What a wonderful night in Cow Country. I had the very good fortune to run into Kennie and Co when leaving the Dane Brew House on my way back to the office this evening. Incredibly good people to meet randomly on a sidewalk. We had a great sidewalk chat and ended up back at the bar for a quick drink together.
It just goes to show you that you can meet the best people in the most random of circumstances.
I had not planned on spending more time at the bar - but it was well worth the time to meet and get to know Kennie and Co. (Pardon me for not remembering Co's name - but I did have the extra drink ) I am sure that when we meet again I will get his name down as well - Kennie spelled his for me so that one stuck in my consciousness. Thank you Kennie!
Kennie and Co. work for a local non-profit - which one of course I am not sure of - but I do know that they do good things for good people. Which is what I do - most of the time. They met a few of the folk from my group and instantly fell in with the crew - Good people apparently attract good people.
In any event - here is the bottom line for the evening - never let the time of day slow you down - if you have the opportunity -talk to the folk you meet- you will likely find that they are the gems of the day
I know I did
Best to you all
Thanks for reminding me that people are worth the effort Kennie! & Co of course !
Its Cold Out Here....but Beautiful....
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Por Favore - Caffe Latte?
I can't believe I am back in Cow Country. After roughly 2 weeks in Firenze and its surrounds, this place seems rather surreal. -
Don't get me wrong, it is nice to be home, especially with both boys here for the week.
But somehow, every moment in Italy just seemed to be so alive and here - well - sometimes it just seems rather numb and distant.
There is nothing quite so bracing as a brisk walk on a crisp fall day along the river, looking out to see the Ponte Vecchio in front of you and the parking bridge (not sure what it is really called - but it seems that everyone parks along it) just behind you. A quick stop for caffe latte and one of the wonderfully sinful pastries that you know you will walk off over the course of the day, and then you are back in the thick of it. Every step taking you to another place full of sights, sounds, scents and textures. It is a world for the senses.
We travel from place to place here, zipping along in our cars and if we are lucky we catch a glipse of a great sunrise or sunset - perhaps a particularly graceful moon. There are a few settings in the scenery that catch the eye. But nothing that compares to the constant dazzle of turning each corner to find another fresco, sculpture or wonder of architecture suddenly appearing before you.
I don't even know that you need to purchase the tickets to see the great masters in the museums that abound (though I am glad that we did). You can travel about on foot and get your fill of music and art. And of course there is the food - lovely, delicious and if you are careful - not too expensive.
We stumbled on a great market - and the best chocolate ever. We spent the rest of the days hoping to find the shop that originated the little culinary works of art so we could get just a few (a couple of pounds perhaps?) more of the luscious bites. Pair these with the wine - life is sweet.
And so here I am looking through the office window again, and yearning for a slightly grander view.
While I praise the place, I think perhaps it was the company that made it shine so brightly. Always go to the best places with people who are close to your heart. They make even the rough moments seem to glitter like diamonds.
Well, here's to the next adventure - I am not sure what we settled on - but I think perhaps we will try something exotic - Bali? (If we can survive the plane time.) Or maybe we can try Paris - it might be nice to like Paris. Everyone else seems to, perhaps M and I can make that city shine too.
Here's to my Mom - Thanks for being the best travel companion ever -
Love you - To Infinity and Beyond
Always -
Domani.....................and Ciao
Don't get me wrong, it is nice to be home, especially with both boys here for the week.
But somehow, every moment in Italy just seemed to be so alive and here - well - sometimes it just seems rather numb and distant.
There is nothing quite so bracing as a brisk walk on a crisp fall day along the river, looking out to see the Ponte Vecchio in front of you and the parking bridge (not sure what it is really called - but it seems that everyone parks along it) just behind you. A quick stop for caffe latte and one of the wonderfully sinful pastries that you know you will walk off over the course of the day, and then you are back in the thick of it. Every step taking you to another place full of sights, sounds, scents and textures. It is a world for the senses.
We travel from place to place here, zipping along in our cars and if we are lucky we catch a glipse of a great sunrise or sunset - perhaps a particularly graceful moon. There are a few settings in the scenery that catch the eye. But nothing that compares to the constant dazzle of turning each corner to find another fresco, sculpture or wonder of architecture suddenly appearing before you.
I don't even know that you need to purchase the tickets to see the great masters in the museums that abound (though I am glad that we did). You can travel about on foot and get your fill of music and art. And of course there is the food - lovely, delicious and if you are careful - not too expensive.
We stumbled on a great market - and the best chocolate ever. We spent the rest of the days hoping to find the shop that originated the little culinary works of art so we could get just a few (a couple of pounds perhaps?) more of the luscious bites. Pair these with the wine - life is sweet.
And so here I am looking through the office window again, and yearning for a slightly grander view.
While I praise the place, I think perhaps it was the company that made it shine so brightly. Always go to the best places with people who are close to your heart. They make even the rough moments seem to glitter like diamonds.
Well, here's to the next adventure - I am not sure what we settled on - but I think perhaps we will try something exotic - Bali? (If we can survive the plane time.) Or maybe we can try Paris - it might be nice to like Paris. Everyone else seems to, perhaps M and I can make that city shine too.
Here's to my Mom - Thanks for being the best travel companion ever -
Love you - To Infinity and Beyond
Always -
Domani.....................and Ciao
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Rockin' in the Burbs
Its another grey day in the neighborhood - rain again. Good for the soil - hard on the soul, unless you are lucky enuogh to get to spend the day at home.
Its on days like this that I most want to stay home, wrap up in a cozy blanket and doze. Perhaps spend some time listening to some really great music - letting the walls absorb and reflect the sound. Yes, I like to play it loud. Which is great when your neighbors are all at work and you have the block to yourself. Not so great when they are home - you just can't assume they will love your music just because you love it.
And judging from what they Rock-out to on the weekends, I am pretty sure we do not have the same taste. At all. I have three neighbors that like to play it loud. The one to the left has two small kids. When the mom is covering the daytime cruise they usually play Kidz Bop type stuff. Its not bad, and at least it is not the "Barney" theme song. Actually it is pretty cool to clean the house to as long as you are not getting into any heavy lifting. When Dad has the controls it is pretty much heavy drums. That would be because the system gets turned off and he goes into the basement and bangs on his drum set. Seriously - bangs on the drum set. I would tell you what genre he plays, but I don't think he has figured that out yet.
The neighbor to the right plays a soft classical. I only know this from having tea with her on Sundays or Holidays. She does not rock the neighborhood, she is however very organic and wonderfully Zen to hang out with. Next to her (to her left) and kitty-corner to me in the back-yard are the consistent week-end party neighbors. About once a month during reasonably good weather, they throw a party. Their musical taste got stuck somewhere in the late 70-s and 80's. Don't get me wrong, I actually like Donna Summers. It just sort of hard to take in large doses of MacArthur Park at top volume after midnight several weekends in a row. Kind of makes you want to leave a cake out in the rain - on their patio. Of course by morning you do get over the sentiment - even if you do spend the next 48 hours getting rid of the song in your head. Happily the chilly weather has set in so Donna is retired until April.
Believe it or not the other neighbors that rock the neighborhood actually live not across the street - but behind my neighbors and across the street. They have a giant second story deck that wraps down to a hugh patio. When they throw a party they are very serious about it. It starts loading in mid-day on Friday and kicks off on mid-day Saturday. They have a full speaker system for the deck and patio and it kicks! I have to admit that their afternoon and early evening mixes are actually pretty hot. A great blend of Korn, Hurt, Taproot, Snow Patrol, The Cranberries, Dave Matthews, Dylan, Sheryl Crow, Aerosmith, Santanna - you get the idea - Rock that spans the age groups. However, when the younger group exits - around 9 or so, the music mix shifts and that's when it gets sort of bizarre. Then we hit a blend of Disco Diamond Oldies and Heavy Metal with an occasional - believe it or not opera piece thrown in. I actually think the opera is in there to encourage the less wasted guests to go home. It does thin out the party over time. Luckily we are treated to just two or three of these parties each year - and since most of the neighborhood attends - who are we to complain?
As for me? I just try to play it loud when I know my neighbors have gone off to work. So the occasional times when I work from the house or take a day off - then I kick it in. I do wonder though - for those who are listening - Just how odd my collection must sound. So far I must be doing okay - I haven't found any cakes on the patio - I guess that is a good sign.
Rock Steady and enjoy the rain
Its on days like this that I most want to stay home, wrap up in a cozy blanket and doze. Perhaps spend some time listening to some really great music - letting the walls absorb and reflect the sound. Yes, I like to play it loud. Which is great when your neighbors are all at work and you have the block to yourself. Not so great when they are home - you just can't assume they will love your music just because you love it.
And judging from what they Rock-out to on the weekends, I am pretty sure we do not have the same taste. At all. I have three neighbors that like to play it loud. The one to the left has two small kids. When the mom is covering the daytime cruise they usually play Kidz Bop type stuff. Its not bad, and at least it is not the "Barney" theme song. Actually it is pretty cool to clean the house to as long as you are not getting into any heavy lifting. When Dad has the controls it is pretty much heavy drums. That would be because the system gets turned off and he goes into the basement and bangs on his drum set. Seriously - bangs on the drum set. I would tell you what genre he plays, but I don't think he has figured that out yet.
The neighbor to the right plays a soft classical. I only know this from having tea with her on Sundays or Holidays. She does not rock the neighborhood, she is however very organic and wonderfully Zen to hang out with. Next to her (to her left) and kitty-corner to me in the back-yard are the consistent week-end party neighbors. About once a month during reasonably good weather, they throw a party. Their musical taste got stuck somewhere in the late 70-s and 80's. Don't get me wrong, I actually like Donna Summers. It just sort of hard to take in large doses of MacArthur Park at top volume after midnight several weekends in a row. Kind of makes you want to leave a cake out in the rain - on their patio. Of course by morning you do get over the sentiment - even if you do spend the next 48 hours getting rid of the song in your head. Happily the chilly weather has set in so Donna is retired until April.
Believe it or not the other neighbors that rock the neighborhood actually live not across the street - but behind my neighbors and across the street. They have a giant second story deck that wraps down to a hugh patio. When they throw a party they are very serious about it. It starts loading in mid-day on Friday and kicks off on mid-day Saturday. They have a full speaker system for the deck and patio and it kicks! I have to admit that their afternoon and early evening mixes are actually pretty hot. A great blend of Korn, Hurt, Taproot, Snow Patrol, The Cranberries, Dave Matthews, Dylan, Sheryl Crow, Aerosmith, Santanna - you get the idea - Rock that spans the age groups. However, when the younger group exits - around 9 or so, the music mix shifts and that's when it gets sort of bizarre. Then we hit a blend of Disco Diamond Oldies and Heavy Metal with an occasional - believe it or not opera piece thrown in. I actually think the opera is in there to encourage the less wasted guests to go home. It does thin out the party over time. Luckily we are treated to just two or three of these parties each year - and since most of the neighborhood attends - who are we to complain?
As for me? I just try to play it loud when I know my neighbors have gone off to work. So the occasional times when I work from the house or take a day off - then I kick it in. I do wonder though - for those who are listening - Just how odd my collection must sound. So far I must be doing okay - I haven't found any cakes on the patio - I guess that is a good sign.
Rock Steady and enjoy the rain
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Full Tilt Slam
So my son said to me the other night that he did not want to have a job like mine. Wow - talk about the full tilt slam. Up against the face - hello and what do I do with that comment? No reply works - no matter which way I go - I am either judging him or I am edgy about myself - its a no win reply on my part. So I just sipped my wine and continued chopping the veggies. Sometimes if you let the silence linger it gets filled in on its own. - Luckily he had more on his mind - so this time it worked.
He did not want to work 10-12 hour days and then on the weekends doing something he did not even like.
That comment really brought me up short.
You see, I had not realized that I did not like my job. The funny thing is - the more I thought about what he had to say - the more I sort of had to agree with him.
Only there are a few subtle differences. It is not the job I do not like. It is the pace of the job.
I still very much enjoy what I do. I even enjoy working with the people I work with (most of them and almost all the time too). I have just gotten tired of the full out run that it takes to get this job done.
But here is the hard part. I don't know how to slow down.
Doesn't that sound ridiculous? I should know how. I look around me and I can see plenty of people who seem to have the knack for doing it. - Yet here I am kicking it pell-mell, feeling like hell while I am doing it, and not having the faintest clue how to put the brakes on.
Maybe I am just hoping I will run out of gas? And of course, that is precisely what I am most afraid I will do. What happens if I do run out of gas? I actually don't know if I could handle doing ......nothing.
I think I could handle going a bit slower - just not crawling or stopping.
I guess I am not destined to be a straight 7 hour a day kind of gal - or even a 5 day a week worker. But I think I could easily get used to 50-60 hour work weeks.
My son it seems has figured out that he can handle the 50-60 hour work week. Its not the work part that is an issue - he doesn't mind that - its the Lack of Life part that he thinks would be a problem for him. He wants to continue to expand his culinary skills (Amen to that - as long as I can get a seat at the table every now and then) and he wants to try other new things. He doesn't want to get stuck in a rut where he stops growing.
OMG - For just a moment there he sounded very much like me. Or the me I can be when I have more time and my growing is not limited to the books I consume in between sleeping and working.
(Incidentally it is Wednesday at 4:06 pm and I am now on book 4 for the week - if you start the count from Sunday a.m. - I would only be on number 3 but the boy who doesn't want to have a job like mine did want to read the last book I started so I plowed through Revenge of the Dwarves in 2 days so he would have it before he ran out of Jordan books) - And now you know my hidden secret - I am a Bookaholic.
In any event - I think perhaps my son has gotten it only partially right - I do not like the pace of my job -
I love my job
I just want to love my life too
I think a full tilt slam may have been part of what I needed. Now I just need a great book on building brakes at work...............
He did not want to work 10-12 hour days and then on the weekends doing something he did not even like.
That comment really brought me up short.
You see, I had not realized that I did not like my job. The funny thing is - the more I thought about what he had to say - the more I sort of had to agree with him.
Only there are a few subtle differences. It is not the job I do not like. It is the pace of the job.
I still very much enjoy what I do. I even enjoy working with the people I work with (most of them and almost all the time too). I have just gotten tired of the full out run that it takes to get this job done.
But here is the hard part. I don't know how to slow down.
Doesn't that sound ridiculous? I should know how. I look around me and I can see plenty of people who seem to have the knack for doing it. - Yet here I am kicking it pell-mell, feeling like hell while I am doing it, and not having the faintest clue how to put the brakes on.
Maybe I am just hoping I will run out of gas? And of course, that is precisely what I am most afraid I will do. What happens if I do run out of gas? I actually don't know if I could handle doing ......nothing.
I think I could handle going a bit slower - just not crawling or stopping.
I guess I am not destined to be a straight 7 hour a day kind of gal - or even a 5 day a week worker. But I think I could easily get used to 50-60 hour work weeks.
My son it seems has figured out that he can handle the 50-60 hour work week. Its not the work part that is an issue - he doesn't mind that - its the Lack of Life part that he thinks would be a problem for him. He wants to continue to expand his culinary skills (Amen to that - as long as I can get a seat at the table every now and then) and he wants to try other new things. He doesn't want to get stuck in a rut where he stops growing.
OMG - For just a moment there he sounded very much like me. Or the me I can be when I have more time and my growing is not limited to the books I consume in between sleeping and working.
(Incidentally it is Wednesday at 4:06 pm and I am now on book 4 for the week - if you start the count from Sunday a.m. - I would only be on number 3 but the boy who doesn't want to have a job like mine did want to read the last book I started so I plowed through Revenge of the Dwarves in 2 days so he would have it before he ran out of Jordan books) - And now you know my hidden secret - I am a Bookaholic.
In any event - I think perhaps my son has gotten it only partially right - I do not like the pace of my job -
I love my job
I just want to love my life too
I think a full tilt slam may have been part of what I needed. Now I just need a great book on building brakes at work...............
Monday, October 22, 2012
Lost and Found
When is being lost the same as being found?
I suppose it is that moment in time when even though you know where you are, you feel is as if you are no where at all. It is when your favorite food tastes like cardboard and the voice on the phone is the only tether that seems to hold you in your seat.
I think sometimes that I am truly losing it. Or perhaps the real answer is that I just don't really care if I am losing it any more or not. I find myself counting the number of books it takes me to get through a week. I have a feeling that when the number exceeds 15 it is probably not a good thing.
Some folk are voracious eaters or drinkers. I am a voracious reader. I am always running out of books. I have taken to purchasing titles that vaguely sound interesting and are not too expensive on my Kindle in lumps - just to make sure I will not run out. I am not afraid of the dark. I am afraid of running out of words. The words of others.
If I do then the story reverts to my own - and frankly - I don't want to be in my own story anymore. It has grown both too maudalin and to mundane all at the same time. I am ready for a new author, a new heroine, a new shift in the plot line.
Hence the being lost while being found. I know where I am. I am caught in this story, in this seemingly never ending drama and trauma. (With the occasional comic relief of course - no good book goes without that.) I just feel like I am getting lost within the story as it unfolds.
And I pray, daily - more like by the second, that my children and my mom are not being sucked into this vacumm with me. That their presence in this story is not negating the writing of their own much more vibrant and hopefully exciting and fulfilling one of their own. Heaven forbid they be stuck in the grey vast panorama that seems to be inking the pages I wander through.
I do believe it is time for another book. I have been absent from reading for far too long. - By my reckoning it has been almost 3 hours and 20 minutes since I closed the last tome. I best find another before my life catches up with me. I do not want to think this out again - (thank you Fagan).
See you in the Library -
under
Lost and Found
I suppose it is that moment in time when even though you know where you are, you feel is as if you are no where at all. It is when your favorite food tastes like cardboard and the voice on the phone is the only tether that seems to hold you in your seat.
I think sometimes that I am truly losing it. Or perhaps the real answer is that I just don't really care if I am losing it any more or not. I find myself counting the number of books it takes me to get through a week. I have a feeling that when the number exceeds 15 it is probably not a good thing.
Some folk are voracious eaters or drinkers. I am a voracious reader. I am always running out of books. I have taken to purchasing titles that vaguely sound interesting and are not too expensive on my Kindle in lumps - just to make sure I will not run out. I am not afraid of the dark. I am afraid of running out of words. The words of others.
If I do then the story reverts to my own - and frankly - I don't want to be in my own story anymore. It has grown both too maudalin and to mundane all at the same time. I am ready for a new author, a new heroine, a new shift in the plot line.
Hence the being lost while being found. I know where I am. I am caught in this story, in this seemingly never ending drama and trauma. (With the occasional comic relief of course - no good book goes without that.) I just feel like I am getting lost within the story as it unfolds.
And I pray, daily - more like by the second, that my children and my mom are not being sucked into this vacumm with me. That their presence in this story is not negating the writing of their own much more vibrant and hopefully exciting and fulfilling one of their own. Heaven forbid they be stuck in the grey vast panorama that seems to be inking the pages I wander through.
I do believe it is time for another book. I have been absent from reading for far too long. - By my reckoning it has been almost 3 hours and 20 minutes since I closed the last tome. I best find another before my life catches up with me. I do not want to think this out again - (thank you Fagan).
See you in the Library -
under
Lost and Found
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Early Thanksgiving
Sometimes the most difficult of times can also be the best of times.
When you find yourself seemingly trapped by circumstances that are overwhelming you may be lucky enough to discover that there are people who will stand by you that you would not have dreamed would do so. These are times to cherish. They teach you trust. They also teach you humility.
So often we go through our days thinking that the battles we face, we face alone. This does not have to be true. Being strong does not have to mean standing alone. It can mean having the courage to allow people to stand both for and with you.
I learned this today. It is a lesson I hope I will not soon forget.
Despite my basement ceiling and my angry washing machine, despite the daily concerns that nag at me as they nag at each of us, I have learned that I am indeed not alone.
In this world of mass confusion, where our ability to communicate without ever seeing or perhaps even knowing those we touch with our words can create friendships that span continents, we find ourselves graced in ways we have not truly explored. We also take a chance on losing our ability to remain in touch with the now of our daily lives. We may take for granted the people that interact with us in each moment, large and small.
I have done this. Yet to my very pleasant surprise, these people have not taken me for granted.
When I needed them most they stepped up to stand beside me. They silently moved to be there. To hold ground with me and to make my world a place filled with light and balance.
Take the time to look around you and to give thanks for everyone who has time to say hello, offer a smile and a greeting. These are the people who will one day be there for you too. I suspect they will be the people you will find yourself stepping up for as well.
In the end our world is not quite so complex as we may think. It still comes down to who we choose to be.
I am grateful for the people in my life.
An early Thanksgiving to you all.
When you find yourself seemingly trapped by circumstances that are overwhelming you may be lucky enough to discover that there are people who will stand by you that you would not have dreamed would do so. These are times to cherish. They teach you trust. They also teach you humility.
So often we go through our days thinking that the battles we face, we face alone. This does not have to be true. Being strong does not have to mean standing alone. It can mean having the courage to allow people to stand both for and with you.
I learned this today. It is a lesson I hope I will not soon forget.
Despite my basement ceiling and my angry washing machine, despite the daily concerns that nag at me as they nag at each of us, I have learned that I am indeed not alone.
In this world of mass confusion, where our ability to communicate without ever seeing or perhaps even knowing those we touch with our words can create friendships that span continents, we find ourselves graced in ways we have not truly explored. We also take a chance on losing our ability to remain in touch with the now of our daily lives. We may take for granted the people that interact with us in each moment, large and small.
I have done this. Yet to my very pleasant surprise, these people have not taken me for granted.
When I needed them most they stepped up to stand beside me. They silently moved to be there. To hold ground with me and to make my world a place filled with light and balance.
Take the time to look around you and to give thanks for everyone who has time to say hello, offer a smile and a greeting. These are the people who will one day be there for you too. I suspect they will be the people you will find yourself stepping up for as well.
In the end our world is not quite so complex as we may think. It still comes down to who we choose to be.
I am grateful for the people in my life.
An early Thanksgiving to you all.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Smile, Looks Like You Made It
Once a favored path
Soft under the feet
moss and sand
Once a favored path
Curving with shrubs that brushed lightly
Conveying a light caress
Now a cold haunted walk
Hard-edged and cutting
glass and gravel
Now a cold haunted walk
Snaking with wind-whipped branches
Slicing to the bone
Time often takes a toll
But Man takes a heavier one
exacting vengence
Time often takes a toll
Yesterday is made of sterner stone
today is flimsy
It crumbles on that
hard edge
it falls to the glass and gravel
it grinds beneath your boot
Not shattered
Simply gone
Looks like its finally been un-done
All the light-filled joys
the moss and sand path
gone
No haunting loveliness
No cuttings of beauty
Gone
Crumbled to dust
under your boot
The birth of a void
are you Proud now?
Did you finally get
your Heart's desire?
Smile
Look's like you made it...
Soft under the feet
moss and sand
Once a favored path
Curving with shrubs that brushed lightly
Conveying a light caress
Now a cold haunted walk
Hard-edged and cutting
glass and gravel
Now a cold haunted walk
Snaking with wind-whipped branches
Slicing to the bone
Time often takes a toll
But Man takes a heavier one
exacting vengence
Time often takes a toll
Yesterday is made of sterner stone
today is flimsy
It crumbles on that
hard edge
it falls to the glass and gravel
it grinds beneath your boot
Not shattered
Simply gone
Looks like its finally been un-done
All the light-filled joys
the moss and sand path
gone
No haunting loveliness
No cuttings of beauty
Gone
Crumbled to dust
under your boot
The birth of a void
are you Proud now?
Did you finally get
your Heart's desire?
Smile
Look's like you made it...
Racquet Ball Laws of Etiquette
I can hear the words echo as they leave my mouth
They bounce around the room
Loudly at first and then gradually their volume falls
as their velocity drops
like a racquetball no one returns serve on
They slowly roll to a dismissive halt
I know that you heard me
You did not just nod and smile
You wrote it all down
You paraphrased it back
You took the time to reassure me
To ensure that I would feel safe in being heard
Yet I can hear the words echoing
Bouncing off the walls
As meaningless as the un-returned serve
Dismissed, despite your knowing attitude
I know enough now to trust to silence
The next time I am speaking to you
You can keep the racquet
I won't be serving anymore
They bounce around the room
Loudly at first and then gradually their volume falls
as their velocity drops
like a racquetball no one returns serve on
They slowly roll to a dismissive halt
I know that you heard me
You did not just nod and smile
You wrote it all down
You paraphrased it back
You took the time to reassure me
To ensure that I would feel safe in being heard
Yet I can hear the words echoing
Bouncing off the walls
As meaningless as the un-returned serve
Dismissed, despite your knowing attitude
I know enough now to trust to silence
The next time I am speaking to you
You can keep the racquet
I won't be serving anymore
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Mechanical Replacements -
Some days are just harder than others. To put it mildly, Sunday was not a day of rest at my abode.
I have been struggling with a washing machine that has a mind of its own. On Sunday it decided to unleash its wrath upon me and my house. I guess not all mechanical relationships are meant to last.
But, I am getting ahead of my story.
The "Machine" decided to go into perpetual spin cyle about 8 days ago. Part of the spin also included having a permanently locked door, so I was unable to just open the washer and end its activity that way. As I was working solid at the office (9am-3am) for our annual craziness sprint, I decided the easiest fix was just to unplug it. I was wrong. Let me repeat this for anyone who might make this mistake when dealing with a washer gone crazy. I was wrong.
Five short (or long) days later, depending on who was living through them, I found myself with my first real day off. I also found myself inexplicably standing in a puddle of water on my mud-room floor. It made no sense at all to me. How and why would a washing machine, with no power running to it, begin to leak? It was dry as a bone when I unplugged it. I mopped up the mess and went back to my leisurely day of trying to get the rest of the house in order. A couple of hours later I returned to the mud-room, only to find a new puddle. Perplexed, I mopped this up and followed the trail this time, discovering that the washer was dripping from the barrel. With nothing to lose at that point, I climbed back over the top and plugged it back in, hoping that it would spin and get rid of the water it had collected. Amazingly, as soon as I plugged it back in it started to spin and make a lovely draining sound. What was equally miraculous was that it made the sound for the door latch popping free.
Finally, I could end the entire spin-cycle issue. I would still need to get a repair man out, but at least the drip and the frozen door issues would be solved. I crawled off my perch and returned the chair to the kitchen.
And then.............. I opened the door. This was not a wise idea. Just in case you did not expect me to say this, let me once again repeat, THIS WAS NOT A WISE IDEA.
Nearly a full barrel of water poured out of the Machine, flowing all over my recently mopped floor, drenching me from the waist down and covering me ankle deep when it settled. Hell hath no fury like a machine unplugged!
It probably does not need to be noted, but I did not spend anymore of my day nipping about leisurely putting the house to rights. No indeed I did not. I spent the rest of the afternoon bucketing up the water from my mudroom floor, creating barricades so it would not escape into the kitchen, and generally feeling like a very wet moron. And perhaps a moron does what I did next, which is to put my soaking towels into the Machine to spin (they were too heavy to wrestle to the laundromat). Would you believe that 7 loads of laundry later, I had everything that had been drenched and the laundry I had saved up during busy-season taken care of? Yes, I did. I decided I was too tired to go to the laundromat, and if the spin cycle worked, why not try a whole cycle? And if it worked once, why not just keep going?
Of course, now I just have to get the basement ceiling fixed - yes the water seeped through despite my best efforts. And I have to make sure that the mud-room floor is solid and no other damage has been done that I cannot see.
And I really need to......replace the "machine". Please don't read this outloud. I don't want "it" to know until they come to get "it". I realize that right now we seem to be at peace and the laundry is processing nicely. But you see, I just don't trust our relationship anymore. So I think I will have to donate this to a home that perhaps "it" will treat with more kindness than it has me of late.
I have tried to be a good washer-owner. I use the right soaps for its type. I don't use harsh detergents or ones that are bad for the environment. I even use the cleaner that they recommend on TV. I am not sure what I have done to sour the relationship so badly. Except perhaps being gone so much lately. I really have not given the poor thing much attention of late. I suppose that could be reason enough. Yet I just can't let this behavior slide. It really was over the top for a mechanical tantrum.
So working or not, I will have to say goodbye. Rather sad though - we've worked hard together over the years. And there is something very rewarding in a relationship built on mutual respect and hard work.
In any event. let this be a warning to you all. Do not ignore your appliances. Do not let them take advantage of you either. Their tantrums could end up with you bailing water, changing drywall and considering what color to paint the basement ceiling.
Stay dry my friends - ....................stay dry
I have been struggling with a washing machine that has a mind of its own. On Sunday it decided to unleash its wrath upon me and my house. I guess not all mechanical relationships are meant to last.
But, I am getting ahead of my story.
The "Machine" decided to go into perpetual spin cyle about 8 days ago. Part of the spin also included having a permanently locked door, so I was unable to just open the washer and end its activity that way. As I was working solid at the office (9am-3am) for our annual craziness sprint, I decided the easiest fix was just to unplug it. I was wrong. Let me repeat this for anyone who might make this mistake when dealing with a washer gone crazy. I was wrong.
Five short (or long) days later, depending on who was living through them, I found myself with my first real day off. I also found myself inexplicably standing in a puddle of water on my mud-room floor. It made no sense at all to me. How and why would a washing machine, with no power running to it, begin to leak? It was dry as a bone when I unplugged it. I mopped up the mess and went back to my leisurely day of trying to get the rest of the house in order. A couple of hours later I returned to the mud-room, only to find a new puddle. Perplexed, I mopped this up and followed the trail this time, discovering that the washer was dripping from the barrel. With nothing to lose at that point, I climbed back over the top and plugged it back in, hoping that it would spin and get rid of the water it had collected. Amazingly, as soon as I plugged it back in it started to spin and make a lovely draining sound. What was equally miraculous was that it made the sound for the door latch popping free.
Finally, I could end the entire spin-cycle issue. I would still need to get a repair man out, but at least the drip and the frozen door issues would be solved. I crawled off my perch and returned the chair to the kitchen.
And then.............. I opened the door. This was not a wise idea. Just in case you did not expect me to say this, let me once again repeat, THIS WAS NOT A WISE IDEA.
Nearly a full barrel of water poured out of the Machine, flowing all over my recently mopped floor, drenching me from the waist down and covering me ankle deep when it settled. Hell hath no fury like a machine unplugged!
It probably does not need to be noted, but I did not spend anymore of my day nipping about leisurely putting the house to rights. No indeed I did not. I spent the rest of the afternoon bucketing up the water from my mudroom floor, creating barricades so it would not escape into the kitchen, and generally feeling like a very wet moron. And perhaps a moron does what I did next, which is to put my soaking towels into the Machine to spin (they were too heavy to wrestle to the laundromat). Would you believe that 7 loads of laundry later, I had everything that had been drenched and the laundry I had saved up during busy-season taken care of? Yes, I did. I decided I was too tired to go to the laundromat, and if the spin cycle worked, why not try a whole cycle? And if it worked once, why not just keep going?
Of course, now I just have to get the basement ceiling fixed - yes the water seeped through despite my best efforts. And I have to make sure that the mud-room floor is solid and no other damage has been done that I cannot see.
And I really need to......replace the "machine". Please don't read this outloud. I don't want "it" to know until they come to get "it". I realize that right now we seem to be at peace and the laundry is processing nicely. But you see, I just don't trust our relationship anymore. So I think I will have to donate this to a home that perhaps "it" will treat with more kindness than it has me of late.
I have tried to be a good washer-owner. I use the right soaps for its type. I don't use harsh detergents or ones that are bad for the environment. I even use the cleaner that they recommend on TV. I am not sure what I have done to sour the relationship so badly. Except perhaps being gone so much lately. I really have not given the poor thing much attention of late. I suppose that could be reason enough. Yet I just can't let this behavior slide. It really was over the top for a mechanical tantrum.
So working or not, I will have to say goodbye. Rather sad though - we've worked hard together over the years. And there is something very rewarding in a relationship built on mutual respect and hard work.
In any event. let this be a warning to you all. Do not ignore your appliances. Do not let them take advantage of you either. Their tantrums could end up with you bailing water, changing drywall and considering what color to paint the basement ceiling.
Stay dry my friends - ....................stay dry
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Endings (Daymares Concluded)
Fragments and figments blend together, a swirl of pigments with few hues. I can faintly make out rhythmic drip that sustains me. I no longer care.
What I want more than anything else is another dream. A glimmer of freedom. Anything that takes me away from being where I am. This semi-vegetative state has become unbearable. I believe if I had the strength, I would pull the tubes free, and perhaps in that way find the freedom that eludes me.
My non-existent toes have become an obsession of late. I am sick of only having ten digits I can count on. (And even these ten digits are not ones I freely control.) Who ever created this place did not view me as a being with any rights onto itself. I mean as much to them as the blades that cut; only a means to an end. I can only speculate as to what those ends might be, yet I am finally tired of being a part of it. I no longer believe there is a way out for me.
I have given up on the concept of a way out. I have deserted myself. The truth does not always set you free it seems, sometimes it just makes it clear how truly imprisoned you are.
I would moan with the agony of my loss. For it does seem a loss, this parting with my belief in a "rescue" from my constraints, it seems I know longer know how to believe in even that. So I lay here, my head in its softened trap and simply stare at the blades above me. I don't even bother to question them anymore. It is pointless. As pointless as breathing. But the machines keep me at that, so you see, I am given little choice in anything.
I let me my mind drift to grey and steady it there. A pure clean slate of solid grey. No subtle variations in tone, no shafts of light or dark. A blank sheet of grey, solid and almost comforting in its un-relieved state of total absentinence from the taint of any other thought.
It is some time before I hear the sounds in the hall. The clicking of the heels followed by the heavy heel-toe step of what I assume is the man in dress shoes I heard when the grinding noise occurred. I hold onto my slate of grey, pushing their sounds out, and concentrating on the comfort of its cold shield.
Abruptly I note that the click-click of the heels and the dress-shoe slap seem to have stopped very near. Try as I might the grey shifts to the rectangular silver with the darkness and the light cut into it. I can hear the sound of something moving, a door-handle, or a door perhaps? I do not shift my head. It is unlikely I would be able to see that far into the space I am in, and besides, I think perhaps I would rather not know if the shoes are coming to see me.
I am certain a visit from them would bode nothing good.
I try to bring back my lovely grey wall, but find the strangely striated-blue shifting in and out of its smooth texture instead.
I can hear them breathing now. They are definitely here with me.
The sliver of white with blue forms on my slate. It curves itself around the striated blue forming an arc of white like a half moon.
I can feel the heat from them radiating against me. Their presence makes this sterile room seem infected. Whatever it is they are saying I cannot make out the words. It sounds like gibberish. A hand flashes in front of my face. A light piericing my eye.
My mind runs from the light. I pull myself viscerally back to the grey wall. The white rimmed blue curve remains there, cupping the striated blue. I stare at it as if it is a puzzle waiting to be pieced together. I can hear them moving, mumbling to each other, their voices appear to be conflicted. The dark sliver flashes to me then. I can almost grasp where it belongs.
One of them has a hand on my arm above where the primary tube goes in, the other hovers near my chest by a secondary tube. They appear to have reached a decision. I can feel the tape being prized loose from my skin, parts of the skin tearing with the tape. I guess the tape has been there a long time.
The dark piece floats into place on the puzzle and I find myself looking at a part of a memory so clear that it almost lifts my head out of the cradle. That eye, that flecked blue eye, is a part of who I am. My mind races off after that thought even as it notes that they have taken the tubes out.
It does not matter, I do not have time to reflect on what will happen in that room any longer. I have to follow this spark of memory. Perhaps I have finally found my escape.
In more ways than one it would seem.
What I want more than anything else is another dream. A glimmer of freedom. Anything that takes me away from being where I am. This semi-vegetative state has become unbearable. I believe if I had the strength, I would pull the tubes free, and perhaps in that way find the freedom that eludes me.
My non-existent toes have become an obsession of late. I am sick of only having ten digits I can count on. (And even these ten digits are not ones I freely control.) Who ever created this place did not view me as a being with any rights onto itself. I mean as much to them as the blades that cut; only a means to an end. I can only speculate as to what those ends might be, yet I am finally tired of being a part of it. I no longer believe there is a way out for me.
I have given up on the concept of a way out. I have deserted myself. The truth does not always set you free it seems, sometimes it just makes it clear how truly imprisoned you are.
I would moan with the agony of my loss. For it does seem a loss, this parting with my belief in a "rescue" from my constraints, it seems I know longer know how to believe in even that. So I lay here, my head in its softened trap and simply stare at the blades above me. I don't even bother to question them anymore. It is pointless. As pointless as breathing. But the machines keep me at that, so you see, I am given little choice in anything.
I let me my mind drift to grey and steady it there. A pure clean slate of solid grey. No subtle variations in tone, no shafts of light or dark. A blank sheet of grey, solid and almost comforting in its un-relieved state of total absentinence from the taint of any other thought.
It is some time before I hear the sounds in the hall. The clicking of the heels followed by the heavy heel-toe step of what I assume is the man in dress shoes I heard when the grinding noise occurred. I hold onto my slate of grey, pushing their sounds out, and concentrating on the comfort of its cold shield.
Abruptly I note that the click-click of the heels and the dress-shoe slap seem to have stopped very near. Try as I might the grey shifts to the rectangular silver with the darkness and the light cut into it. I can hear the sound of something moving, a door-handle, or a door perhaps? I do not shift my head. It is unlikely I would be able to see that far into the space I am in, and besides, I think perhaps I would rather not know if the shoes are coming to see me.
I am certain a visit from them would bode nothing good.
I try to bring back my lovely grey wall, but find the strangely striated-blue shifting in and out of its smooth texture instead.
I can hear them breathing now. They are definitely here with me.
The sliver of white with blue forms on my slate. It curves itself around the striated blue forming an arc of white like a half moon.
I can feel the heat from them radiating against me. Their presence makes this sterile room seem infected. Whatever it is they are saying I cannot make out the words. It sounds like gibberish. A hand flashes in front of my face. A light piericing my eye.
My mind runs from the light. I pull myself viscerally back to the grey wall. The white rimmed blue curve remains there, cupping the striated blue. I stare at it as if it is a puzzle waiting to be pieced together. I can hear them moving, mumbling to each other, their voices appear to be conflicted. The dark sliver flashes to me then. I can almost grasp where it belongs.
One of them has a hand on my arm above where the primary tube goes in, the other hovers near my chest by a secondary tube. They appear to have reached a decision. I can feel the tape being prized loose from my skin, parts of the skin tearing with the tape. I guess the tape has been there a long time.
The dark piece floats into place on the puzzle and I find myself looking at a part of a memory so clear that it almost lifts my head out of the cradle. That eye, that flecked blue eye, is a part of who I am. My mind races off after that thought even as it notes that they have taken the tubes out.
It does not matter, I do not have time to reflect on what will happen in that room any longer. I have to follow this spark of memory. Perhaps I have finally found my escape.
In more ways than one it would seem.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Daymares 10
I watch silently. Happy for once that the light is slipping away. It has been over an hour now that my world has gone back to the controlled silence it has always had before. No more grinding, no more shoes in the hall. The drip in my tubes and the sound of my own breath is all I can hear. What disturbs me most is that this truly is all I can hear. There are no piped in noises to make me believe there is a world outside my window. No wind playing games with leaves. No birds. Not even a cricket. I think they forgot to turn the system on.
And this is why I am happy the light is slipping away. I think perhaps this might mean that I can actually tell night from day in this place. It had occurred to me that the light was also part of the show. And I suppose it still could be. Perhaps the grinding was just the sound system breaking down? I have decided to go with what gives me comfort and believe that the light follows the sun and not a circuit board somewhere. Today it has been unusually grey. I had expected rain. Now it is simply fading to black. And with the black will come the blades. I am ready now. I have spent so much of the day tied up in internal knots that I believe I have made myself numb to them already.
I try to recall the little scraps I have held of myself. The curved sliver of white with its round of blue. The fragment chocolate so dark it could be black and a rectangle of light. That odd piece of greyed-blue with the strands of brown in it. None of them seem to fit together, yet I feel that they do belong together. I have no idea why. They just seem right when I think of them as belonging to a whole. Like a part of a set where the master piece is missing. Odds are over a trillion to one that I will find the missing fragment,(fragments) that will put this puzzle together, yet I can't help wishing for the next clue.
The daydreams have been nice. I know they are probably not the images the warders here would like to be culling from me, but I can't exactly force my mind to give them what they want. Especially since I am not really sure what that might be. Fragments of conversations caught through the door in what must have been at least a year or more ago, hardly bear remembering. "Quality imagination that one"...."Get some good images"...."I'd by that for my kid, make them feel safe and warm of a night"....... I can't say that much that I have thought or dreamed lately would make anyone fell safe and warm, even in daylight.
Daylight, that has left me now. The blades have begun the slicing dance. Cut after rotating cut, I can feel the rain of fragments fall about me. Where once I would have asked, "Why?" Now I find myself anxiously wondering, "When?" When will I find another fragment? Will it be the right one? Will I know what to do with it when I find it? Is there really a way out?
Is that the light of the sun or simply a computer driven vision meant to keep me occupied while they cycle away my opportunities to live my days?
And this is why I am happy the light is slipping away. I think perhaps this might mean that I can actually tell night from day in this place. It had occurred to me that the light was also part of the show. And I suppose it still could be. Perhaps the grinding was just the sound system breaking down? I have decided to go with what gives me comfort and believe that the light follows the sun and not a circuit board somewhere. Today it has been unusually grey. I had expected rain. Now it is simply fading to black. And with the black will come the blades. I am ready now. I have spent so much of the day tied up in internal knots that I believe I have made myself numb to them already.
I try to recall the little scraps I have held of myself. The curved sliver of white with its round of blue. The fragment chocolate so dark it could be black and a rectangle of light. That odd piece of greyed-blue with the strands of brown in it. None of them seem to fit together, yet I feel that they do belong together. I have no idea why. They just seem right when I think of them as belonging to a whole. Like a part of a set where the master piece is missing. Odds are over a trillion to one that I will find the missing fragment,(fragments) that will put this puzzle together, yet I can't help wishing for the next clue.
The daydreams have been nice. I know they are probably not the images the warders here would like to be culling from me, but I can't exactly force my mind to give them what they want. Especially since I am not really sure what that might be. Fragments of conversations caught through the door in what must have been at least a year or more ago, hardly bear remembering. "Quality imagination that one"...."Get some good images"...."I'd by that for my kid, make them feel safe and warm of a night"....... I can't say that much that I have thought or dreamed lately would make anyone fell safe and warm, even in daylight.
Daylight, that has left me now. The blades have begun the slicing dance. Cut after rotating cut, I can feel the rain of fragments fall about me. Where once I would have asked, "Why?" Now I find myself anxiously wondering, "When?" When will I find another fragment? Will it be the right one? Will I know what to do with it when I find it? Is there really a way out?
Is that the light of the sun or simply a computer driven vision meant to keep me occupied while they cycle away my opportunities to live my days?
Friday, August 31, 2012
Daymares 9
Breathing. I concentrate on the simple art of breathing. I count my breaths. I listen to them intently. Each one making its slow passage in and out. I work on varying the rhythm and then the pitch by changing how deep I let the air go from flow to flow. I do not want to hear anything else.
I do not want to hear, see or feel anything else. Breathing seems safe enough. Anything else is terrifying. The trickle that drips down my tubes seems to alternate patterns as I alternate the rhythms of my breathing. Faster and the drip picks up, slower and it becomes methodical again. It is as if it is feeding me according to my heart rate, which accelerates as I let myself listen to the clattering outside.
The click, click, click of heels has been joined by a smart tap, heel-toe, heel-toe of what sounds like a man's dress shoe. Or at least what I imagine a man's dress shoe must sound like. How am I to know? Indeed, the clicking rap may not even be heels at all. But, I can't shake the feeling that these sounds are tied to people and they keep pace outside my walls.
Can they see through them? It is this thought that has kept me glued here in one position, eyes closed, mind deliberately bent on my breathing. Every now and then a color flicks under my eye lids, a random association that I cannot place. Magenta, beige, teal, no color that is not tainted by the touch of another - like a painter's brush that never quite gets clean enough before it touces the next source.
I am loosing the game I know. The sounds outside are interfering with my counting and I am breathing too fast. I take a long measured sigh and try another path. I concentrate on the blades. The light is strong right now in the room. Strong enough that I know they will not harvest for some hours yet. I let my eyes wander the shape of the blades. I take in the mechanism that houses them at its core, its twists of thick cables and odd clear tubes. Funny I have never paid attention to the tubes before. I wonder what they are there for? I suppose as I have never seen how the fragments are collected, they must have something to do with that process, though I can't quite figure out how. I would feel suction, wouldn't I? Perhaps not, the blades make me numb after a time each night, maybe that is all it takes.
Cut anyone long enough they are likely to stop feeling soft touches easily. I suppose I have lost that and more to the blades.
They are rather beautiful in their own way. Clean, and sharp, almost pure in function - at least they only have one that I know of. I may not appreciate it, but surely someone thinks they are doing something good? And pure can have so many definitions. Like almost anything, it is really up to the individual to determine the meaning.
The click and tap are separating it seems. Each drifting away from my wall and from each other, and none too soon. I am exhausted with the effort to be catatonic for them. I hope I have given them exactly what they want. Though it does occur to me to wonder why I should care?
I do not want to hear, see or feel anything else. Breathing seems safe enough. Anything else is terrifying. The trickle that drips down my tubes seems to alternate patterns as I alternate the rhythms of my breathing. Faster and the drip picks up, slower and it becomes methodical again. It is as if it is feeding me according to my heart rate, which accelerates as I let myself listen to the clattering outside.
The click, click, click of heels has been joined by a smart tap, heel-toe, heel-toe of what sounds like a man's dress shoe. Or at least what I imagine a man's dress shoe must sound like. How am I to know? Indeed, the clicking rap may not even be heels at all. But, I can't shake the feeling that these sounds are tied to people and they keep pace outside my walls.
Can they see through them? It is this thought that has kept me glued here in one position, eyes closed, mind deliberately bent on my breathing. Every now and then a color flicks under my eye lids, a random association that I cannot place. Magenta, beige, teal, no color that is not tainted by the touch of another - like a painter's brush that never quite gets clean enough before it touces the next source.
I am loosing the game I know. The sounds outside are interfering with my counting and I am breathing too fast. I take a long measured sigh and try another path. I concentrate on the blades. The light is strong right now in the room. Strong enough that I know they will not harvest for some hours yet. I let my eyes wander the shape of the blades. I take in the mechanism that houses them at its core, its twists of thick cables and odd clear tubes. Funny I have never paid attention to the tubes before. I wonder what they are there for? I suppose as I have never seen how the fragments are collected, they must have something to do with that process, though I can't quite figure out how. I would feel suction, wouldn't I? Perhaps not, the blades make me numb after a time each night, maybe that is all it takes.
Cut anyone long enough they are likely to stop feeling soft touches easily. I suppose I have lost that and more to the blades.
They are rather beautiful in their own way. Clean, and sharp, almost pure in function - at least they only have one that I know of. I may not appreciate it, but surely someone thinks they are doing something good? And pure can have so many definitions. Like almost anything, it is really up to the individual to determine the meaning.
The click and tap are separating it seems. Each drifting away from my wall and from each other, and none too soon. I am exhausted with the effort to be catatonic for them. I hope I have given them exactly what they want. Though it does occur to me to wonder why I should care?
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Daymares 8
The cracks seems to mock me with their slit-faced grins. Yawning wide with mirth as they note I have succumbed to the frame about my head and the tubes that feed me. I try to twist my head - to swivel from side to side and see what this room may have to offer that beyond the haughty glare of my foes. But I am locked tight in place, a tilt of the eye is the best I can do. Peering down my nose gets me nowhere, not even a bump in the sheets that I could concievably recognize as toes.
What I can see all too clearly are the blades rotating over my head. The twisted sets of scissors carefully pointed and shaped for the harvesting. Who the hell came up with this demented plan anyway? Why do they need the images I carry? Why do they need those I create? Who else are they doing this to? Are there acres of rooms here? Is this like a farm, just beds and tubes and blades, and of course us, the people suspended waiting for the light to fade and the harvesting to begin?
I wish I could say I remember when I wasn't here. I suppose at times I do. I just can't be sure if that is real anymore. I can't be sure that anything is real. For all I know the syrup world is reality and this is just a nightmare. Though I am fairly certain that this thought is far too good to be true.
For the moment I bathe myself in the scent of tiger's tea.
A grinding noise catches my attention, if for no other reason than there are no noises like that here in this place. Everything runs smooth. Even the thunderstorms are surprisingly calm, I think perhaps they pipe them in and flicker the lights outside to amuse me, or us, depending on how many there really are. The grinding noise has not stopped. I can here the sound of shoes slapping on tile. Perhaps I am not alone?
Another pair, this set heavier, followed by a click, click, click. Perhaps heels?
The grinding continues, I must admit it is beginning to become annoying. It was rather a pleasant surprise at first. A bit of a change of pace. But frankly it is making my headache. I hope all the running feet will make it stop soon. Something with wheels that squeak rumbles by with low mumbles. More people? Perhaps. My stomach is beginning to do flips. I had always rather wished for there to be actual people here with me. Preferably not slung up like I am. People with the freedom to move. And now here they are, running about after that horrible noise. I am somewhat elated.
The noise comes to an abrupt halt. I count the shoes, the heavy pace, the mumblers with wheels, the first light runner. Each one a little blessing. They are here. But, where are the heels? Where are the heels? It begins to dawn on me that the people out there, the ones I had hoped for, they are probably the ones that keep me in here. The ones responsible for making the blades whirl and the tubes drip. What if my stomach flipping and heart pounding or day-tripping has flipped some switch of jiggered some dial? What if I caused the grinding? What if the heels are coming her?. I can hear them now, walking slowly this time. Click, click, click, for some reason the sound is just not as endearing this time.
What I can see all too clearly are the blades rotating over my head. The twisted sets of scissors carefully pointed and shaped for the harvesting. Who the hell came up with this demented plan anyway? Why do they need the images I carry? Why do they need those I create? Who else are they doing this to? Are there acres of rooms here? Is this like a farm, just beds and tubes and blades, and of course us, the people suspended waiting for the light to fade and the harvesting to begin?
I wish I could say I remember when I wasn't here. I suppose at times I do. I just can't be sure if that is real anymore. I can't be sure that anything is real. For all I know the syrup world is reality and this is just a nightmare. Though I am fairly certain that this thought is far too good to be true.
For the moment I bathe myself in the scent of tiger's tea.
A grinding noise catches my attention, if for no other reason than there are no noises like that here in this place. Everything runs smooth. Even the thunderstorms are surprisingly calm, I think perhaps they pipe them in and flicker the lights outside to amuse me, or us, depending on how many there really are. The grinding noise has not stopped. I can here the sound of shoes slapping on tile. Perhaps I am not alone?
Another pair, this set heavier, followed by a click, click, click. Perhaps heels?
The grinding continues, I must admit it is beginning to become annoying. It was rather a pleasant surprise at first. A bit of a change of pace. But frankly it is making my headache. I hope all the running feet will make it stop soon. Something with wheels that squeak rumbles by with low mumbles. More people? Perhaps. My stomach is beginning to do flips. I had always rather wished for there to be actual people here with me. Preferably not slung up like I am. People with the freedom to move. And now here they are, running about after that horrible noise. I am somewhat elated.
The noise comes to an abrupt halt. I count the shoes, the heavy pace, the mumblers with wheels, the first light runner. Each one a little blessing. They are here. But, where are the heels? Where are the heels? It begins to dawn on me that the people out there, the ones I had hoped for, they are probably the ones that keep me in here. The ones responsible for making the blades whirl and the tubes drip. What if my stomach flipping and heart pounding or day-tripping has flipped some switch of jiggered some dial? What if I caused the grinding? What if the heels are coming her?. I can hear them now, walking slowly this time. Click, click, click, for some reason the sound is just not as endearing this time.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Daymares 7
Thick like syrup gone stale on the plate. I can feel my feet sticking. I can FEEL my feet. The bubble of joy that rises up threatens to overflow into giggles. I clap my hand to my mouth to trap them, and stop there, amazed that I am mobile enough to do this. The simple things seem to be the most befuddling, feet, hands, giggling. What must it have been like before? Before I was put into the room?
My eyes are adjusting to this space now. So very different from where I left, yet happily so very different from my room. It is hazed with odd shades of green, flecked with browns and little stripes of what could be grey or possibly even blue. The occasional flash of brillance flickers catching me from the side and blinding me as if casually reminding me that "there is more than meets the eye" here.
I stagger-start-step in the syrup that binds me up-right. This place is dense with scent. It smells in one moment like bergamot laced with vanilla, cinnamon and cardoman which brings a tiger to mind. I have a sudden spark of memory - kitchen windows, light from the french doors and plants spilling from their pots. A box of Bengal Spice tea on sits on the edge of the light pine table and a\ I have a feeling that comes as close to contentment as I can recall. It flashes past as the scent changes, becoming strong with cumin and black pepper. I pull back. I have never liked black pepper. It appears I have not grown fond of it here either.
I snap-and-pop to the side wishing I had figured out the way to move silkily through this goop and find suddenly that I can. It is still thick as mollasses in winter, yet now it has grown ankle deep and holds me upright like stout boots as I ski through it rather than pull at it to move. Would that the rest of my existence would modify itself so readily to my wishes.
I move about scenting after the tiger's tea again, but find myself led along a trail of lemon grass, Greek seasoning, soy and garlic, though fresh basil and oregano, to crushed rosemary and on toward dried lavendar and rosehips. Each lovely in its way, and yet none quite as fabulous as that kiss of vanilla and cardoman that held the tiger's visage.
The flickers of light begin to persist in attacking my pupils. At last I give way in a patch of green flecked brown, striated with enough of that greyed blue that it would defy most anyone to define a color for it. It is a place so full of colors that it defies color. I am entranced. At last the tiger-tea scent settles around me again as I close my eyes to shut out the daggers of light that keep slicing through the comfort of this place. I can only hope that I will remain with it or that it will remain with me as I block out the shoots of light. If nothing else I have found a bit of comfort here. With something so rare, who am I to begrudge its loss even if so briefly found?
Perhaps in its brevity lies my best chance to keep it to myself. When the blades return, as I assume they must, this small piece of me can only be but a tiny sliver. Perhaps it will be among the last to go? That is assuming that this is real. And of course I must always assume -- that I assume too much. I determine that I will not open my eyes unless I hear the blades. For when I do, then I will know that this is only daywalking and I belong solely to the nighmares that are the reality of my life.
My eyes are adjusting to this space now. So very different from where I left, yet happily so very different from my room. It is hazed with odd shades of green, flecked with browns and little stripes of what could be grey or possibly even blue. The occasional flash of brillance flickers catching me from the side and blinding me as if casually reminding me that "there is more than meets the eye" here.
I stagger-start-step in the syrup that binds me up-right. This place is dense with scent. It smells in one moment like bergamot laced with vanilla, cinnamon and cardoman which brings a tiger to mind. I have a sudden spark of memory - kitchen windows, light from the french doors and plants spilling from their pots. A box of Bengal Spice tea on sits on the edge of the light pine table and a\ I have a feeling that comes as close to contentment as I can recall. It flashes past as the scent changes, becoming strong with cumin and black pepper. I pull back. I have never liked black pepper. It appears I have not grown fond of it here either.
I snap-and-pop to the side wishing I had figured out the way to move silkily through this goop and find suddenly that I can. It is still thick as mollasses in winter, yet now it has grown ankle deep and holds me upright like stout boots as I ski through it rather than pull at it to move. Would that the rest of my existence would modify itself so readily to my wishes.
I move about scenting after the tiger's tea again, but find myself led along a trail of lemon grass, Greek seasoning, soy and garlic, though fresh basil and oregano, to crushed rosemary and on toward dried lavendar and rosehips. Each lovely in its way, and yet none quite as fabulous as that kiss of vanilla and cardoman that held the tiger's visage.
The flickers of light begin to persist in attacking my pupils. At last I give way in a patch of green flecked brown, striated with enough of that greyed blue that it would defy most anyone to define a color for it. It is a place so full of colors that it defies color. I am entranced. At last the tiger-tea scent settles around me again as I close my eyes to shut out the daggers of light that keep slicing through the comfort of this place. I can only hope that I will remain with it or that it will remain with me as I block out the shoots of light. If nothing else I have found a bit of comfort here. With something so rare, who am I to begrudge its loss even if so briefly found?
Perhaps in its brevity lies my best chance to keep it to myself. When the blades return, as I assume they must, this small piece of me can only be but a tiny sliver. Perhaps it will be among the last to go? That is assuming that this is real. And of course I must always assume -- that I assume too much. I determine that I will not open my eyes unless I hear the blades. For when I do, then I will know that this is only daywalking and I belong solely to the nighmares that are the reality of my life.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Daymares 6
I am floating. The world has gone quite white. I shift a bit to the left and I find myself drifting several feet on the soft currents that hold me aloft. There are no greys here. Not a single one. Nothing that whispers of shadow. Only the whiteness that surrounds me. Or is me, I can't really tell. Have I mentioned, the world has gone white?
At least in this absence of color there is also an absence of temperature. This here is neither hot nor cold. It cannot be described as temperate either. It is simply none of the above. I suspect that if this were a food or a drink it would have no flavor either. As I think of it, there has been not a sound. Well, no sound other then those in my own head. Those of course are consistently loud. I can't get rid of them I fear. They go with me everywhere.
Even here in the quite white world, where everything that was is absent. Except, I guess, me. My floating comes to a rather abrupt halt with that thought. I hover. I now know what it feels like to be "thunderstuck". I am what is here. Imagine that. Everything else is what is not here. I suppose that makes me as real as I will ever be. In this time and space that is. Slowly I feel the smile stretch across my face. I am grinning like a gap-toothed kid at the county fair staring at the cotton candy. I let myself spin. Not a good idea, spinning sets me darting in one direction then zipping off in another. Floating is much less pleasant at higher speeds in a world where everything is absent and there is nothing to stop you. Well, come to think of it, at least I am not likely to break my neck. Am I?
I pull back from the spin and set about trying to right myself, attempting to find that comfortable float again. I over adjust several times before I finally give in to the zip and dip, assuming that at some point my velocity will wear down and I will reach "float point" again. I would close my eyes, but all I would trade is a world of white for the darkness behind my eyelids, a world of black, the darkness formed from the absence of light. Not much of a difference. Most people think of them both as the absence of color. I suppose they are, in one way or another. But for now I just float. Besides, I fear that closing my eyes will close this world to me and I am not prepared to go.
It takes awhile, but I realize, as much as I prefer not being restricted to my bed, not fearing the movement of the light in the window as it passes the time between the blades, I am dreadfully bored. This is not quite what I had hoped for in a window of escape. But then, how am I to know if I have escaped?
I have been told I have a vivid imagination. It is one of the reasons they value me so. Why they harvest my images. Perhaps this is just another set of images that will fall prey to the blades. I let my eyes flutter closed and settle into the ease of floating. There is really only one way to find out afterall. Isn't there?
At least in this absence of color there is also an absence of temperature. This here is neither hot nor cold. It cannot be described as temperate either. It is simply none of the above. I suspect that if this were a food or a drink it would have no flavor either. As I think of it, there has been not a sound. Well, no sound other then those in my own head. Those of course are consistently loud. I can't get rid of them I fear. They go with me everywhere.
Even here in the quite white world, where everything that was is absent. Except, I guess, me. My floating comes to a rather abrupt halt with that thought. I hover. I now know what it feels like to be "thunderstuck". I am what is here. Imagine that. Everything else is what is not here. I suppose that makes me as real as I will ever be. In this time and space that is. Slowly I feel the smile stretch across my face. I am grinning like a gap-toothed kid at the county fair staring at the cotton candy. I let myself spin. Not a good idea, spinning sets me darting in one direction then zipping off in another. Floating is much less pleasant at higher speeds in a world where everything is absent and there is nothing to stop you. Well, come to think of it, at least I am not likely to break my neck. Am I?
I pull back from the spin and set about trying to right myself, attempting to find that comfortable float again. I over adjust several times before I finally give in to the zip and dip, assuming that at some point my velocity will wear down and I will reach "float point" again. I would close my eyes, but all I would trade is a world of white for the darkness behind my eyelids, a world of black, the darkness formed from the absence of light. Not much of a difference. Most people think of them both as the absence of color. I suppose they are, in one way or another. But for now I just float. Besides, I fear that closing my eyes will close this world to me and I am not prepared to go.
It takes awhile, but I realize, as much as I prefer not being restricted to my bed, not fearing the movement of the light in the window as it passes the time between the blades, I am dreadfully bored. This is not quite what I had hoped for in a window of escape. But then, how am I to know if I have escaped?
I have been told I have a vivid imagination. It is one of the reasons they value me so. Why they harvest my images. Perhaps this is just another set of images that will fall prey to the blades. I let my eyes flutter closed and settle into the ease of floating. There is really only one way to find out afterall. Isn't there?
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Transitions
Went to the movies with my boys the other day. As we sat through the previews we watched as a book we had all read about 4 years ago unfolded on the screen. Amazingly enough we all recognized it almost from the first scene of the trailer. The Life of PI. We have agreed to make the time to go see this together.
If you haven't read this book, I think you can tell that my family as whole would definitely recommend it. It is very intricately woven and full of humor. Yet you cannot escape the underlying philosophical core. Which is probably what makes the book so worth reading. I am not going to try to explain its essence to you. I want you to read it. Just know that it will lift you in ways you are not even aware of, until you find you need something that you learned from its passages. Perhaps even years later.
In that regard, I find myself confronting a time in my life and that of my children's that is replete with transitions. My youngest is moving from his teenage angst to that phase where he is almost a "man". My oldest is starting to let go of the "almost" and take on the charge of being a "man" with no hesitation. I am not only learning to fend for myself, but also considering pretty significant life changes.
I have also gone through some personal transitions that have been, well, not so pleasant. I have learned from them - but I have not enjoyed my lessons. I momentarily regained a sister. That is until she realized she was talking to her sister. Then, as the wind blows, so did the course of that momentary and imaginary rekindling on a relationship I have not really had since I was in 3rd grade. Guess there are some things that just never re-bloom, no matter the wishing. I have also lost a dear friend. I am not sure if it was due to my work schedule or due to internal struggles on her part or both. But whatever the case, there is only silence where there was once a great deal of chatter, value and warmth. I miss her. I have tried to bridge the gap, but there is a wall there I cannot climb (short of quitting my job - which is something I just morally, ethically and economically cannot do - I am a single Mom - I sort of have to work).
So what have I found through all of this? Some how I am caught between yearning for more change and wishing for none. Trapped betwixt and between the aspects of myself. Components of my past and present that I wish to retain and components that the shredder would not get rid of thoroughly enough. Funny that they are separated in ways I would never have anticipated now that I am really sorting through them.
Still what I find is the hardest part is coming to terms with the idea of transitioning. Change is so much easier when it just crashes down on you and you have to deal with it. Walking bravely toward it - well that is another matter. No wonder senior's in college get rather crazed and peri-menopausal women are perhaps more whacked out then those in menopause straight up. It is just easier to deal with things head-on - then the slow slide into them.
I think I have finally figured out why no one in my house wants to decide what to have for dinner. Once the choice is made, well - then you are stuck with having made it. If it gets made for you, then you can hardly be called to task for making a bad choice. So if the take-out is just horrible - You may have to eat it. But you don't have to own the decision. So it goes with the slow moving transition. Too many decisions. too many opportunities to get hung up, make a turn that could perhaps lead if not to a bad place, then to one that is less satisfying than an alternate choice.
It is hard to keep in mind that you will likely never know if the alternate choice would have been better. You won't be living that timeline. So second guessing yourself is hardly worth the time. Is it?
And yet.......................
If you haven't read this book, I think you can tell that my family as whole would definitely recommend it. It is very intricately woven and full of humor. Yet you cannot escape the underlying philosophical core. Which is probably what makes the book so worth reading. I am not going to try to explain its essence to you. I want you to read it. Just know that it will lift you in ways you are not even aware of, until you find you need something that you learned from its passages. Perhaps even years later.
In that regard, I find myself confronting a time in my life and that of my children's that is replete with transitions. My youngest is moving from his teenage angst to that phase where he is almost a "man". My oldest is starting to let go of the "almost" and take on the charge of being a "man" with no hesitation. I am not only learning to fend for myself, but also considering pretty significant life changes.
I have also gone through some personal transitions that have been, well, not so pleasant. I have learned from them - but I have not enjoyed my lessons. I momentarily regained a sister. That is until she realized she was talking to her sister. Then, as the wind blows, so did the course of that momentary and imaginary rekindling on a relationship I have not really had since I was in 3rd grade. Guess there are some things that just never re-bloom, no matter the wishing. I have also lost a dear friend. I am not sure if it was due to my work schedule or due to internal struggles on her part or both. But whatever the case, there is only silence where there was once a great deal of chatter, value and warmth. I miss her. I have tried to bridge the gap, but there is a wall there I cannot climb (short of quitting my job - which is something I just morally, ethically and economically cannot do - I am a single Mom - I sort of have to work).
So what have I found through all of this? Some how I am caught between yearning for more change and wishing for none. Trapped betwixt and between the aspects of myself. Components of my past and present that I wish to retain and components that the shredder would not get rid of thoroughly enough. Funny that they are separated in ways I would never have anticipated now that I am really sorting through them.
Still what I find is the hardest part is coming to terms with the idea of transitioning. Change is so much easier when it just crashes down on you and you have to deal with it. Walking bravely toward it - well that is another matter. No wonder senior's in college get rather crazed and peri-menopausal women are perhaps more whacked out then those in menopause straight up. It is just easier to deal with things head-on - then the slow slide into them.
I think I have finally figured out why no one in my house wants to decide what to have for dinner. Once the choice is made, well - then you are stuck with having made it. If it gets made for you, then you can hardly be called to task for making a bad choice. So if the take-out is just horrible - You may have to eat it. But you don't have to own the decision. So it goes with the slow moving transition. Too many decisions. too many opportunities to get hung up, make a turn that could perhaps lead if not to a bad place, then to one that is less satisfying than an alternate choice.
It is hard to keep in mind that you will likely never know if the alternate choice would have been better. You won't be living that timeline. So second guessing yourself is hardly worth the time. Is it?
And yet.......................
Friday, August 10, 2012
Daymares 5
I realize that I have been swimming in daydreams. I have let the light slip away from me and soon very soon, the blades will be swiping at me again.
I wonder if by some small miracle the memory of the first hard fought fragment might have been real. I dismiss as pure imagination the moment where my hand moved freely. It has been such a long time since I have had the strength or the dexterity to move with even that much grace.
Grace, now that is a word to ponder at length. Amazing Grace. Strange that we use this word to describe spiritual essence and transcendance and also to describe movement and elegance. Rather tawdry use of the language to trivialize the word in such a fashion after elevating it to such a lofty station. I think it has more appeal with regard to its spiritual nature. And yes, it has been a long time since I have felt lifted with Grace.
I let my eyes drift toward the slats that mark the fall of the sun. I have perhaps two hours before the light begins to truly fail. Time enough perhaps to find out if it was a dream afterall. I begin the dragging effort of positioning my arm and hand where I can view what may or may not be there. If I were capable of perspiring I would be drenched in sweat by the time I complete this manuever. But, the coolness of the room and the lack of fluids keeps me dry. Dry as bone and as brittle too, I have little doubt.
There it is, my lost appendage, coming into view. I let my eyelids drift shut. I am suddenly not sure I wamt to know if it was just a figment of my imagination. Summoning my strength of will - it is all the strength left me now - I force my eyes open and focus on my hand. I am startled by what I see. I shift my gaze in an effort to assure myself that my focus is clear. But they remain, two small shards. Two fragments of my being. One in my palm and one stuck just below my index finger on the pad of my hand. They are difficult to understand. One is shaped with a slight curve to one edge as if it might have been an oval if it had not been sliced through. It is a deep brown, no I think perhaps it is actually black, with a small rectangle of brownish white obscured but present running through it. The other is blue. A patch blue in a strange sliver slice almost like a piece of pie, if one could be cut that thin. I can almost make out faint line in it. But the piece is so small I am not quite sure if they are there or not.
I fold my hand carefully around the scraps of myself. Protecting them from the blades that will challenge my grip on them soon enough. Questing through my random thoughts I search for the image of the fragment from before, That piece of white and blue. I realize that the change that I have found pieces that go together is wildly impossible, but I cannot help myself, I begin to try to link the images together. Like working a jigsaw puzzle. What would they make if they came together as a whole?
I cannot shake the feeling of hope that rise in me at the prospect of finding a whole image. It is as if there might be a window out of this place if only I can find it. Strange as that may seem, I hold onto that thought as the shadows grow and the blades begin their knife-like dance, sending showers of fragments to fall like raindrops around me. Little pieces of myself harvested to no known purpose raining down across my carcass. I think perhaps I will someday give them something to root in. If I can't find a way out of here soon, it will be the only thing I am good for.
I wonder if by some small miracle the memory of the first hard fought fragment might have been real. I dismiss as pure imagination the moment where my hand moved freely. It has been such a long time since I have had the strength or the dexterity to move with even that much grace.
Grace, now that is a word to ponder at length. Amazing Grace. Strange that we use this word to describe spiritual essence and transcendance and also to describe movement and elegance. Rather tawdry use of the language to trivialize the word in such a fashion after elevating it to such a lofty station. I think it has more appeal with regard to its spiritual nature. And yes, it has been a long time since I have felt lifted with Grace.
I let my eyes drift toward the slats that mark the fall of the sun. I have perhaps two hours before the light begins to truly fail. Time enough perhaps to find out if it was a dream afterall. I begin the dragging effort of positioning my arm and hand where I can view what may or may not be there. If I were capable of perspiring I would be drenched in sweat by the time I complete this manuever. But, the coolness of the room and the lack of fluids keeps me dry. Dry as bone and as brittle too, I have little doubt.
There it is, my lost appendage, coming into view. I let my eyelids drift shut. I am suddenly not sure I wamt to know if it was just a figment of my imagination. Summoning my strength of will - it is all the strength left me now - I force my eyes open and focus on my hand. I am startled by what I see. I shift my gaze in an effort to assure myself that my focus is clear. But they remain, two small shards. Two fragments of my being. One in my palm and one stuck just below my index finger on the pad of my hand. They are difficult to understand. One is shaped with a slight curve to one edge as if it might have been an oval if it had not been sliced through. It is a deep brown, no I think perhaps it is actually black, with a small rectangle of brownish white obscured but present running through it. The other is blue. A patch blue in a strange sliver slice almost like a piece of pie, if one could be cut that thin. I can almost make out faint line in it. But the piece is so small I am not quite sure if they are there or not.
I fold my hand carefully around the scraps of myself. Protecting them from the blades that will challenge my grip on them soon enough. Questing through my random thoughts I search for the image of the fragment from before, That piece of white and blue. I realize that the change that I have found pieces that go together is wildly impossible, but I cannot help myself, I begin to try to link the images together. Like working a jigsaw puzzle. What would they make if they came together as a whole?
I cannot shake the feeling of hope that rise in me at the prospect of finding a whole image. It is as if there might be a window out of this place if only I can find it. Strange as that may seem, I hold onto that thought as the shadows grow and the blades begin their knife-like dance, sending showers of fragments to fall like raindrops around me. Little pieces of myself harvested to no known purpose raining down across my carcass. I think perhaps I will someday give them something to root in. If I can't find a way out of here soon, it will be the only thing I am good for.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Daymares 4
In the darknesss I feel almost whole. It is as if the black void gives weight to my life-depleted carcass, filling it with functional mass. Without the light to confirm that I am strapped to this bed, my head hung on the rack that suspends it (cushioned though the rack may be), I am free to imagine a body less tortured. I find myself willing my hands to move, the arms to curve inward, to lift higher and am completely nonplussed when I realize that I am touching my belly. Or at least I am imagining that I am doing so. I cannot confirm this as the room is far too dark and I have gone far too long in my current state to be assured that I would know what this actually feels like. I probe a bit with my fingers which seem to have gained tensile strength.
It appears that my stomach muscles have gone weak. They are rubbery and soft under the pressure of my touch. My bellybutton is pushed in, farther than I remember. Have I lost weight? Of course I have, one would hardly gain weight in these circumstances despite the sugared drip that keeps me alive. I smack my lips, I am thirsty. This surprises me. I can't remember the last time I thought about something as simple as the desire for feel of liquid running down my throat, bathing my mouth like silk. I am almost frantic with the desire to drink something. Almost, but not quite, as I still have not determined if this is just a game I am playing with my own mind. I let my hand wander, trailing along the folds of fabric and the occasional breach where skin is revealed. Up and over the ridges, down to the smooth plains, it is rather hypnotic. The new-ness and yet the same-ness all at once, I wonder if a cat feels a bit like this chasing a favored toy. My fingers rip over something not skin and not fabric and I stop. My heart races and I feel my temperature drop. It is a fragment not caught up by the wind from the blades overhead. A fragment caught in the folds of my fabric. One held here for me to find, if only I imagined I had the strength.
I run it along the folds with a fingertip. It moves more easily than the one I lifted this afternoon. It slides up the curl of the bedding and drops into my palm with what seems like little effort. I am shocked into awe. I hold another scrap of myself in the palm of my hand. Of course, I cannot view it. It is far too dark. And for some reason, the casual movement afforded thus far in my black enclave seems to have dissapated. Every effort to put my arm back where it belongs, listing to the side of me is resisted. It rests on top of me, where it does not belong. I grow uncomfortable with the new position. It feels twisted and contrived. My shoulder aches from holding my arm at this angle. I concentrate on wriggling the offending limb up and over the thrust of my hip bone. Every inch takes all of my strength and focus, especially as I am trying to maintain my hold on the fragment, which at this point feels like an anchor draggin my hand backward.
Eventually the arm rolls off of the hip to land hap-hazardly on the bed. My fingers curved inward making the best protective device that I can. I would like to peer at my palm to ensure that the scrap has survived its tossing onto the bed but the darknesss is too great. Its once welcome warm embrace now a hindrance to my purpose.
I wait, head suspended, my bag below offering its bellows-like prayer for morning to come and an oportunity to view the precious offering to avail itself to me.
It appears that my stomach muscles have gone weak. They are rubbery and soft under the pressure of my touch. My bellybutton is pushed in, farther than I remember. Have I lost weight? Of course I have, one would hardly gain weight in these circumstances despite the sugared drip that keeps me alive. I smack my lips, I am thirsty. This surprises me. I can't remember the last time I thought about something as simple as the desire for feel of liquid running down my throat, bathing my mouth like silk. I am almost frantic with the desire to drink something. Almost, but not quite, as I still have not determined if this is just a game I am playing with my own mind. I let my hand wander, trailing along the folds of fabric and the occasional breach where skin is revealed. Up and over the ridges, down to the smooth plains, it is rather hypnotic. The new-ness and yet the same-ness all at once, I wonder if a cat feels a bit like this chasing a favored toy. My fingers rip over something not skin and not fabric and I stop. My heart races and I feel my temperature drop. It is a fragment not caught up by the wind from the blades overhead. A fragment caught in the folds of my fabric. One held here for me to find, if only I imagined I had the strength.
I run it along the folds with a fingertip. It moves more easily than the one I lifted this afternoon. It slides up the curl of the bedding and drops into my palm with what seems like little effort. I am shocked into awe. I hold another scrap of myself in the palm of my hand. Of course, I cannot view it. It is far too dark. And for some reason, the casual movement afforded thus far in my black enclave seems to have dissapated. Every effort to put my arm back where it belongs, listing to the side of me is resisted. It rests on top of me, where it does not belong. I grow uncomfortable with the new position. It feels twisted and contrived. My shoulder aches from holding my arm at this angle. I concentrate on wriggling the offending limb up and over the thrust of my hip bone. Every inch takes all of my strength and focus, especially as I am trying to maintain my hold on the fragment, which at this point feels like an anchor draggin my hand backward.
Eventually the arm rolls off of the hip to land hap-hazardly on the bed. My fingers curved inward making the best protective device that I can. I would like to peer at my palm to ensure that the scrap has survived its tossing onto the bed but the darknesss is too great. Its once welcome warm embrace now a hindrance to my purpose.
I wait, head suspended, my bag below offering its bellows-like prayer for morning to come and an oportunity to view the precious offering to avail itself to me.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Daymares 3
The darkness is like a long drink of smooth whiskey. It bites at first and then provides me with a warm and comforting blanket. I can almost feel the parts of me long forgotten. I seem to even recall what it would be like to wriggle toes. I would giggle if the sound would not be so obscene in the black silence. The heat has waned and with it the pressure on my chest, the band around my head. I imagine I could almost lift it enough to see around the room father than my limited range of sweeping my eyes back and forth. Again, the urge to giggle, as I recognize the almost nightly ritual of release. It dawns on me that something more is brewing in my mind tonight. There is a reason I feel so giddy and perhaps a bit stronger.
Today I captured a glimpse, a shred, a fragment and I held it long enough to see it. I saw what was being shaved away from me. In the palm of my own hand I held that sliver of blue with its faint white edge. I have absolutely know idea what it means or what it could belong to. It jogs not one memory in my mind. But I know it came from me, and that just of itself seems like a miracle. I risk a smile in the dark. I cannot tell if it is more a grimace than a smile. I do know that I cannot hold it long. My face is not used to contorting itself into useless expressions. I have lain here expressionless for far too long. I have lain here unwilling to give up any more of myself than they are taking by releasing even the smallest of expressions. It seemed only fair that I keep something to myself. I wonder now how much I was giving away by not allowing myself to express who I am and damn the interlopers. It is not as if they could take more than what they have by seeing my face move. I would shrug at this but my shoulders are too heavy and in any event as the effort to move my lower arm and hand has proved, it would take too long to express the meaning anyway.
I imagine the taste of whiskey again and feel to my surprise a long slow shudder pass through me. I am not quite sure that it reaches my toes (imaginary as I am sure they are by now) but I know that it flows through to my fingers. I know this as I can see them tap a quick pulse and feel the rustle of the fragments they disturb. I would have thought the spinning of the blades would have disbursed these little piles by now, but one must have become cradled somehow in the crook and curve of my hand's odd position. I wonder what it would be like to have a handful of these gems. I imagine leisurely sorting through them until I catch up with my own reality. I cannot do this. I might perhaps be able to manage one at a time. I could perhaps view each tiny sliver, shaved and malformed like puzzle pieces not truly designed to make enough sense to ever come together by the same method I saw the piece today. How many days would it take to put enough together to make sense of the one I saw? And what were the odds that the pieces I would find woudl even belong together?
Suddenly the euphoria that had lifted me in my dark shell dropped me hard. Crashing upon the rock hard surface of my own calamity. I could be her for days, weeks, years even and never find a single fragment related to the next one. How long had I already been here? Long enough to turn into, well, into this pile of bones and flesh supported by the pipes and machines, living on the daily routine of the sun's gradual betrayal and the turning of the blades.
I would not let myself cry. I wasn't sure I had enough fluid in me to do it anyway. I did give myself the small luxury of curlin gmy hand into the fragments on the bed and tugging at the sheet. It would appear I would be left with my sliver of blue and its edge of white. I suppose that was not so bad. There were surely others who had less than I. I just could not remember who.
Today I captured a glimpse, a shred, a fragment and I held it long enough to see it. I saw what was being shaved away from me. In the palm of my own hand I held that sliver of blue with its faint white edge. I have absolutely know idea what it means or what it could belong to. It jogs not one memory in my mind. But I know it came from me, and that just of itself seems like a miracle. I risk a smile in the dark. I cannot tell if it is more a grimace than a smile. I do know that I cannot hold it long. My face is not used to contorting itself into useless expressions. I have lain here expressionless for far too long. I have lain here unwilling to give up any more of myself than they are taking by releasing even the smallest of expressions. It seemed only fair that I keep something to myself. I wonder now how much I was giving away by not allowing myself to express who I am and damn the interlopers. It is not as if they could take more than what they have by seeing my face move. I would shrug at this but my shoulders are too heavy and in any event as the effort to move my lower arm and hand has proved, it would take too long to express the meaning anyway.
I imagine the taste of whiskey again and feel to my surprise a long slow shudder pass through me. I am not quite sure that it reaches my toes (imaginary as I am sure they are by now) but I know that it flows through to my fingers. I know this as I can see them tap a quick pulse and feel the rustle of the fragments they disturb. I would have thought the spinning of the blades would have disbursed these little piles by now, but one must have become cradled somehow in the crook and curve of my hand's odd position. I wonder what it would be like to have a handful of these gems. I imagine leisurely sorting through them until I catch up with my own reality. I cannot do this. I might perhaps be able to manage one at a time. I could perhaps view each tiny sliver, shaved and malformed like puzzle pieces not truly designed to make enough sense to ever come together by the same method I saw the piece today. How many days would it take to put enough together to make sense of the one I saw? And what were the odds that the pieces I would find woudl even belong together?
Suddenly the euphoria that had lifted me in my dark shell dropped me hard. Crashing upon the rock hard surface of my own calamity. I could be her for days, weeks, years even and never find a single fragment related to the next one. How long had I already been here? Long enough to turn into, well, into this pile of bones and flesh supported by the pipes and machines, living on the daily routine of the sun's gradual betrayal and the turning of the blades.
I would not let myself cry. I wasn't sure I had enough fluid in me to do it anyway. I did give myself the small luxury of curlin gmy hand into the fragments on the bed and tugging at the sheet. It would appear I would be left with my sliver of blue and its edge of white. I suppose that was not so bad. There were surely others who had less than I. I just could not remember who.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Daymares Continued
I wake, heat catching in my throat. It seems I have overslept and in doing so have left myself open to the cruelty of the sun. It reaches through the cracks in the shades to blind me and bake be in streaks. Like meat on a grill, without the benefit of mesquite or hickory to liven the olfactory experience. My throat has already been seared. A band of heat has been resting there, slowly roasting it dry.
I close my eyes and try to capture an image of wet. The slide of condensation on the outside of a perfectly chilled beer. I hold the image in my mind until my mouth finally starts to water. The wet trickling slowly down my burning throat. It is not much, nut it is the best I can do. "Heal thyself." Well, I am certainly doing all that I can, trapped as I am in this bed. In this room. In what is left.
I peer down and over, stretching the limits of what I can see. My shattered fragments have grown since the previous day. This is not surprising. At some point I am expecting that there will be nothing left to shave off, and then what will be done with me? I still have not quite fathomed why this process is fruitful. Who benefits? I cannot see that I am gaining any insights. And no one seems to be monitoring the results of this experiment in my gradual fragmentation. Of course, what do I know? I could endulge in paranoid delusions and assume I am important enough to keep an eye on. But that would assume that somehow I did not put myself in this position, and I am not quite ready to give up idea that I have controlled this from the beginning. It belies the idea that I might control the ending.
Searching the periphary to the other side I am startled to find my longest finger touching the edge of a sliver of myself. It takes all of my control not to pull my hand away. Not that I have the strength to move that quickly, but the thought exists. These fragements are repellent as much as the are also compelling. I lift the finger slightly deciding what this may mean to me. What portent it may have. Finally, if for no other reason than I can no longer bear the burden of holding that digit up any longer I let it fall back on the fragment. The sllight touch moves it further under my grasp. I can hear the air escape me.
This fragment is choosing to come back. It seems I will have no choice but to accept it. I wonder as a slowly work with it. pulling at it with the fingertip, moving it closer to an angle where I can truly view its content if it will be whole enough for me to understand. Perhaps it will take many to complete the puzzle.
I pause. What will happen it I am able to complete a frame? Can I will myself through it? Is there a way out of this constriction? Or is this just another way to occupy my unending hours.
I work with the fragment. Worrying over the time it is taking. If the shadows begin to fall I will lose this opportunity. Once they edge their knife blades to me I cannot predict what will happen. I must see and remember this image. The light has already shifted from my throat to my chest. It seems I am not as swift as I could hope. But then I had never planned on being reduced to a digit's worth of movement.
Finally I secure the fragment trapping it against my leg and turn it into my palm. Now all that remains is the reverse journey to bring the hand back out to where I can view it directly. The light has moved to my belly. I strain to move more quickly. I do not have the leisure of time on my side. I cannot take as much time to reverse the movement as I did to enact the forward thrust. But then perhaps it will not be as hard. I am not chasing the fragment this time. I only need to be careful not to dislodge it from my palm.
The blades have begun casting the knife edged shadows. They are lengthening but are not yet where they can touch me. I can see the redness of the evening through the cracks in the shades. Just barely enough light and time as I bring my palm in view. Lifting it is a struggle, I have already expended so much energy. I am not sure I can make this last effort. I am truly not sure that I want to. Still I push myself, pain gripping me. I squint to try and make out the image and feel defeated. The sliver reflects only a simple reflection of the coolest shade of blue. As a try to devine some reason for this I can just make out a single edge a bump on the far right side, a blip of white. And then the knives descend.
I cannot help myself, I let my hand fall and the fragment drifts away from me as a new churning froth begins. The pieces of myself blurring the room, snowflakes. A little miracle added to the oppressive heat. Or it would be if it did not seem so hideous that the game proceeds.
Thank goodness the night will come. I pray for sleep and fear all I will see is fragements of blue. An empty ending to my effort it seems. But why I expected more I do not know. My construct it seems is more complicated. As it should be when you build your own cage.
I close my eyes and try to capture an image of wet. The slide of condensation on the outside of a perfectly chilled beer. I hold the image in my mind until my mouth finally starts to water. The wet trickling slowly down my burning throat. It is not much, nut it is the best I can do. "Heal thyself." Well, I am certainly doing all that I can, trapped as I am in this bed. In this room. In what is left.
I peer down and over, stretching the limits of what I can see. My shattered fragments have grown since the previous day. This is not surprising. At some point I am expecting that there will be nothing left to shave off, and then what will be done with me? I still have not quite fathomed why this process is fruitful. Who benefits? I cannot see that I am gaining any insights. And no one seems to be monitoring the results of this experiment in my gradual fragmentation. Of course, what do I know? I could endulge in paranoid delusions and assume I am important enough to keep an eye on. But that would assume that somehow I did not put myself in this position, and I am not quite ready to give up idea that I have controlled this from the beginning. It belies the idea that I might control the ending.
Searching the periphary to the other side I am startled to find my longest finger touching the edge of a sliver of myself. It takes all of my control not to pull my hand away. Not that I have the strength to move that quickly, but the thought exists. These fragements are repellent as much as the are also compelling. I lift the finger slightly deciding what this may mean to me. What portent it may have. Finally, if for no other reason than I can no longer bear the burden of holding that digit up any longer I let it fall back on the fragment. The sllight touch moves it further under my grasp. I can hear the air escape me.
This fragment is choosing to come back. It seems I will have no choice but to accept it. I wonder as a slowly work with it. pulling at it with the fingertip, moving it closer to an angle where I can truly view its content if it will be whole enough for me to understand. Perhaps it will take many to complete the puzzle.
I pause. What will happen it I am able to complete a frame? Can I will myself through it? Is there a way out of this constriction? Or is this just another way to occupy my unending hours.
I work with the fragment. Worrying over the time it is taking. If the shadows begin to fall I will lose this opportunity. Once they edge their knife blades to me I cannot predict what will happen. I must see and remember this image. The light has already shifted from my throat to my chest. It seems I am not as swift as I could hope. But then I had never planned on being reduced to a digit's worth of movement.
Finally I secure the fragment trapping it against my leg and turn it into my palm. Now all that remains is the reverse journey to bring the hand back out to where I can view it directly. The light has moved to my belly. I strain to move more quickly. I do not have the leisure of time on my side. I cannot take as much time to reverse the movement as I did to enact the forward thrust. But then perhaps it will not be as hard. I am not chasing the fragment this time. I only need to be careful not to dislodge it from my palm.
The blades have begun casting the knife edged shadows. They are lengthening but are not yet where they can touch me. I can see the redness of the evening through the cracks in the shades. Just barely enough light and time as I bring my palm in view. Lifting it is a struggle, I have already expended so much energy. I am not sure I can make this last effort. I am truly not sure that I want to. Still I push myself, pain gripping me. I squint to try and make out the image and feel defeated. The sliver reflects only a simple reflection of the coolest shade of blue. As a try to devine some reason for this I can just make out a single edge a bump on the far right side, a blip of white. And then the knives descend.
I cannot help myself, I let my hand fall and the fragment drifts away from me as a new churning froth begins. The pieces of myself blurring the room, snowflakes. A little miracle added to the oppressive heat. Or it would be if it did not seem so hideous that the game proceeds.
Thank goodness the night will come. I pray for sleep and fear all I will see is fragements of blue. An empty ending to my effort it seems. But why I expected more I do not know. My construct it seems is more complicated. As it should be when you build your own cage.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Dragonfly in a Bottle
Wings flutter
the prismatic color shifting
creating patterns that capture
Spinning wildly
The colors reflect
Off crystalline fine webs
Veins of silk and flesh
Pinging on glass
Wrinkling against metal
trapped
encased
enclosed
Set in the window
A glittering spectacle of potential
Breathing shallowly
recycled air
used
spent
Slowing inexorably
Wingbeat to heartbeat
Unnoticed as the colors shift
Wings flutter
the light's spectacle shifting
captured in created patterns
the prismatic color shifting
creating patterns that capture
Spinning wildly
The colors reflect
Off crystalline fine webs
Veins of silk and flesh
Pinging on glass
Wrinkling against metal
trapped
encased
enclosed
Set in the window
A glittering spectacle of potential
Breathing shallowly
recycled air
used
spent
Slowing inexorably
Wingbeat to heartbeat
Unnoticed as the colors shift
Wings flutter
the light's spectacle shifting
captured in created patterns
Friday, July 13, 2012
Heat Stroke
On a hot summer day, when you search for the shade and find yourself soaking in the heat, what are the images that linger in your head?
Do you see the swirls of dust rising from the dried out land beneath your feet? Are they flashes of the browned and crinkled grasses, dying flowers whose thirst has not been quenched? Do you find yourself thinking of the sweat running in rivulets down your back?
Or do you imagine lush fields of green? The wind rustling through fields of blooms, lifting your hair from your cheek? Can you feel its cooling caress?
Go ahead, stand in the heat. Wait until your jacket is soaked through. Then close your eyes and let your mind drift. Then find a cool place and write down what went through your mind.
You may be surprised at what you find out about yourself. Are you grounded to the reality you find yourself in? Did the images you see reflect only what was in front of you before you closed your eyes? Are you more of a drama queen? Did you see images that created a hotter more desolate place? Or conversely a wildly more dramatic and better place?
Now try sitting in a cool, calm and welcoming space. Preferably with no noise. Just you and what you consider to be comfortable surroundings. Then try this again.
Then move to the heat and write what you remember of your images. Does your writing change? Do you find yourself adjusting the phrasing to match your discomfort?
Can you find in these small exercises a little bit of insight into how your environment affects the way you see the world? Does if potentially provide you insight on how your environment may change the way you choose to interact with the world?
There are very few people who are so even keeled that there are no changes. however subtle when exposed to signficant variances in their environment. The old cliche about running hot and cold had to come from somewhere.
So I guess the next question is, what do we as human beings choose to do about this. We cannot control the weather. So what can we control? I suppose we can control very little if we are not aware of what is controlling us. But perhaps with a good bit of personal observation we can begin to understand how we are being controlled by these influences. This is perhaps better phrased as how we are letting ourselves be controlled by these influences. And then perhaps we can choose to make changes. If the heat drives us toward feeling dried-out and brittle it will likely change our attitude toward our interactions as well. If we are aware of this then we can try to rein this in and make conscious choices not to let this infect our relationships. Or perhaps choose the easiest way out and simply avoid situations where we are placed at lengthy exposure to high levels of heat. If the winter gives us the blues (I know this affects me in ways that are Very Not Good), then we can choose to operate within the short day time hours as much as possible when we have to be outdoors, and try to remain indoors in areas that do not require us to take notice that the light has left us at other times. I know this all sounds rather banal.
But this has come from living through one of the hottest summers I can remember in my little city and realizing that it was having an affect on me and not just physically. It was starting to impact my behavior. And I thought perhaps I just might need to adjust this.
So I guess I wondered how often we take it upon ourselves as individuals to take this kind of internal "temperature" gauge, and how much better our relationships could become if we did it on a regular basis.
Just thinking out loud.
Have a Great Summer - Hope you find some Shade
Do you see the swirls of dust rising from the dried out land beneath your feet? Are they flashes of the browned and crinkled grasses, dying flowers whose thirst has not been quenched? Do you find yourself thinking of the sweat running in rivulets down your back?
Or do you imagine lush fields of green? The wind rustling through fields of blooms, lifting your hair from your cheek? Can you feel its cooling caress?
Go ahead, stand in the heat. Wait until your jacket is soaked through. Then close your eyes and let your mind drift. Then find a cool place and write down what went through your mind.
You may be surprised at what you find out about yourself. Are you grounded to the reality you find yourself in? Did the images you see reflect only what was in front of you before you closed your eyes? Are you more of a drama queen? Did you see images that created a hotter more desolate place? Or conversely a wildly more dramatic and better place?
Now try sitting in a cool, calm and welcoming space. Preferably with no noise. Just you and what you consider to be comfortable surroundings. Then try this again.
Then move to the heat and write what you remember of your images. Does your writing change? Do you find yourself adjusting the phrasing to match your discomfort?
Can you find in these small exercises a little bit of insight into how your environment affects the way you see the world? Does if potentially provide you insight on how your environment may change the way you choose to interact with the world?
There are very few people who are so even keeled that there are no changes. however subtle when exposed to signficant variances in their environment. The old cliche about running hot and cold had to come from somewhere.
So I guess the next question is, what do we as human beings choose to do about this. We cannot control the weather. So what can we control? I suppose we can control very little if we are not aware of what is controlling us. But perhaps with a good bit of personal observation we can begin to understand how we are being controlled by these influences. This is perhaps better phrased as how we are letting ourselves be controlled by these influences. And then perhaps we can choose to make changes. If the heat drives us toward feeling dried-out and brittle it will likely change our attitude toward our interactions as well. If we are aware of this then we can try to rein this in and make conscious choices not to let this infect our relationships. Or perhaps choose the easiest way out and simply avoid situations where we are placed at lengthy exposure to high levels of heat. If the winter gives us the blues (I know this affects me in ways that are Very Not Good), then we can choose to operate within the short day time hours as much as possible when we have to be outdoors, and try to remain indoors in areas that do not require us to take notice that the light has left us at other times. I know this all sounds rather banal.
But this has come from living through one of the hottest summers I can remember in my little city and realizing that it was having an affect on me and not just physically. It was starting to impact my behavior. And I thought perhaps I just might need to adjust this.
So I guess I wondered how often we take it upon ourselves as individuals to take this kind of internal "temperature" gauge, and how much better our relationships could become if we did it on a regular basis.
Just thinking out loud.
Have a Great Summer - Hope you find some Shade
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Forgotten
The cotton fibers
yellowed, dried
filmed with dust
touched by filtered light
glancing downward
catching a stray collar
stroking a sleeve
adding color
tempting touch
tempting a change
attempting to slip inside
feel the aged smooth fabric
thin, light
silk against skin
easier to flip the switch
leave the moment to the dark
dust unmoved
as perhaps it should be
yellowed, dried
filmed with dust
touched by filtered light
glancing downward
catching a stray collar
stroking a sleeve
adding color
tempting touch
tempting a change
attempting to slip inside
feel the aged smooth fabric
thin, light
silk against skin
easier to flip the switch
leave the moment to the dark
dust unmoved
as perhaps it should be
Question for the Readers
I am considering starting the sequel to Participles and Portents.
Just wondering if this is something you would like to read.
Send me a note if it is -
Thanks in advance for your feedback
Rence
Just wondering if this is something you would like to read.
Send me a note if it is -
Thanks in advance for your feedback
Rence
Monday, July 9, 2012
Material Girl
Last Friday I spent the morning in turmoil. The time had come for me to part with a very dear friend. My Beetle. My car was a very important part of my life. It had been purchased in memory of my very first car, a 1968 powder blue Bug. This one, a 2001 remake, was a Vortex blue (periwinkle) turbo and it drove like a dream. I took it everywhere. And when I say everywhere I mean it. It was an off-road camping vehicle, a long-distance traveler when the boys were young enough to both fit into it. It was even their first training car - both of them. And yes, I do realize that they were under age - but I believe that learning early helps create better drivers as the fear is gone by the time they can drive on their own.
Zeus, as that was the car's name, saw me through great times and bad times. Literally the best and worst times of my life (with the exception of the birth of the boys). And then he just started to come apart. It started about two years ago when I had to have the motor replaced. It was expensive and cost more than his book value, but I invested in keeping him with me. I thought that with a little extra care I could pull another five years or so out of his company.
Then he had an issue with the injection system. I fixed that too. Then he lost his antenna in a bizarre vandalism event. I still have the old antenna. I have no idea why I have saved it. I suppose someday I will give up this little bit of him that I now carry around in the trunk of the new vehicle. Through all of this I still thought he would manage to eek it out. And then it happened. We had the most incredibly hot day in Milwaukee and I went to a long meeting. When I got back to him he was over a 100 degrees even though I had parked him in the shade. So I started him up. I was running late so rather then wait for the air conditioning to kick in I let down the windows so I could breathe and drive. They never went back up. And that is when I realized he wasn't going to make it. It took me two weeks of his sitting in the garage and bumming rides from my son to finally look for another car. My boys, Lord love them, went with me on the search and we found a white Scion Tc. It drives well and has more room, so now they can fit in the car with me again, which is a bonus I must admit. I signed the paperwork on Tuesday and agreed to deliver Zeus to his new owners on Friday. I spent Friday morning crying over the phone to my Mom. Thank goodness she understood where I was coming from. It was not about the material thing. It was about Zeus, about all the years, eleven years of memories stacked up in him. Eleven years of feeling like myself everytime I got behind the wheel, connecting to the young girl who first started driving on her own and to the young mother who played with her kids and then taught them to drive. It was about all of it. In the end, I handed his keys over and took the new car home.
The boys are home for the summer and we will build some new memories with Zerubbabel (Zeru for short). And I will have to keep the old memories locked in my heart instead of driving around in them, but I guess I can learn to do that. I suppose we all learn to do that as life takes us on our journey. Afterall, in the end it is not about the things that surrounded us as we created those memories, it is about the people we created them with.
So while I suppose I will always have a special place in my heart for my wonderful little Bug, I will also never forget how wonderful the Boys were in helping me find a new car when I needed to or my Mom's support in helping me learn to let go.
Here's to fabulous family and knowing in the end that's what really matters. Love you all...........
Happy Driving
May the Road Rise Up to Meet You
and The Wind Be Always at Your Back
Zeus, as that was the car's name, saw me through great times and bad times. Literally the best and worst times of my life (with the exception of the birth of the boys). And then he just started to come apart. It started about two years ago when I had to have the motor replaced. It was expensive and cost more than his book value, but I invested in keeping him with me. I thought that with a little extra care I could pull another five years or so out of his company.
Then he had an issue with the injection system. I fixed that too. Then he lost his antenna in a bizarre vandalism event. I still have the old antenna. I have no idea why I have saved it. I suppose someday I will give up this little bit of him that I now carry around in the trunk of the new vehicle. Through all of this I still thought he would manage to eek it out. And then it happened. We had the most incredibly hot day in Milwaukee and I went to a long meeting. When I got back to him he was over a 100 degrees even though I had parked him in the shade. So I started him up. I was running late so rather then wait for the air conditioning to kick in I let down the windows so I could breathe and drive. They never went back up. And that is when I realized he wasn't going to make it. It took me two weeks of his sitting in the garage and bumming rides from my son to finally look for another car. My boys, Lord love them, went with me on the search and we found a white Scion Tc. It drives well and has more room, so now they can fit in the car with me again, which is a bonus I must admit. I signed the paperwork on Tuesday and agreed to deliver Zeus to his new owners on Friday. I spent Friday morning crying over the phone to my Mom. Thank goodness she understood where I was coming from. It was not about the material thing. It was about Zeus, about all the years, eleven years of memories stacked up in him. Eleven years of feeling like myself everytime I got behind the wheel, connecting to the young girl who first started driving on her own and to the young mother who played with her kids and then taught them to drive. It was about all of it. In the end, I handed his keys over and took the new car home.
The boys are home for the summer and we will build some new memories with Zerubbabel (Zeru for short). And I will have to keep the old memories locked in my heart instead of driving around in them, but I guess I can learn to do that. I suppose we all learn to do that as life takes us on our journey. Afterall, in the end it is not about the things that surrounded us as we created those memories, it is about the people we created them with.
So while I suppose I will always have a special place in my heart for my wonderful little Bug, I will also never forget how wonderful the Boys were in helping me find a new car when I needed to or my Mom's support in helping me learn to let go.
Here's to fabulous family and knowing in the end that's what really matters. Love you all...........
Happy Driving
May the Road Rise Up to Meet You
and The Wind Be Always at Your Back
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Daymares
Fragmented images lay like tattered pictures just beyond my fingertips. I am propped here on my pillows like a broken doll. My china face, porcelain bone, cupped by its mound of featherless support. The elongated neck that connects me to the rest of my frame seems like a spare cable. I know it is there, but I cannot move it of my own accord. I know this because I have tried. The weight at the tip of my skull is too heavy and the useless bag that heaves breath up and down does not cooperate either.
My fingers tipple and wiggle, stretching toward those images. I am certain that if I can piece those fragments together I too can become whole. Frustrated, I allow myself to drift back to watching the endless swish of the blades of the ceiling fan. White against white they make almost no shadow at this time of day. The heat is oppressive and their effort to move the air seems lackluster. It is as if they do not have the will to try. I do not blame them. I have lost the will to try as well.
I know that as the sun moves the shadows will return. The heat will lessen and this will seem a blessing. But like so many blessings it will be one I will have to pay for dearly. I will pay for it with the shadows that it brings. The white blades will extend their arms and begin to cut like knives through the room. Their shadows sharpened and extended. The points directed at me. Eventually the time will come when they are ripened enough to reach me, to slice me, to spill more of me into fragments on the sheets. And the small amount of breeze will shift them just far enough that I cannot reach them.
I survive this ritual leeching of the blades because I know it will come to an end. The light will fade as the darkness deepens and I will be left alone. Alone in the darkness with my fragments. Alone with the pieces of myself that have been cut away and scattered about. I will lay there with my head in its perpetual position, staring upward at the fan, seeing through the peripherary the broken images that eventually grow too dim to understand as the dark takes posession of the room.
I rest in the dark. It is my time of solace. The time when I can pretend that I did not trap myself here. That I did not choose this place of my own free will. It is, afterall, my bed. It is my room. It is all of my making. I decorated it, all of the items carefully chosen over the years. Still, it is hard in the light not to fight to pull the fragments to me, to make a complete picture and step out of the frame.
Sleep has always been a friend to those who think too much. Has it not?
My fingers tipple and wiggle, stretching toward those images. I am certain that if I can piece those fragments together I too can become whole. Frustrated, I allow myself to drift back to watching the endless swish of the blades of the ceiling fan. White against white they make almost no shadow at this time of day. The heat is oppressive and their effort to move the air seems lackluster. It is as if they do not have the will to try. I do not blame them. I have lost the will to try as well.
I know that as the sun moves the shadows will return. The heat will lessen and this will seem a blessing. But like so many blessings it will be one I will have to pay for dearly. I will pay for it with the shadows that it brings. The white blades will extend their arms and begin to cut like knives through the room. Their shadows sharpened and extended. The points directed at me. Eventually the time will come when they are ripened enough to reach me, to slice me, to spill more of me into fragments on the sheets. And the small amount of breeze will shift them just far enough that I cannot reach them.
I survive this ritual leeching of the blades because I know it will come to an end. The light will fade as the darkness deepens and I will be left alone. Alone in the darkness with my fragments. Alone with the pieces of myself that have been cut away and scattered about. I will lay there with my head in its perpetual position, staring upward at the fan, seeing through the peripherary the broken images that eventually grow too dim to understand as the dark takes posession of the room.
I rest in the dark. It is my time of solace. The time when I can pretend that I did not trap myself here. That I did not choose this place of my own free will. It is, afterall, my bed. It is my room. It is all of my making. I decorated it, all of the items carefully chosen over the years. Still, it is hard in the light not to fight to pull the fragments to me, to make a complete picture and step out of the frame.
Sleep has always been a friend to those who think too much. Has it not?
Monday, July 2, 2012
Night Walker
In the dark
wet gleaming
paving stones
slither beneath
unprotected skin
unseen shards
remind the wanderer
the path traveled
is not wholly his
The light
such as it is
ripples and steams
creating fragments
and visions
In the Greyness
slick with thought
breath chilled
step over step
into the deep
the depth covers
the light diffuses
dissipates
eases
releases
is
no
more
wet gleaming
paving stones
slither beneath
unprotected skin
unseen shards
remind the wanderer
the path traveled
is not wholly his
The light
such as it is
ripples and steams
creating fragments
and visions
In the Greyness
slick with thought
breath chilled
step over step
into the deep
the depth covers
the light diffuses
dissipates
eases
releases
is
no
more
Friday, June 22, 2012
Urban Musings
The heat has settled oppressively around the city. I have been temporarily relocated to a much more urban environment for the last week and I find that the pace has gotten to me. In the mornings I have been waking earlier. The view from my room is harsh on the grit of the well worn buildings, the old industrial core wrapping its metal arms around the city's spires as if they will bring them tumbling down with a heavy hug.
There has been no rain, just the heavy drugged heat, full of the wet that lifts from the lake to drench me not just in sweat but in its humidity. I am not tempted to find my way outside during the day. It is far too easy to hide in the interior of the building with the artificial light and wait for the temperature to ease a bit as evening drags itself forward.
At least on the days that I can. Twice this week I have driven from neighborhood to neighborhood, circling for a place to put the car, feeling somewhat like a Tinker who could not find a place to put the wagon in the community that was not his own, that would never be his. I marvel at the people who manuever so easily in the maze of streets. The ones who so effortlessly slip in front of me to claim the parking space I have finally unearthed. I am so awed by their apparent fit in the environment it does not occur to me to be upset that they have taken what I was seeking, I simply circle again and end up walking an extra 4 blocks to the meeting, the humidity pooling along my neck and dripping down my shoulder blades. Have I mentioned yet that this is the Midwest?
I go to a meeting where I have alotted an hour and a half. I think this will give me plenty of time to drive 10 minutes and find parking for my meeting which is an hour after this alotted time. Somehow the hour and a half extends and I find I have only 15 minutes to find the elusive spot. In a series of miracles, I manage to get to the next appointment, park and arrive on time. For this client I have arranged in advance to start on time. They know I have a meeting in an hour. Which is why, of couse we start 20 minutes late. I break at my appointed time and call into my other meeting. I stay on the phone for a few minutes and slip off, sending a text that I will join again shortly. I go back to my clients to say my goodbyes. I have to be someplace else in 20 minutes now. They keep me there for another 15. I text the client with whom I am supposed to be on a conference call. I will be back shortly. The heat has slipped into the air conditioned building now and I can feel myself melting into my shoes. Finally I escape, make the call in the elevator and join. I race to the car and juggle phone, bags, and notebook, scrambling to keep everything in forward motion. It is already time for me to be at my next destination.
How did all my planning go so far awry? On my way, I skim into lanes with haste. I make sure only that I have enough room to slide in, as if it is my right of passage. I turn on the last vestige of yellow and make my way through the next light just before it can blink to red. Pulling in front of the building I see an open parking space and a slip into it without hesitation. I end the call and get out of the car. Looking up I see the startled face of someone I recognize. It is me, the person who was driving earlier this afternoon, circling for her chance. And I realize that perhaps the awe of fitting in is not quite what I should have been feeling. Perhaps it should have been sympathy for the others who are running just as far behind in the heated haze of this rushing urban setting.
I must admit, I am glad that I will be happy to make the drive back tonight. I am used to a fast paced life in terms of what I accomplish in a day at my desk. I know that. I think I have just discovered that I like it better when I live it in surroundings where I do not have to move as fast as I may have to think.
Here's to life with less traffic, a few less meetings and cooler climes........
Have an awesome weekend................................
There has been no rain, just the heavy drugged heat, full of the wet that lifts from the lake to drench me not just in sweat but in its humidity. I am not tempted to find my way outside during the day. It is far too easy to hide in the interior of the building with the artificial light and wait for the temperature to ease a bit as evening drags itself forward.
At least on the days that I can. Twice this week I have driven from neighborhood to neighborhood, circling for a place to put the car, feeling somewhat like a Tinker who could not find a place to put the wagon in the community that was not his own, that would never be his. I marvel at the people who manuever so easily in the maze of streets. The ones who so effortlessly slip in front of me to claim the parking space I have finally unearthed. I am so awed by their apparent fit in the environment it does not occur to me to be upset that they have taken what I was seeking, I simply circle again and end up walking an extra 4 blocks to the meeting, the humidity pooling along my neck and dripping down my shoulder blades. Have I mentioned yet that this is the Midwest?
I go to a meeting where I have alotted an hour and a half. I think this will give me plenty of time to drive 10 minutes and find parking for my meeting which is an hour after this alotted time. Somehow the hour and a half extends and I find I have only 15 minutes to find the elusive spot. In a series of miracles, I manage to get to the next appointment, park and arrive on time. For this client I have arranged in advance to start on time. They know I have a meeting in an hour. Which is why, of couse we start 20 minutes late. I break at my appointed time and call into my other meeting. I stay on the phone for a few minutes and slip off, sending a text that I will join again shortly. I go back to my clients to say my goodbyes. I have to be someplace else in 20 minutes now. They keep me there for another 15. I text the client with whom I am supposed to be on a conference call. I will be back shortly. The heat has slipped into the air conditioned building now and I can feel myself melting into my shoes. Finally I escape, make the call in the elevator and join. I race to the car and juggle phone, bags, and notebook, scrambling to keep everything in forward motion. It is already time for me to be at my next destination.
How did all my planning go so far awry? On my way, I skim into lanes with haste. I make sure only that I have enough room to slide in, as if it is my right of passage. I turn on the last vestige of yellow and make my way through the next light just before it can blink to red. Pulling in front of the building I see an open parking space and a slip into it without hesitation. I end the call and get out of the car. Looking up I see the startled face of someone I recognize. It is me, the person who was driving earlier this afternoon, circling for her chance. And I realize that perhaps the awe of fitting in is not quite what I should have been feeling. Perhaps it should have been sympathy for the others who are running just as far behind in the heated haze of this rushing urban setting.
I must admit, I am glad that I will be happy to make the drive back tonight. I am used to a fast paced life in terms of what I accomplish in a day at my desk. I know that. I think I have just discovered that I like it better when I live it in surroundings where I do not have to move as fast as I may have to think.
Here's to life with less traffic, a few less meetings and cooler climes........
Have an awesome weekend................................
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Learning to Connect
Sometimes the people who are closest to each other can do the most harm. When we let the petty anger stand in the way of the easy apology it can turn into burning resentment and from there it is a downward spiral. You have to be very careful with the ones you love.
Strange that we are so much better with those we do not know. We manage ourselves better around them. We pay attention to being polite. We pay strict attention to the laws of basic behavior - even managing the basic concept of "I'm sorry" when we know we are clearly in the wrong.
Why is this so hard to do when we are with our loved ones? Why do we find it so easy to dig in our heels and act like fools? And why is it necessary for outside parties to slap us upside the head to point out that we are treating each other so horrible for us to see the damage we are doing?
When will we learn to be as considerate to each other at home as we would to the strangers on the street?
I watched last night as two people I love more than the universe and those that extend beyond it hit logger-heads. Both stubbornly sticking with their anger. Both drilling the holes so deep I thought our overly American dinner of mac'n'cheese would soon turn to a China buffet.
In the end the only thing that broke the silence was their mutual tears. They had made themselves miserable by making each other miserable. They were not hurting because of their own anger. They were hurting because they had hurt each other. Yet neither knew how to start repairing the damage that their arugment had caused.
What is was so confounding is that the argurment could easily have been avoided by a few simple sentences. If one had simply explained why they were delaying the requested action or the other had asked why the delay was occuring - it would all have been diffused.
Why was the delay in action happening you might ask? Because one was taking time to let a friend know that they would be delayed in getting back to them because they had family things they needed to tend to.
Really - it was that simple. I suspect had the person requesting the action known that this was what was occuring they would have been happy to wait the additional five minutes for the internet connection to be established and the message to be sent.
They are, afterall, sticklers for politeness. Which is why they got upset in the first place.
Such is life. We take for granted that those we love will give us the most latitude and in doing so we tend to lose the most connection - in that we forget to actually make the connections to begin with.
Strange that we are so much better with those we do not know. We manage ourselves better around them. We pay attention to being polite. We pay strict attention to the laws of basic behavior - even managing the basic concept of "I'm sorry" when we know we are clearly in the wrong.
Why is this so hard to do when we are with our loved ones? Why do we find it so easy to dig in our heels and act like fools? And why is it necessary for outside parties to slap us upside the head to point out that we are treating each other so horrible for us to see the damage we are doing?
When will we learn to be as considerate to each other at home as we would to the strangers on the street?
I watched last night as two people I love more than the universe and those that extend beyond it hit logger-heads. Both stubbornly sticking with their anger. Both drilling the holes so deep I thought our overly American dinner of mac'n'cheese would soon turn to a China buffet.
In the end the only thing that broke the silence was their mutual tears. They had made themselves miserable by making each other miserable. They were not hurting because of their own anger. They were hurting because they had hurt each other. Yet neither knew how to start repairing the damage that their arugment had caused.
What is was so confounding is that the argurment could easily have been avoided by a few simple sentences. If one had simply explained why they were delaying the requested action or the other had asked why the delay was occuring - it would all have been diffused.
Why was the delay in action happening you might ask? Because one was taking time to let a friend know that they would be delayed in getting back to them because they had family things they needed to tend to.
Really - it was that simple. I suspect had the person requesting the action known that this was what was occuring they would have been happy to wait the additional five minutes for the internet connection to be established and the message to be sent.
They are, afterall, sticklers for politeness. Which is why they got upset in the first place.
Such is life. We take for granted that those we love will give us the most latitude and in doing so we tend to lose the most connection - in that we forget to actually make the connections to begin with.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
On a Musical Note
For some reason today I keep hearing a little rif from an old Chuck Berry song. "Riding along in my automobile. My baby beside me at the wheel."..............." Can you imagine the way I felt. I couldn't unfasten the safety belt."......................"Riding along in my autoboose..........still couldn't get that belt loose."
The sun coming in through the office window, gradually shifting from one side of the glass to the other, and Chuck lamenting his way through rock'n'roll history in my head. His girlfriend forever trapped in the passenger seat. I just can't help smiling. It is one of those songs that just reminds you of weekends or evenings with absolutely nothing to do. Just time to relax and take a cruise.
Of course the cost of gas and the issue of the excess carbon footprint issued by traveling randomly is sort of a downer when you really start thinking about taking that long random ride about town. As is the construction and the traffic congestion which will no doubt take the wind out of your hair and force you to roll up the windows and use the air conditioner - which is also not good for the environment. (And I suspect is also not that good for your health.)
But that is not really the point - the idea is the pure simplicity of the vision created by the song and the simple humor of a boy who doesn't know what to do with his malfunctioning seat belt. Young love/angst at its best. All humor and no drama. Lovely.
So I say to myself - What a Wonderful World. And now I have a new song to occupy my evening.
Well, at least I am staying in the upbeat swing of things, even if the music is getting more dated as the time wears on. I guess it is good thing that I really don't know any caveman era songs, I have a feeling those would not be pleasant to hear bumbling about one's head as you worked.
Well so much for What a Wonderful World.
It seems the music we play for ourselves, the images we give to ourselves can very much persuade how we feel and how we approach our day. Yet I know that simply setting my Ipod to a specific artist or song does not always make a difference. It is the music that runs through my mind that sets the tone. It is the images that flash through unbidden that shape the mood.
I am not sure if the music stems from the mood or vice versa. But I do know that when I take the time to listen, it generally lifts me up.
"Crack the shutters open wide..........." Well, that is better, I have fast forwarded to a modern band. And thank you Snow Patrol for joining me today.
Hope you are having a wonderfully Musical Wednesday.
Rock Steady
Rence
The sun coming in through the office window, gradually shifting from one side of the glass to the other, and Chuck lamenting his way through rock'n'roll history in my head. His girlfriend forever trapped in the passenger seat. I just can't help smiling. It is one of those songs that just reminds you of weekends or evenings with absolutely nothing to do. Just time to relax and take a cruise.
Of course the cost of gas and the issue of the excess carbon footprint issued by traveling randomly is sort of a downer when you really start thinking about taking that long random ride about town. As is the construction and the traffic congestion which will no doubt take the wind out of your hair and force you to roll up the windows and use the air conditioner - which is also not good for the environment. (And I suspect is also not that good for your health.)
But that is not really the point - the idea is the pure simplicity of the vision created by the song and the simple humor of a boy who doesn't know what to do with his malfunctioning seat belt. Young love/angst at its best. All humor and no drama. Lovely.
So I say to myself - What a Wonderful World. And now I have a new song to occupy my evening.
Well, at least I am staying in the upbeat swing of things, even if the music is getting more dated as the time wears on. I guess it is good thing that I really don't know any caveman era songs, I have a feeling those would not be pleasant to hear bumbling about one's head as you worked.
Well so much for What a Wonderful World.
It seems the music we play for ourselves, the images we give to ourselves can very much persuade how we feel and how we approach our day. Yet I know that simply setting my Ipod to a specific artist or song does not always make a difference. It is the music that runs through my mind that sets the tone. It is the images that flash through unbidden that shape the mood.
I am not sure if the music stems from the mood or vice versa. But I do know that when I take the time to listen, it generally lifts me up.
"Crack the shutters open wide..........." Well, that is better, I have fast forwarded to a modern band. And thank you Snow Patrol for joining me today.
Hope you are having a wonderfully Musical Wednesday.
Rock Steady
Rence
Friday, May 18, 2012
Windows - A Traveler's Tale
The glaze on the window resembled the sugar slick coating on a donut
Not the sandy, gritty kind
The melty sweet sticky
Glued to the surface, gummed on your hand
If you dare to touch it kind
It clung to the outside of the glass
Battling the wipers
and winning
We drove on anyway
Its haze a comfort in the heat
The only cold a bright collective wish
dimming with every mile
The passenger window reflected vague shadows
through its sugar induced haze
My breath forming patches I could draw in
Making pictures that could be seen from inside
but the window was not giving them to the world
Conversation had long since fallen off
The effort of speech matching
the effort of the wipers
It occurred to us collectively that
darknesss, when it came
would make very little impact
Given our current state
I guess that's about when we decided
to continue on.....................
Ever wonder just how much time we spend traveling this way:? trundling along with the windows so gummed up that the view is no more than the shadows of what we assume will be there? Aware of the heat? Perhaps even dimly aware that there is something out there working toward clarity - if we could only get there?
I guess we don't really have to worry though - its not like its our responsibility to clean the windows before we take off on the trip - right?
Not the sandy, gritty kind
The melty sweet sticky
Glued to the surface, gummed on your hand
If you dare to touch it kind
It clung to the outside of the glass
Battling the wipers
and winning
We drove on anyway
Its haze a comfort in the heat
The only cold a bright collective wish
dimming with every mile
The passenger window reflected vague shadows
through its sugar induced haze
My breath forming patches I could draw in
Making pictures that could be seen from inside
but the window was not giving them to the world
Conversation had long since fallen off
The effort of speech matching
the effort of the wipers
It occurred to us collectively that
darknesss, when it came
would make very little impact
Given our current state
I guess that's about when we decided
to continue on.....................
Ever wonder just how much time we spend traveling this way:? trundling along with the windows so gummed up that the view is no more than the shadows of what we assume will be there? Aware of the heat? Perhaps even dimly aware that there is something out there working toward clarity - if we could only get there?
I guess we don't really have to worry though - its not like its our responsibility to clean the windows before we take off on the trip - right?
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
The final 60 Seconds
What would you take with you if you had 60 seconds to collect yourself before you had to leave your home forever? Don't spend time with your answer, let the first things that come to mind become your answer.
Then ask yourself again. Does the answer change? When you look at these two reflections of yourself, what do you see? Do you like the image reflected? More importantly, did you answer honestly? Or did you answer the question posed knowing that you would have to deal with that reflection later?
Its odd, but with as much as a collector as I am, my first response would be to find the cats. My boy's love them and so do I. But the opening phrase of that last sentence is key for me. My boy's love them. I would find them first. My memories, the other items I surround myself with, the physical things may not be replaceable - but the memories really can't be taken away. The cat's though, I just could never explain why I saved an object before saving them.
When I ask it a second time, - as if my 60 seconds have expanded and the cats are safe, I feel free to add a few more bits and pieces, the paintings that are special I can grab along the way, the necklace from Ireland from my mom, the one my dad made me and the rings he made the boys (this is easy - they are stored together in the same box), and Peanut Butter of course. Thinking it through I realize that these are all on a direct path to most of the exits in the house, only one painting is at risk if I have to leave through a rear window. I have to admit I have a desire to move that one so that it has a better line toward the exit in the event of disaster.
And then I remember, I probably won't get an expanded 60 seconds. I will be very lucky indeed to get Cooper and Magic outside with me. And if I can do that I will feel blessed.
I sit back and wonder at all the little items I have accumulated and associated with importance. The bibles the boys and I read together after my Da's parting. The one we bought for him to place at the table. The small tokens of remembrance. My rock garden, accumulated over the years, as Collin found them one at a time and brought their intrigue to me. The host of pictures, drawings, pieces of writing and knick-knacks that tell a story from a stolen hour here or there with the important people in my life. The framed poem on the fireplace from Nancy and my little Leprechaun (also from Nancy). I am surrounded by images of love and laughter in my home.
But in that final 60 seconds I think I know that while they give me comfort now, I would not try to save them. I carry them with me wherever I go. I would take the cats, the smelly, fussy wonderful cats, as a continuing gift and a measure of the value of life.
What would you take?
Then ask yourself again. Does the answer change? When you look at these two reflections of yourself, what do you see? Do you like the image reflected? More importantly, did you answer honestly? Or did you answer the question posed knowing that you would have to deal with that reflection later?
Its odd, but with as much as a collector as I am, my first response would be to find the cats. My boy's love them and so do I. But the opening phrase of that last sentence is key for me. My boy's love them. I would find them first. My memories, the other items I surround myself with, the physical things may not be replaceable - but the memories really can't be taken away. The cat's though, I just could never explain why I saved an object before saving them.
When I ask it a second time, - as if my 60 seconds have expanded and the cats are safe, I feel free to add a few more bits and pieces, the paintings that are special I can grab along the way, the necklace from Ireland from my mom, the one my dad made me and the rings he made the boys (this is easy - they are stored together in the same box), and Peanut Butter of course. Thinking it through I realize that these are all on a direct path to most of the exits in the house, only one painting is at risk if I have to leave through a rear window. I have to admit I have a desire to move that one so that it has a better line toward the exit in the event of disaster.
And then I remember, I probably won't get an expanded 60 seconds. I will be very lucky indeed to get Cooper and Magic outside with me. And if I can do that I will feel blessed.
I sit back and wonder at all the little items I have accumulated and associated with importance. The bibles the boys and I read together after my Da's parting. The one we bought for him to place at the table. The small tokens of remembrance. My rock garden, accumulated over the years, as Collin found them one at a time and brought their intrigue to me. The host of pictures, drawings, pieces of writing and knick-knacks that tell a story from a stolen hour here or there with the important people in my life. The framed poem on the fireplace from Nancy and my little Leprechaun (also from Nancy). I am surrounded by images of love and laughter in my home.
But in that final 60 seconds I think I know that while they give me comfort now, I would not try to save them. I carry them with me wherever I go. I would take the cats, the smelly, fussy wonderful cats, as a continuing gift and a measure of the value of life.
What would you take?
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Electronic Slipstream
This onslaught of input
the constant barrage from the hypertechnical world
makes my eyes itch
my neck lean un-naturally to the side
looking like a cantilevered addition to my body
Unplugged I am incomplete
Floating in a sea of tranquility
yet somehow bereft
Caught in the speed of communication
trapped in access to information
Fingers glued to the keyboard
I am in the mainstream
Perhaps I have been assimilated
or simply dislocated
the constant barrage from the hypertechnical world
makes my eyes itch
my neck lean un-naturally to the side
looking like a cantilevered addition to my body
Unplugged I am incomplete
Floating in a sea of tranquility
yet somehow bereft
Caught in the speed of communication
trapped in access to information
Fingers glued to the keyboard
I am in the mainstream
Perhaps I have been assimilated
or simply dislocated
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Peanut Butter
When I was a little girl, I went Christmas shopping with my mom and dad. I don't remember what store it was, but I do recall that it was huge. When we entered there was this over-flowing display of stuffed animals. It was amazing. Definitely a way to a little girls heart. Certainly a way to mine. Of course like moth to a flame I found myself at the display attracted by one very specific teddybear. It was incredibly plush, so furry it came with its own brush. A combination of deep brown and beige patched fur with liquid brownn button eyes and a red tongue that looked ready to lick a lollipop. I was in teddybear love. I am certain that my Da told me to put it down. And I probably even did, the first time I picked it up. But somehow over the course of the time we were at the store I managed to circle back and pick up the bear again and drag it around with me all over that store.
Eventually I was told to go put it away again. Crushed, I did as I was told. Then moments later on our way to the check out line, my mother pulled it off the display and put into the basket with a remark I could not help overhearing. My cousin would love it. My heart fell to my feet. Well, I guess if the teddybear wasn't going to come home with me, at least he wasn't going to stay in the store. He was destined to have a home. That was better than an alternative fate. It was better than not knowing what happened to him.
Later the presents were wrapped and of course a teddybear shaped wedge lay under the tree with my cousin's name on the tag. I gritted my teeth and moved on with it. I loved that silly old bear, but if he couldn't be with me, well at least I could believe he would be happy.
Of course by now you have probably figured out that my parents did the bait and switch. They did get a teddybear for my cousin, but it wasn't My Teddybear. Mine was under the tree on Christmas morning, all fluffy and combed with his brush attached and a bright ribbon. I did not need a tag to know he was for me. I am certain I received other gifts that Christmas. Probably ones that were on my Santa list, but the only one I remember is that teddybear.
You might wonder why this blog is titled Peanut Butter? Because that was the bear's name. Why? I don't know, I was 6 years old. That's why. But Peanut Butter has been through all the stages of my life with me. He has been through surgeries, births, trips to Europe, he has been the protector for those I love when I could not be there myself, he has been a rock in a small soft stuffed shell.
And now when I use the phrase that my peanut butter is stretched too thin, I mean the side of me that he represents. The part that is warm and fuzzy and needs combing from a friend. It is easy to get hard and brittle when you add to much work to your plate and not enough of everything else. Somehow it always seems possible to get the extra work done too.
But it always costs a little bit more Peanut Butter to do it. The question is - is it worth it?
I know the answer that 6 year old girl would have given. Do you?
Eventually I was told to go put it away again. Crushed, I did as I was told. Then moments later on our way to the check out line, my mother pulled it off the display and put into the basket with a remark I could not help overhearing. My cousin would love it. My heart fell to my feet. Well, I guess if the teddybear wasn't going to come home with me, at least he wasn't going to stay in the store. He was destined to have a home. That was better than an alternative fate. It was better than not knowing what happened to him.
Later the presents were wrapped and of course a teddybear shaped wedge lay under the tree with my cousin's name on the tag. I gritted my teeth and moved on with it. I loved that silly old bear, but if he couldn't be with me, well at least I could believe he would be happy.
Of course by now you have probably figured out that my parents did the bait and switch. They did get a teddybear for my cousin, but it wasn't My Teddybear. Mine was under the tree on Christmas morning, all fluffy and combed with his brush attached and a bright ribbon. I did not need a tag to know he was for me. I am certain I received other gifts that Christmas. Probably ones that were on my Santa list, but the only one I remember is that teddybear.
You might wonder why this blog is titled Peanut Butter? Because that was the bear's name. Why? I don't know, I was 6 years old. That's why. But Peanut Butter has been through all the stages of my life with me. He has been through surgeries, births, trips to Europe, he has been the protector for those I love when I could not be there myself, he has been a rock in a small soft stuffed shell.
And now when I use the phrase that my peanut butter is stretched too thin, I mean the side of me that he represents. The part that is warm and fuzzy and needs combing from a friend. It is easy to get hard and brittle when you add to much work to your plate and not enough of everything else. Somehow it always seems possible to get the extra work done too.
But it always costs a little bit more Peanut Butter to do it. The question is - is it worth it?
I know the answer that 6 year old girl would have given. Do you?
Monday, April 23, 2012
Fractures in the Looking Glass
From time to time we find ourselves looking at the reflections of our lives. They may be fractures in the looking glass, phrases caught on pages or actually the people stepping out of the frame in living color. How do we interact with these relections? Do we see them as glimpses of ourselves? Are they whispers of wantings for what might have been, if only we had been different then? Or are they images we want to run from because they show us a reflection of ourselves that we don't want to admit ever existed? I suspect in many ways they twist and turn and become a bit of both of the latter.
The past is a strange thing. It can be a sweet treat that turns rancid in the mouth just as easily as it can be the scarry darkness at the bottom of the stairs that suddenly illuminates revealing the bright component that completes the puzzle you have been working on for years. The important thing to keep in mind, is that it is indeed the past. No effort on your part can make it breathe into the present. You cannot pick up the fragment of the mirror and force the image to walk in this time and space any more than you can give the words on the page any depth or meaning that isn't anchored to the exact moment when they were truly vocalized. Certainly you can imbue your life with overtones from the past. You can let it sway your decision making, give it precedence in such a way that the past has more power than the present to move you forward. But then, when you think of it that way - how do you ever move forward? If everything you do is driven by the past? If there is truly no present because you do not exist in that time frame based on your own capacity to frame the time?
I have found that a good does of nostalgia can be warming. In fact I think it is healthy. I believe it keeps us atttached to our roots. But I know quite a few people who actually live day to day hoping that tomorrow will bring back yesterday. And let's face it, that is just not going to happen. If you are lucky, the very best you can hope is that the address you lost will turn up again sometime in the future and you will be able to reconnect with the person you are missing. But don't expect to find them unchanged - and don't ask them to see you as if time has not passed.
In a way it seems that is part of the tragedy of being human. We spend such a large part of our youth rushing to grow up. Discarding parts of our identity as we seek to become our "adult" selves, only to reach a certain point where looking over our shoulders is more satisfying then looking ahead. Perhaps we tire of the race? Or perhaps we tire of the mounting reqrets - for what we leave behind as we press ahead. Whatever the reason it is best to learn that the past lies there in its glory, not to be raised again for the re-living of it. But to be cherished for the memories it provides, the lessons we might take from it and the inspiration that hides beneath the surface. Yes, inspiration, for even if the road has been long, harsh and winding, we have at least gotten far enough to look back upon it. We have climbed this far, and that is worth the view.
There may indeed be fractures in the looking glass, but if I tilt them this way and that, when the light comes in I get a fine set or prisms. How much more do I need?
The past is a strange thing. It can be a sweet treat that turns rancid in the mouth just as easily as it can be the scarry darkness at the bottom of the stairs that suddenly illuminates revealing the bright component that completes the puzzle you have been working on for years. The important thing to keep in mind, is that it is indeed the past. No effort on your part can make it breathe into the present. You cannot pick up the fragment of the mirror and force the image to walk in this time and space any more than you can give the words on the page any depth or meaning that isn't anchored to the exact moment when they were truly vocalized. Certainly you can imbue your life with overtones from the past. You can let it sway your decision making, give it precedence in such a way that the past has more power than the present to move you forward. But then, when you think of it that way - how do you ever move forward? If everything you do is driven by the past? If there is truly no present because you do not exist in that time frame based on your own capacity to frame the time?
I have found that a good does of nostalgia can be warming. In fact I think it is healthy. I believe it keeps us atttached to our roots. But I know quite a few people who actually live day to day hoping that tomorrow will bring back yesterday. And let's face it, that is just not going to happen. If you are lucky, the very best you can hope is that the address you lost will turn up again sometime in the future and you will be able to reconnect with the person you are missing. But don't expect to find them unchanged - and don't ask them to see you as if time has not passed.
In a way it seems that is part of the tragedy of being human. We spend such a large part of our youth rushing to grow up. Discarding parts of our identity as we seek to become our "adult" selves, only to reach a certain point where looking over our shoulders is more satisfying then looking ahead. Perhaps we tire of the race? Or perhaps we tire of the mounting reqrets - for what we leave behind as we press ahead. Whatever the reason it is best to learn that the past lies there in its glory, not to be raised again for the re-living of it. But to be cherished for the memories it provides, the lessons we might take from it and the inspiration that hides beneath the surface. Yes, inspiration, for even if the road has been long, harsh and winding, we have at least gotten far enough to look back upon it. We have climbed this far, and that is worth the view.
There may indeed be fractures in the looking glass, but if I tilt them this way and that, when the light comes in I get a fine set or prisms. How much more do I need?
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