrounded by my mother, and settle in to watch Harry Potter's adventures.
It is too fraught with danger to light a candle. Did I eat something? I am not hungry. My stomach is full enough with the pills and the water. I interact with another household resident. He would understand how I feel if I let him know, but I hang onto what reality there is by chatting cheerily. It's not the world that is slanted, it's me. That has sunk in, after a week of denying it. Why stop taking my pills?
My therapist is upset I have contacted the authorities. Me, too. We have to stay off the radar, really. How could I explain to them that I am not a danger to myself or others? Prisons are full of people gone mad. Is my apartment clean, in case my friend turns me in? Do I look like a Queen in a nunnery? I don't dare ask. Tidy some more, in case they show up. This is sanity, watching a movie and playing with the dog and the cats.
The storm subsides. Last night I dream of my weight problem. My pills turn everything to fat. That's why I stop taking them in the middle of the week. Med-compliant today. I eat nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and am sick of them. My stomach wants a banana and a boiled egg today. No bananas. There is a need for a shower today. After the boiled egg. On chat again. Others wake, and I am not alone.
Thank god today is Sunday...Harry Potter movies all day. I will tidy some more, and wash some dishes, so the apartment will be warm and steamy with it. It will smell cleaner.
Trying to assess damage today. I am able to write my blog, after two failed attempts yesterday. I will write two blogs today. I am more than normal.
I call others to help me. Someone must offer reality. Someone tells me that my thoughts are delusional. It's not real. That is reality, but not for me. Surely my dark thoughts are more real than the truth. Coffee, breakfast, pills, shower: they whirl around me, demanding attention. I do not have it to give them...toss something overboard: breakfast, shower. I drink coffee and take my pills. Did I eat something, too? I can't remember. My body is not shaking. Maybe I ate something. Too much planning to take a shower, although there is a new shampoo I would like to try. Something I bought several days ago. It is a long time ago, now. And I am far away from it.
My madness, on chat with the same friend, reaches a fever that will not break. She has to get off of chat. She has things to do. I call someone else and cry over the phone. The world is mad, my street in particular, and nothing exists outside of my street. There are tasks to perform. If I drank, I wouldn't be able to make it. My success is problematic as it is.
I have spent many years in reality. It's like riding a bike. It requires a small trip down the road, with a bad tire on my car. Then I am back. My favorite thing to do in the morning: making my bed. It is tidy, but luxurious in it's own spartan way. A Queen retires to a nunnery. The bed and floor are plain, dark wood, and gray carpet, with the simplest of cream blankets. But there is a pink, silk pillow, and a silk embroidered footstool, and a lamp made of marble. Other dark woods gleam in the corners, concrete. Wood is as concrete as stone to me.
I still cannot take a shower. There is no reason to be so vulnerable. I layer up against the cool of my rooms. The kitchen is disorganized some. But everything is in it's place, where it needs to be. This week, there are lemons to put in my water, and the slice floats there, like a small whale sunning.
I put in "The Sorcerer's Stone". I call the friend I am having delusions about, that day. The soul I have picked to obsess on. It so happens it is someone thoroughly grounded in reality. I can hear my unreality babbling the details to her. I have to confess to hallucinations to keep from sounding insane. I tell her casually that I have contacted the authorities about them. I was treated courteously by them. A Queen in a nunnery, indeed.
No pill or therapist, or shower or pillow can help me now. I am alone on the phone. Is everything tidy? In case the authorities show up? Are my animals safe? Not too much on the carpet...I couldn't vacuum if I wanted to. I have been diligent. Not too much dust on the cherry wood, or the gray carpet. The heirlooms in the glass cabinet gleam as they have since the days when my mother gave them to me. I think I am surrounded by my mother, and settle in to watch Harry Potter's adventures.
It is too fraught with danger to light a candle. Did I eat something? I am not hungry. My stomach is full enough with the pills and the water. I interact with another household resident. He would understand how I feel if I let him know, but I hang onto what reality there is by chatting cheerily. It's not the world that is slanted, it's me. That has sunk in, after a week of denying it. Why stop taking my pills?
My therapist is upset I have contacted the authorities. Me, too. We have to stay off the radar, really. How could I explain to them that I am not a danger to myself or others? Prisons are full of people gone mad. Is my apartment clean, in case my friend turns me in? Do I look like a Queen in a nunnery? I don't dare ask. Tidy some more, in case they show up. This is sanity, watching a movie and playing with the dog and the cats.
The storm subsides. Last night I dream of my weight problem. My pills turn everything to fat. That's why I stop taking them in the middle of the week. Med-compliant today. I eat nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and am sick of them. My stomach wants a banana and a boiled egg today. No bananas. There is a need for a shower today. After the boiled egg. On chat again. Others wake, and I am not alone.
Thank god today is Sunday...Harry Potter movies all day. I will tidy some more, and wash some dishes, so the apartment will be warm and steamy with it. It will smell cleaner.
Trying to assess damage today. I am able to write my blog, after two failed attempts yesterday. I will write two blogs today. I am more than normal.
Storm on the North Sea
If I could think at this hour, I might have something profound to say. As it is, I simply want to wake up with you, have some coffee, and listen to the small, night sounds that are the unicorn meat eating cats way of being communal with me. Cats are pre-dawn feeders primarily, and the small crunches, as they eat, are counterpointed by the sound of the clock on the dresser. I hate those digital clocks...I like one with hands that makes a small, ticking sound.
And I desperately need a quiet morning for a change. The past few days, I have woken from nightmares, some remembered, some not. Yesterday, I had to call my therapist, instead of just texting him. Then my sponsor, and a friend...none of it could keep me from crashing onto the rocks like some lost wave. There are no sea birds on that ocean, and no life swimming below, just the everlasting deep. I tried to carry on my morning, and write my blog, and my delusional thinking and hallucinations followed me there. My shrink is in India.
Life turns into one slow, dragging step after another. I have to get up. I have to do certain tasks that day. Putting one foot in front of the other, turns into more than the cliched herculean problem. I am really moving underwater, torn from the rocks and shore, again and again. I perform my tasks, in what shape does not matter. I haven't had a shower in four days. I cannot bring myself to the effort it takes to groom, and be clean. I can't concentrate that much.
Now, I am the only sea bird alive on the rocks...I get up to shake the nest, tidying here and there, so I can enclose myself against the writhing waves below. You may get a laugh out of this, but the surest way to calm myself is to clean the apartment as best I can, and watch the Harry Potter series, one after the other. It is a continuity; it is reality, surrounded by the memories of Christmases past, spent with the dearest of friends.
It is a well-ordered and known universe. I can hold it at arm's length, and examine it. That makes it unlike my reality, which is seething and swirling around me. But if I pay enough attention to make the time pass, then the real world ceases to move quite so much. There is a small break in the storm, and I start climbing.
Last night, no nightmares to wake from. Not that I remember, just dreams that vaguely bother me, and reflect reality. I dreamed of a place in England that I saw on the computer...a vast estate, complete with follies, an owlry, and a dovecote. That is reality. The swirling sea is not. Not outwardly, anyway. I can climb away from the nightmares, and the storm.
Today, I may even take a shower.
And I desperately need a quiet morning for a change. The past few days, I have woken from nightmares, some remembered, some not. Yesterday, I had to call my therapist, instead of just texting him. Then my sponsor, and a friend...none of it could keep me from crashing onto the rocks like some lost wave. There are no sea birds on that ocean, and no life swimming below, just the everlasting deep. I tried to carry on my morning, and write my blog, and my delusional thinking and hallucinations followed me there. My shrink is in India.
Life turns into one slow, dragging step after another. I have to get up. I have to do certain tasks that day. Putting one foot in front of the other, turns into more than the cliched herculean problem. I am really moving underwater, torn from the rocks and shore, again and again. I perform my tasks, in what shape does not matter. I haven't had a shower in four days. I cannot bring myself to the effort it takes to groom, and be clean. I can't concentrate that much.
Now, I am the only sea bird alive on the rocks...I get up to shake the nest, tidying here and there, so I can enclose myself against the writhing waves below. You may get a laugh out of this, but the surest way to calm myself is to clean the apartment as best I can, and watch the Harry Potter series, one after the other. It is a continuity; it is reality, surrounded by the memories of Christmases past, spent with the dearest of friends.
It is a well-ordered and known universe. I can hold it at arm's length, and examine it. That makes it unlike my reality, which is seething and swirling around me. But if I pay enough attention to make the time pass, then the real world ceases to move quite so much. There is a small break in the storm, and I start climbing.
Last night, no nightmares to wake from. Not that I remember, just dreams that vaguely bother me, and reflect reality. I dreamed of a place in England that I saw on the computer...a vast estate, complete with follies, an owlry, and a dovecote. That is reality. The swirling sea is not. Not outwardly, anyway. I can climb away from the nightmares, and the storm.
Today, I may even take a shower.
Friday, March 1, 2013
In Like a Lion
I just can't tell you how happy I am that it is March.
And speaking of lions; I had a friend find a picture of Alan Rickman in the nude last night. And someone as sophisticated and professional as Mr. Rickman, is the definition of nude...not naked. Naked implies a vulnerability that belongs mainly to Americans. Any picture of Alan Rickman without clothing is a nude. I know each of you that love his work, Jeannine. But the majority of people think of him as Hans Gruber from "Die Hard", that evil villain, or Severus Snape, from the Harry Potter series...consummate spy, noble lover, and the last person on any Earth to be caught with no clothes on. Professor Snape, with no clothes on, is naked. Hans Gruber, with no clothes on, is a nude.
I could wax on all day about this topic, but I know my audience consists of more people than Jeannine...so.
In another in like a lion: the Sequester is upon us. Looking at the effects in Virginia, what catches my eye is the cut in funding for meals for seniors. Damn all of Congress for their petty fogging, mind-blowing, f-idiocy! Really, folks: Damn them to Hell. Of course, the cuts in Head Start aren't going to make life easy for the low income parents who participate in this program. But who is Congress is thinking about low income citizens? It's absolutely amazing they passed the Violence Against Women Act. I suspect that it is because 55% of the population of the country are women, and women vote: at least, for now, they do. Apparently, Judge Scalia thinks all that is some kind of entitlement...
But, every morning, at some point, I have to let the world go. Nude, naked, the invulnerable, and the vulnerable...just for a time. Clouds are building up outside, but behind them the stars are bright. I can see them when the wind shifts a cloud for a moment...the Huntsman is a particular favorite. The trees are breathing now, rested, and ready for the tiny buds of that soft green I love. There is no other color I love so much than that pale green...I painted the floor in the Old House that color.
The daffodils, my favorite, are shyly up, and the hyacinths, as well. The tulips, another favorite, are showing their reds, and pinks, and yellows. I fall in love with them every year. The shadows of the trees are still sharp as an iron blade across the grass, covered with a frost. They say a storm is coming. A snow such as we in this smallish valley have not seen for years, and I live in anticipation.
This, then, is Spring!
And speaking of lions; I had a friend find a picture of Alan Rickman in the nude last night. And someone as sophisticated and professional as Mr. Rickman, is the definition of nude...not naked. Naked implies a vulnerability that belongs mainly to Americans. Any picture of Alan Rickman without clothing is a nude. I know each of you that love his work, Jeannine. But the majority of people think of him as Hans Gruber from "Die Hard", that evil villain, or Severus Snape, from the Harry Potter series...consummate spy, noble lover, and the last person on any Earth to be caught with no clothes on. Professor Snape, with no clothes on, is naked. Hans Gruber, with no clothes on, is a nude.
I could wax on all day about this topic, but I know my audience consists of more people than Jeannine...so.
In another in like a lion: the Sequester is upon us. Looking at the effects in Virginia, what catches my eye is the cut in funding for meals for seniors. Damn all of Congress for their petty fogging, mind-blowing, f-idiocy! Really, folks: Damn them to Hell. Of course, the cuts in Head Start aren't going to make life easy for the low income parents who participate in this program. But who is Congress is thinking about low income citizens? It's absolutely amazing they passed the Violence Against Women Act. I suspect that it is because 55% of the population of the country are women, and women vote: at least, for now, they do. Apparently, Judge Scalia thinks all that is some kind of entitlement...
But, every morning, at some point, I have to let the world go. Nude, naked, the invulnerable, and the vulnerable...just for a time. Clouds are building up outside, but behind them the stars are bright. I can see them when the wind shifts a cloud for a moment...the Huntsman is a particular favorite. The trees are breathing now, rested, and ready for the tiny buds of that soft green I love. There is no other color I love so much than that pale green...I painted the floor in the Old House that color.
The daffodils, my favorite, are shyly up, and the hyacinths, as well. The tulips, another favorite, are showing their reds, and pinks, and yellows. I fall in love with them every year. The shadows of the trees are still sharp as an iron blade across the grass, covered with a frost. They say a storm is coming. A snow such as we in this smallish valley have not seen for years, and I live in anticipation.
This, then, is Spring!
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, February 25, 2013
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.
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.
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