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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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