Because I am unsure of the time/date differences between EST and the blog server, I am publishing this as an additional comment that can be considered either a post script to my blog of last night or a prescript of my blog for this evening.
When we got up this morning the sky was brighter than it has been for many, many days. There was a riffle of excited chatter amongst the birds in our yard with special comments being interjected by one of our bluejays. When I looked out the back window one bluejay had the funniest expression on his (gender undetermined) face! He looked happy and relieved and a lot less damp than any of the birds or critters have been looking. I think, if the sunlight had suddenly burst out from behind a cloud, that bird would have swooned and passed out so intense was his emotional state. He was also looking very decidedly more blue, rather than the greyish, cloud-coordinated vestments he had been clothed in all week. There is now sunlight and warmth, contentment and peaceful gratitude emanating from the whole of our home and yard. I am only thankful the nesting and fledgling seasons are well over or the squirrels and chipmunks might take it upon themselves to call a feast of birdlings in celebration (yuck!).
The construction noises from our neighbors property seem to have slowed down, somehow, as if the weather determines the rapidity of the work being accomplished. I really think it is merely that I fancy this is so, although it is delightful to move a little more slowly when you're not going to freeze or drop your blood pressure due to inclement weather.
As I glance out into the jungle that is our backyard, that provides cover for so many of the small creatures living in the area, I see the slightest movements of the very top branches of our tallest trees and know the breeze is light and gentle; the sunshine almost decadent after so much rain and drizzle. Mark Twain has been quoted as commenting upon the vast number of types of weather one might experience on any given New England day but this is an injustice to the best of New England's offerings in that field. Besides, with no disrespect intended toward Mr. Twain, we have produced writers and poets like no others in the world on these same, often sodden, soils and that has been perhaps due more to the vagaries of climate here than anything else. It is not every cohesive geological area that can claim Lowells and Frosts; Plaths and Sextons. (I think all of those mentioned are from, or near, this area at any rate!)
There is no treasure to compare with the mound of leaves from our backyard arboretum, although shelter more than science is the reason for their being there, that glisten with a priceless gold and begin to glow with all of the gems of Autumn that are beginning to infiltrate the pirate hoard unbidden, while the people too busy congratulating themselves upon having such a stash tend to forget the depredations of Winter soon to follow. Trading Winter diamonds for Autumn gold, however, does not seem like such a mean deal.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Is Missing a Day the Equivalent of Sin In Blog Heaven?
Its late and very quiet, although there is still some activity as Ross and the kitties continue to settle down. It looks like life may be ready to start getting more difficult again because of "the job" and I am trying to gear up for that situation should it arise anytime soon. I have started my online course's orientation exercise and am not sure when I will be able to complete it but it will have to be within the next few days since classes start the 4th. It is a little nerve wracking to realize, although I have been working and hoping for this for several years now, that I am about to begin Masters level work in history on Monday! The caffiene consumption will have to be curtailed so I can settle down and rest over the weekend. For me this is the partial culmination of dreams I have cherished since I was in high school, or possibly earlier, and it is also the beginning of the final leg of my journey in achieving those dreams - it makes me almost dizzy to recall just how long I have hoped to be able to do just this thing!
I have heard nothing from my sister as she has started back to work part-time following the chemotherapy, and I can only assume - for this moment - that no news is not necessarily bad news. I was hoping she would still call now and then for help with the few things I am still able to tend to, just to save herself at least that little bit of aggravation, effort and stress, but I have heard nothing. I think I will call her tomorrow, as the kids are heading back to school soon and, if she would like a little extra help, I should be able to fit in at least an honorable assist at doing "aunt-ly" types of things for all of them. Ross has been very sweet about my helping Patty out as much as I have been able to, especially considering the ever rising cost of gas and other automobile fluids, not to mention tires and stuff, and I really hope Patty has noticed that since I would like to think my sisters are able to understand just what it is I see in Ross that makes me want to keep us together-we and the four baby cats,that is.
Night seems to have managed to finally complete its takeover of the world at large, here. Cats have settled into favorite spots, Ross is likely snoring softly, there are a few sounds still being made but they are diminishing and the darkness is becoming increasingly quiet and peaceful. It is a fitting prelude to the partial hurricane-type weather we are supposed to be getting soon in our area. The collective hum of computers masks any other sounds that may still be drifting in the night air. It is too chilly for many "singing" insects and they seem to have lost all interest in reproducing with the advent of the cold, wet weather anyway - New England's reminder of the days to come.
Life moves apace in pretty much the same manner it has for several months now. I am still hopeful for better days ahead, both financially and health-wise. Money does not, in and of itself, bring happiness but it certainly helps pay the bills, which would feel very satisfying about now. So much for any altruistic truths here.
It is tempting to put something "too personal" for public consumption here, just to see if anyone is really reading my blog, but I think I will opt for more "family-friendly" fare in the hopes that I may yet derive a small but steady audience at some point.
It is now past 2AM, my time (EST), and I am definitely winding down for the remainder of the night. I cannot think of any jazzy or catchy little phrase or quote I might be able to utilize as a tag line, so I will just say, "Good night," and sign off.
I have heard nothing from my sister as she has started back to work part-time following the chemotherapy, and I can only assume - for this moment - that no news is not necessarily bad news. I was hoping she would still call now and then for help with the few things I am still able to tend to, just to save herself at least that little bit of aggravation, effort and stress, but I have heard nothing. I think I will call her tomorrow, as the kids are heading back to school soon and, if she would like a little extra help, I should be able to fit in at least an honorable assist at doing "aunt-ly" types of things for all of them. Ross has been very sweet about my helping Patty out as much as I have been able to, especially considering the ever rising cost of gas and other automobile fluids, not to mention tires and stuff, and I really hope Patty has noticed that since I would like to think my sisters are able to understand just what it is I see in Ross that makes me want to keep us together-we and the four baby cats,that is.
Night seems to have managed to finally complete its takeover of the world at large, here. Cats have settled into favorite spots, Ross is likely snoring softly, there are a few sounds still being made but they are diminishing and the darkness is becoming increasingly quiet and peaceful. It is a fitting prelude to the partial hurricane-type weather we are supposed to be getting soon in our area. The collective hum of computers masks any other sounds that may still be drifting in the night air. It is too chilly for many "singing" insects and they seem to have lost all interest in reproducing with the advent of the cold, wet weather anyway - New England's reminder of the days to come.
Life moves apace in pretty much the same manner it has for several months now. I am still hopeful for better days ahead, both financially and health-wise. Money does not, in and of itself, bring happiness but it certainly helps pay the bills, which would feel very satisfying about now. So much for any altruistic truths here.
It is tempting to put something "too personal" for public consumption here, just to see if anyone is really reading my blog, but I think I will opt for more "family-friendly" fare in the hopes that I may yet derive a small but steady audience at some point.
It is now past 2AM, my time (EST), and I am definitely winding down for the remainder of the night. I cannot think of any jazzy or catchy little phrase or quote I might be able to utilize as a tag line, so I will just say, "Good night," and sign off.
Monday, August 28, 2006
The Dragon In Grandmother's Garden
(*I wrote this for a class in creative writing my second semester back at school, in 2002. I present it to all of you in the hopes you will derive some of the same enjoyment I found in writing it.)
It was the type of Spring day you dream about. Blue skies, warm air, soft breezes, sunshine in abundance and the velvet, sweet fragrance of freshly blossomed flowers wafting on the breeze. The perfect air drifted lazily through the open door as I prepared the special little "tea party" Grandmother and I had taken to having with one another each year. The special cakes I found that morning graced the antique and delicately painted china, setting off the glow of Great-grandmother Peabody's prize sterling flatware; the soft silver glow of many polishings by loving hands over many years, now too numerous to count.
The table, the day, the weather; everything was perfect. I looked up with a welcoming smile as my delicate, 90-year old grandmother, fragile in her timeless beauty, tottered graciously through the lacy, Victorian screen door. It had been a difficult winter for both of us, but this day was too special to waste on worries or disturbing facts of life. Our thirtieth annual tea party, with just the two of us, took precedence over all else.
As we settled down to our special repast, my Grandmother quickly removing her gardening gloves, placing them inside her inverted wide-brimmed straw hat and then placing the whole upon the needle-point covered chair beside her, looked up and smiled a bit uncertainly. She appeared to be a little confused, which was very unlike her, and hesitated before speaking to me, also very unlike her. "What's the problem, Gramma?", I asked, hoping to help wipe the look of befuddled emotion from the face I had looked into since the day she rescued me. "Not enough flowers in bloom to suit you?"
The veil of seeming confusion disappeared as the lips pursed and the usual sweet-tart expression appeared, much more like herself and much more to my liking. "If you must tease, please leave my babies (her flowers) out of it." This said, the troubled expression returned, inexorably forcing out any sign of contentment or enjoyment in the day that may have resided there earlier. She was hesitant, unsure whether to speak. This was so unlike her I almost panicked, hastily placing the too easily broken cup and saucer on the Battenburg lace tablecloth and, more for time to think than anything else, wiping my fingertips delicately on the matching napkins. Was she deathly ill; dying before my very eyes? Had she had a mild stroke? That could explain the painful look of muddled thought now seated firmly in place. Trying not to upset her, and frightened half out of my mind, I reached over the table, carefully avoiding the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer, and placed my hand gently upon hers.
"What is it, Gramma?"
She looked up at me with just the hint of a smile tracing itself onto one corner of her mouth. A beautiful mouth; chin still strong and determined, thrusting itself out at life as if to dare whatever fates there may be to do their worst; lips, once full and voluptuous, still showing traces of the seductive beauty that lured Grampa into proposing before they had even been properly introduced, claiming that if he had waited any longer he would never have gotten the courage to do so later.
Clearing her throat, she seemed to be deciding just how to phrase something. I tried to smile in as encouraging a manner possible and took a deep breath, wondering what in the world could possibly have brought all of this hesitancy about.
"It's really quite lovely outside and I'm quite sure the daffodils will be blossoming any time now and there's a dragon in my garden."
As she heaved a sigh of relief at having gotten the news out, I was trying to cope with my feeling of floating somewhere out of time and normal space. The spaceship should be landing soon, to take me away.
"Are you alright, dear?" As she spoke to me, interrupting what could have turned into the basis for a million dollar blockbuster hit, I started, shook my head a little and said (you guessed it!), "What did you say?"
"You know perfectly well what I said!" The accusation in her voice and facial expression helped clear the last traces of starship exhaust from my mind.
"Gramma, besides all of the worried questions you know I'm going to want answered, what could you possibly mean by telling me there's a dragon in your garden? If you are teasing me because you bought some little statue, it's going to take me awhile to forgive you. You are just teasing, aren't you?" This last inquirey made in a voice far more pleading than I had anticipated it would sound.
"I wish I were," Gramma said rather quietly. "I thought that I'd had too much sun, but then the little thing up and ate one of the crocuses. I'm just glad I was sitting at the time. Broken hips come all too easily to people my age, you know."
"O.K.," I breathed hard, trying to get more oxygen to my brain, "if you say so, but you, of all people, should know how this sounds. How long has the dragon been in your garden?"
"About twenty or thirty minutes, I watched her for a little while before coming inside."
"How do you know the dragon is a she?" I inquired, argumentative and desperate, "I thought all dragons were "he", and another thing, dragons don't eat flowers they eat people and knights and princesses."
"She is a "she" dragon because I have named her Hermione, and she does eat flowers and what makes you an expert on dragons, you almost lost control of your more personal bodily functions when I told you about her!"
I took a breath. This was getting difficult.
"Gramma, there are no such things as dragons, he or she. So how can there be one in your garden and do you want me to call your doctor or the minister or somebody?"
She looked her age. She looked a little frightened and defiant; fragile. I also knew my total lack of faith in her powers of observation was hurting her; an internal, quiet hurt. She would cry herself to sleep tonight. I felt rotten. I was lower than a dragon's toenails and all I could do was persist.
"If you don't believe me, go look!" The challenge was offered, half certain I would be able to see her dragon, half hoping it wasn't really there. I stood up and walked out the door and into my grandmother's garden.
When my granddaughter got up, I was expecting her to come back in a very few minutes to tell me there wasn't anything in my garden to be concerned about. I was really hoping that was what would happen. It's difficult being ninety. At least they have pills to cure imaginary dragons, although I must admit I enjoyed watching Hermione eat that crocus.
She was small and delicate. Her scales shimmering with the iridescence of precious jewels. Her eyes were like two pearls, but with opal-fire in them. The scales down her small back were the color of rose petals, the ones from my rosa rugosa; a deep, lovely pink.
Hermione was about the size of a small cat. She was also totally unafraid of me and sat eating one of my crocuses with her head tilted to one side, deciding if she wanted to come any closer.
I don't know why I named her Hermione, I guess it's a name I have always liked and, for some reason, it seemed to fit. When she finished her flower, she sat back on her haunches, looking up at me with a friendly gleam in her eyes. She started to clean her face very much the way a cat does, first with one paw, then the other, reaching up to get the backs of her ears and head. Then, still watching me, she stretched herself out on a flat rock warmed by the sun and rolled about a bit, the sunlight flashing off of her scales, liquid, in jewel-colors racing through a small, earth tangible rainbow. Perhaps the rainbow is where she was born or was supposed to live. A small, sweet sound emanated from her perfectly formed throat, like warm wind playing a tune on a crystal clear xylophone creek. I don't know how she found her way into my garden.
I heard a squeak from my granddaughter. I was about to rise and return to Hermione and my garden, to rescue my granddaughter from herself, when the screen door opened.
Gramma was sitting there looking up at me much the way children do when they need comfort or confirmation, or both. I had to proceed slowly here, or too much damage to be remedied could take place.
I knew, when I headed out that door, that Gramma half wanted me to find her dragon and half wanted me to come back and tell her there was really nothing there. I walked toward the back of her garden where I knew she was working earlier. In spite of everything, the peace of the place crept over me, and I sat down on one of the little benches scattered here and there to try to figure things out. I loved my grandmother more than anyone else. When Momma disappeared after Daddy ran off with another woman, referred to in my hearing only as "Her!" while still in my childhood, Gramma came and got me, took me home and began to erase the fears and insecurities such situations breed in children. She made sure I remembered how to laugh and then made sure I did so as much as possible. There were special treats; little dolls, whistles, plastic rings and stick on glamour nails. I never knew what would appear next, except that it would be something to remind me of how much she loved me. She took care of me; still took care of me. I was lost when my husband died; even more lost when my son took his own life, grieving too greatly for his father. I don't know what would have happened if my already almost ninety-year old grandmother hadn't shown up, taken me home, again, and began again filling my life with her love and her humor; her unique and precious self. I was almost in tears when I heard a small, soft sound at my feet. I immediately picked my feet up off the ground. I hate the thought of a mouse running over my foot or up my leg and, in spite of the terrible concerns of the day, reacted quickly, looking around on the ground for the mouse.
Hermione looked back at me, her pearl-opal eyes wearing an expression of concern that helped ease the shock of having her discover me. She made a sound like a soft breeze gently plucking the strings of some ethereal harp, and settled back to study me. She looked up, happier for having discovered two people she seemed to like sitting in her garden. As I watched, she slowly unfurled her wings, one at a time, watching me out of the corner of one eye, making sure of my admiration. Her wings looked like a metallic velvet, as pink as the scales down the middle of her back, but somehow less substantial. The wings on this tiny miracle were almost translucent. She finally stretched them to their full span and then, with a slight, graceful jump, she flew to the bench beside me and perched.
As I reached out to touch her, she drew back, but only very slightly. This was one of the smallest, most self-assured creatures I had ever encountered. She let me touch her.
There was a gentle feeling of flowing energy as I ran a tentative finger down one side of her perfect and joyously beautiful body. She watched me carefully, ready to jump away if I moved too quickly or tried to grab her. I started to pet her gently, the way you would pet a very small cat that was very special to you. I couldn't believe what was happening, or the part I was playing in what was happening. I always thought that dragons would have to be like lizards, cold-blooded and strange to the touch. Hermione's skin was warm and alive. The jewel tones reflected on my finger tips making it look as though I had put glue all over my fingers and then stuck them in some pirate's treasure chest.
Her wings were warm, too, and radiating an energy force I could feel before I even really touched them. She was warm and alive; solidly beneath my hands and born of a magic I knew I would fail to comprehend, no matter how much I saw and learned. She stretched happily and flew up into a blossoming peach tree, joyously chasing a monarch butterfly through the veil of pink-white, fragrant blossoms.
As I lost sight of her, I got up, still in the dream that was the little dragon in the garden, and went inside to talk to my grandmother.
The old woman looked up as the screen door opened, then stood to face her granddaughter.
"I don't know what to say, Gramma. Do you think she would stay if we could find some way to feed her?"
Gramma took my hand, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She nodded. I knew how she felt, half afraid, half hopeful. Afraid that if Hermione stayed we would have to adjust; change. Afraid that if we never saw Hermione again we would never be able to really believe what we had both seen in that garden, on this day. Hopeful that all the stories we heard as children were really true. Hopeful that if there was a dragon in our garden might not there also be a hidden city at the North Pole or a soft, fuzzy bunny with colorful eggs hiding in a burrow in some verdant field?
"Let's see if we can get her into the house."
The gloom of uncertainty descended upon us. Then we heard a light scratching noise at the door and the sound of a sweet, Spring zephyr dancing lightly upon the strings of an ancient lute. I opened the door and Hermione, after a quick glance around, flew onto the table, perching in the midst of our long forgotten tea party. She carefully made her way through antique china and silver, stepping so delicately she seemed to float, and helped herself to one of the special cakes I thought would bring so much pleasure to our, now more than ever, very special day.
It was the type of Spring day you dream about. Blue skies, warm air, soft breezes, sunshine in abundance and the velvet, sweet fragrance of freshly blossomed flowers wafting on the breeze. The perfect air drifted lazily through the open door as I prepared the special little "tea party" Grandmother and I had taken to having with one another each year. The special cakes I found that morning graced the antique and delicately painted china, setting off the glow of Great-grandmother Peabody's prize sterling flatware; the soft silver glow of many polishings by loving hands over many years, now too numerous to count.
The table, the day, the weather; everything was perfect. I looked up with a welcoming smile as my delicate, 90-year old grandmother, fragile in her timeless beauty, tottered graciously through the lacy, Victorian screen door. It had been a difficult winter for both of us, but this day was too special to waste on worries or disturbing facts of life. Our thirtieth annual tea party, with just the two of us, took precedence over all else.
As we settled down to our special repast, my Grandmother quickly removing her gardening gloves, placing them inside her inverted wide-brimmed straw hat and then placing the whole upon the needle-point covered chair beside her, looked up and smiled a bit uncertainly. She appeared to be a little confused, which was very unlike her, and hesitated before speaking to me, also very unlike her. "What's the problem, Gramma?", I asked, hoping to help wipe the look of befuddled emotion from the face I had looked into since the day she rescued me. "Not enough flowers in bloom to suit you?"
The veil of seeming confusion disappeared as the lips pursed and the usual sweet-tart expression appeared, much more like herself and much more to my liking. "If you must tease, please leave my babies (her flowers) out of it." This said, the troubled expression returned, inexorably forcing out any sign of contentment or enjoyment in the day that may have resided there earlier. She was hesitant, unsure whether to speak. This was so unlike her I almost panicked, hastily placing the too easily broken cup and saucer on the Battenburg lace tablecloth and, more for time to think than anything else, wiping my fingertips delicately on the matching napkins. Was she deathly ill; dying before my very eyes? Had she had a mild stroke? That could explain the painful look of muddled thought now seated firmly in place. Trying not to upset her, and frightened half out of my mind, I reached over the table, carefully avoiding the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer, and placed my hand gently upon hers.
"What is it, Gramma?"
She looked up at me with just the hint of a smile tracing itself onto one corner of her mouth. A beautiful mouth; chin still strong and determined, thrusting itself out at life as if to dare whatever fates there may be to do their worst; lips, once full and voluptuous, still showing traces of the seductive beauty that lured Grampa into proposing before they had even been properly introduced, claiming that if he had waited any longer he would never have gotten the courage to do so later.
Clearing her throat, she seemed to be deciding just how to phrase something. I tried to smile in as encouraging a manner possible and took a deep breath, wondering what in the world could possibly have brought all of this hesitancy about.
"It's really quite lovely outside and I'm quite sure the daffodils will be blossoming any time now and there's a dragon in my garden."
As she heaved a sigh of relief at having gotten the news out, I was trying to cope with my feeling of floating somewhere out of time and normal space. The spaceship should be landing soon, to take me away.
"Are you alright, dear?" As she spoke to me, interrupting what could have turned into the basis for a million dollar blockbuster hit, I started, shook my head a little and said (you guessed it!), "What did you say?"
"You know perfectly well what I said!" The accusation in her voice and facial expression helped clear the last traces of starship exhaust from my mind.
"Gramma, besides all of the worried questions you know I'm going to want answered, what could you possibly mean by telling me there's a dragon in your garden? If you are teasing me because you bought some little statue, it's going to take me awhile to forgive you. You are just teasing, aren't you?" This last inquirey made in a voice far more pleading than I had anticipated it would sound.
"I wish I were," Gramma said rather quietly. "I thought that I'd had too much sun, but then the little thing up and ate one of the crocuses. I'm just glad I was sitting at the time. Broken hips come all too easily to people my age, you know."
"O.K.," I breathed hard, trying to get more oxygen to my brain, "if you say so, but you, of all people, should know how this sounds. How long has the dragon been in your garden?"
"About twenty or thirty minutes, I watched her for a little while before coming inside."
"How do you know the dragon is a she?" I inquired, argumentative and desperate, "I thought all dragons were "he", and another thing, dragons don't eat flowers they eat people and knights and princesses."
"She is a "she" dragon because I have named her Hermione, and she does eat flowers and what makes you an expert on dragons, you almost lost control of your more personal bodily functions when I told you about her!"
I took a breath. This was getting difficult.
"Gramma, there are no such things as dragons, he or she. So how can there be one in your garden and do you want me to call your doctor or the minister or somebody?"
She looked her age. She looked a little frightened and defiant; fragile. I also knew my total lack of faith in her powers of observation was hurting her; an internal, quiet hurt. She would cry herself to sleep tonight. I felt rotten. I was lower than a dragon's toenails and all I could do was persist.
"If you don't believe me, go look!" The challenge was offered, half certain I would be able to see her dragon, half hoping it wasn't really there. I stood up and walked out the door and into my grandmother's garden.
When my granddaughter got up, I was expecting her to come back in a very few minutes to tell me there wasn't anything in my garden to be concerned about. I was really hoping that was what would happen. It's difficult being ninety. At least they have pills to cure imaginary dragons, although I must admit I enjoyed watching Hermione eat that crocus.
She was small and delicate. Her scales shimmering with the iridescence of precious jewels. Her eyes were like two pearls, but with opal-fire in them. The scales down her small back were the color of rose petals, the ones from my rosa rugosa; a deep, lovely pink.
Hermione was about the size of a small cat. She was also totally unafraid of me and sat eating one of my crocuses with her head tilted to one side, deciding if she wanted to come any closer.
I don't know why I named her Hermione, I guess it's a name I have always liked and, for some reason, it seemed to fit. When she finished her flower, she sat back on her haunches, looking up at me with a friendly gleam in her eyes. She started to clean her face very much the way a cat does, first with one paw, then the other, reaching up to get the backs of her ears and head. Then, still watching me, she stretched herself out on a flat rock warmed by the sun and rolled about a bit, the sunlight flashing off of her scales, liquid, in jewel-colors racing through a small, earth tangible rainbow. Perhaps the rainbow is where she was born or was supposed to live. A small, sweet sound emanated from her perfectly formed throat, like warm wind playing a tune on a crystal clear xylophone creek. I don't know how she found her way into my garden.
I heard a squeak from my granddaughter. I was about to rise and return to Hermione and my garden, to rescue my granddaughter from herself, when the screen door opened.
Gramma was sitting there looking up at me much the way children do when they need comfort or confirmation, or both. I had to proceed slowly here, or too much damage to be remedied could take place.
I knew, when I headed out that door, that Gramma half wanted me to find her dragon and half wanted me to come back and tell her there was really nothing there. I walked toward the back of her garden where I knew she was working earlier. In spite of everything, the peace of the place crept over me, and I sat down on one of the little benches scattered here and there to try to figure things out. I loved my grandmother more than anyone else. When Momma disappeared after Daddy ran off with another woman, referred to in my hearing only as "Her!" while still in my childhood, Gramma came and got me, took me home and began to erase the fears and insecurities such situations breed in children. She made sure I remembered how to laugh and then made sure I did so as much as possible. There were special treats; little dolls, whistles, plastic rings and stick on glamour nails. I never knew what would appear next, except that it would be something to remind me of how much she loved me. She took care of me; still took care of me. I was lost when my husband died; even more lost when my son took his own life, grieving too greatly for his father. I don't know what would have happened if my already almost ninety-year old grandmother hadn't shown up, taken me home, again, and began again filling my life with her love and her humor; her unique and precious self. I was almost in tears when I heard a small, soft sound at my feet. I immediately picked my feet up off the ground. I hate the thought of a mouse running over my foot or up my leg and, in spite of the terrible concerns of the day, reacted quickly, looking around on the ground for the mouse.
Hermione looked back at me, her pearl-opal eyes wearing an expression of concern that helped ease the shock of having her discover me. She made a sound like a soft breeze gently plucking the strings of some ethereal harp, and settled back to study me. She looked up, happier for having discovered two people she seemed to like sitting in her garden. As I watched, she slowly unfurled her wings, one at a time, watching me out of the corner of one eye, making sure of my admiration. Her wings looked like a metallic velvet, as pink as the scales down the middle of her back, but somehow less substantial. The wings on this tiny miracle were almost translucent. She finally stretched them to their full span and then, with a slight, graceful jump, she flew to the bench beside me and perched.
As I reached out to touch her, she drew back, but only very slightly. This was one of the smallest, most self-assured creatures I had ever encountered. She let me touch her.
There was a gentle feeling of flowing energy as I ran a tentative finger down one side of her perfect and joyously beautiful body. She watched me carefully, ready to jump away if I moved too quickly or tried to grab her. I started to pet her gently, the way you would pet a very small cat that was very special to you. I couldn't believe what was happening, or the part I was playing in what was happening. I always thought that dragons would have to be like lizards, cold-blooded and strange to the touch. Hermione's skin was warm and alive. The jewel tones reflected on my finger tips making it look as though I had put glue all over my fingers and then stuck them in some pirate's treasure chest.
Her wings were warm, too, and radiating an energy force I could feel before I even really touched them. She was warm and alive; solidly beneath my hands and born of a magic I knew I would fail to comprehend, no matter how much I saw and learned. She stretched happily and flew up into a blossoming peach tree, joyously chasing a monarch butterfly through the veil of pink-white, fragrant blossoms.
As I lost sight of her, I got up, still in the dream that was the little dragon in the garden, and went inside to talk to my grandmother.
The old woman looked up as the screen door opened, then stood to face her granddaughter.
"I don't know what to say, Gramma. Do you think she would stay if we could find some way to feed her?"
Gramma took my hand, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She nodded. I knew how she felt, half afraid, half hopeful. Afraid that if Hermione stayed we would have to adjust; change. Afraid that if we never saw Hermione again we would never be able to really believe what we had both seen in that garden, on this day. Hopeful that all the stories we heard as children were really true. Hopeful that if there was a dragon in our garden might not there also be a hidden city at the North Pole or a soft, fuzzy bunny with colorful eggs hiding in a burrow in some verdant field?
"Let's see if we can get her into the house."
The gloom of uncertainty descended upon us. Then we heard a light scratching noise at the door and the sound of a sweet, Spring zephyr dancing lightly upon the strings of an ancient lute. I opened the door and Hermione, after a quick glance around, flew onto the table, perching in the midst of our long forgotten tea party. She carefully made her way through antique china and silver, stepping so delicately she seemed to float, and helped herself to one of the special cakes I thought would bring so much pleasure to our, now more than ever, very special day.
Izzlebug and the Big Question
I was wondering why no one in my family seemed very interested in my blog. I was starting to get hurt feelings about it, and so on, when I had to be honest and remind myself that a) I really hadn't told too many of them about it, and b) probably the reason I hadn't told many family members is because I am not really certain just what it is I want or expect from having this blog. I have received some very nice compliments both online and during my finishing my undergraduate degree about my writing - at least enough that I feel I can say without too much ego intrusion that I write well - but that does not pay the bills. So now what? It is certainly true that I would love to be a published writer someday and it is also true that I really do not feel I would be able to do very well if I tried to cater to other peoples' needs or goals in order to become "publishable," but isn't that what getting published is really about? Isn't becoming a published writer about pleasing someone else with what you have written? Obviously there is a balance to be reached somehow, but I feel just a little confused about how to discover what that balance is and how to achieve it. Perhaps, for most of us, it is gained by holding your breath and stepping off into the deep end of the pool for the first time without a life preserver strapped securely to your chest.
I also had to admit to myself that I had no real desire to become posthumously famous or to have my work "discovered" after I am no longer able to defend or manage things. Selfish, I know, but if I am the only one who cares about my writing, and I am the only one who has read most of it, why leave it lying around for someone else to throw away? Isn't assuming that anyone at all might like to read it in a hundred years or so even more selfish and egotistical than my destroying my own creative efforts due to the general lack of interest of even those closest to me? It leaves me in something of a dilemma, it is too early in the game for a bonfire but it is beginning to feel as though there is nothing I can do to keep that from remaining the only possibility for my writing. I don't even know if this will make sense to anyone else, but these are some of the thoughts that have been running around in my brain this evening. One aspect of this is, that if I did choose to destroy what I have written, it would not make much difference in that, by the time ashes were growing cold, I would be back writing again.
Probably, as I enjoy writing so much, I had better just keep on writing and keep on saving all of my stuff - even though some of it REALLY stinks - for at least my own future reference. I will probably, however, do everything I can to get rid of the worst of it before climbing into my death bed. I'll make it a marshmallow roast and invite some friends over for s'mores.
Looking back to the day I started this blog, I think I was hoping for lots of input and discussion about, not only my writing, but the ideas and thoughts I was expressing as well. I suppose I should hang in there for more than a mere few weeks before I decide that will not ever be the case. Perhaps after I post this entry I will get on the email trail and send the url to the rest of my family. I have already let my dad know, in no uncertain terms, that if he does not look at my blog at least once there will be no signed copies of newly published works for him in the future. Absolutely not! I may also send the url to former professors - in case there is any time or interest on their parts in a former student's continued literary efforts - and to a few more select friends and acquaintances. Perhaps then I will have the massive amounts of repartee I was hoping for in the first place.
Maybe none of this would have occured to me if it had not rained all day today. It has been cold and soggy and very un-Summer-like. It is a little quieter this evening as I can detect no sounds of pounding rain breaching the confines of the house, and I am hoping the very wet chipmunk I saw on the deck earlier is someplace warm and dry, as it is quite chilly outside. Although most of the weather during this time of year is usually too hot for my comfort, to have it this cold so early is moderately depressing. Each season has its turn and it feels as if Winter is attempting to oust Autumn altogether by treading on the toes of Summer. Hopefully, and the thought of this does make me feel a little better, all of this rain will result in truly brilliant Fall colors in the foliage this year. A truly spectacular Autumn would go a long way toward making up for the damp and chill that has been causing molds and mildews, to which I am allergic, to spore thus aggravating my asthma. Nature owes us an apology of incredible beauty this year and I hope we get to collect on that particular debt.
I also had to admit to myself that I had no real desire to become posthumously famous or to have my work "discovered" after I am no longer able to defend or manage things. Selfish, I know, but if I am the only one who cares about my writing, and I am the only one who has read most of it, why leave it lying around for someone else to throw away? Isn't assuming that anyone at all might like to read it in a hundred years or so even more selfish and egotistical than my destroying my own creative efforts due to the general lack of interest of even those closest to me? It leaves me in something of a dilemma, it is too early in the game for a bonfire but it is beginning to feel as though there is nothing I can do to keep that from remaining the only possibility for my writing. I don't even know if this will make sense to anyone else, but these are some of the thoughts that have been running around in my brain this evening. One aspect of this is, that if I did choose to destroy what I have written, it would not make much difference in that, by the time ashes were growing cold, I would be back writing again.
Probably, as I enjoy writing so much, I had better just keep on writing and keep on saving all of my stuff - even though some of it REALLY stinks - for at least my own future reference. I will probably, however, do everything I can to get rid of the worst of it before climbing into my death bed. I'll make it a marshmallow roast and invite some friends over for s'mores.
Looking back to the day I started this blog, I think I was hoping for lots of input and discussion about, not only my writing, but the ideas and thoughts I was expressing as well. I suppose I should hang in there for more than a mere few weeks before I decide that will not ever be the case. Perhaps after I post this entry I will get on the email trail and send the url to the rest of my family. I have already let my dad know, in no uncertain terms, that if he does not look at my blog at least once there will be no signed copies of newly published works for him in the future. Absolutely not! I may also send the url to former professors - in case there is any time or interest on their parts in a former student's continued literary efforts - and to a few more select friends and acquaintances. Perhaps then I will have the massive amounts of repartee I was hoping for in the first place.
Maybe none of this would have occured to me if it had not rained all day today. It has been cold and soggy and very un-Summer-like. It is a little quieter this evening as I can detect no sounds of pounding rain breaching the confines of the house, and I am hoping the very wet chipmunk I saw on the deck earlier is someplace warm and dry, as it is quite chilly outside. Although most of the weather during this time of year is usually too hot for my comfort, to have it this cold so early is moderately depressing. Each season has its turn and it feels as if Winter is attempting to oust Autumn altogether by treading on the toes of Summer. Hopefully, and the thought of this does make me feel a little better, all of this rain will result in truly brilliant Fall colors in the foliage this year. A truly spectacular Autumn would go a long way toward making up for the damp and chill that has been causing molds and mildews, to which I am allergic, to spore thus aggravating my asthma. Nature owes us an apology of incredible beauty this year and I hope we get to collect on that particular debt.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
And So It Goes
Tonight's posting will probably stay fairly short, as I am too tired from the evening's events to maintain sufficient enthusiasm for my project but, who knows, maybe inspiration will strike and I will be able to pontificate for hours on some rant or other. We'll see, we'll see. We went out tonight, Ross and I, with some friends to a Chinese restaurant that we all like. Toward the end of the evening Ross said something I took exception to, and then I said something he reacted VERY badly to, and so on and so forth. That is why I am in a crappy frame of mind at the moment. We "settled" the issue by discussing it but the peace and happiness that could have been a large part of this evening has been shattered, permanently dissipated by resentments of things thought implied and by over-reactions that should not be happening between us. This always leaves me feeling sad and concerned. I am also made unhappy by the worries about "someone else's" health and this merely reinforces the fact of our getting older, crabbier and more infirm each passing day. In other words, life sucks sometimes. (So much for having a degree in English!)
The day began with all sorts of hopeful plans for posting some more of my writing on my blog and, hopefully, reactivating my old web page (which was shamefully ignored for far too long) and placing links from page to blog and blog to page. This can still be accomplished, but the fire of energy and inspiration has fizzled in the frump I now find myself stewing in. So, maybe tonight is not such a great time to think about trying to accomplish anything even marginally technically challanging. There is always tomorrow and, again hopefully, the sun will rise, the hurt and injury of an argument will have healed with no bruising evident, and I will be able to figure out how to use the HTML that I have mostly forgotten over the past six to eight years while pretty much ignoring my (rather cute, if I may say so) website.
When I graduated I was a little concerned that I might not keep up with my writing, but those concerns have been laid to rest because I discovered, late in the game but still in time, blogging and its attendant benefits to people who enjoy writing. This is a very good thing, at least for me. I will not venture to make such a statement with reference to those who have chosen to read that writing, but I hope the effect is more of an all over salutary one rather than one that sends them into any sort of literary shock or coma after exposure. So far, though few in number, I have received only positive comments and no reports of injuries, mental or otherwise, as a direct result of having experienced my blog.
It occurs to me that several of my entries have mentioned the weather at the time I have been writing, so I feel I should keep that up as a sort of signature feature of my particular bloginess. Besides, it has cooled off enough that my feet are cold so I am forced to pay closer attention to the weather than I might otherwise tonight. It is still Summer but there is a definite feel of Autumn in the air of New England tonight. I do not know if I offended anyone, but I decided to wear my "Autumn" shirt today - it has brown, green, and red leaves all over it - as a sort of premonitory to the approaching Fall and Winter weather. One of my friends has said that she feels we are in for a long, hard Winter, but I hope she is mistaken. We need a gentle, kind winter this year. One that does not cause power failures and too many snow related injuries. We need snowfalls on the eves of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day, and not too much else, except for some "maintenance" snow now and again. There is nothing quite as lovely as a white pine or a blue spruce with their branches coated in snow as they droop toward the earth in a ballet of burden. The trees do look lovely when they wear this layer of snow, but they also become hazardous to the open necklines of sweaters and jackets for those of us given to only traversing the great outdoors during this time of year from house to car and car to wherever then back to car and from car to house. All it needs is the sound of an evil snicker to issue forth from the arbor-ites as they dump tons of white stuff down peoples' necks to make the action take on the life it already seems to have whenever it happens. Nature is definitely more fun when it seems to have that anthropomorphic sense of humor to it. (It really is quite chilly tonight so I will leave that statement in my defence before I move on to another subject.)
I have just had Ross proof-read my earlier comments so he is aware of what I have posted. I do not like mentioning anything bordering on the too personal without checking with people first.
I am going to put at least one more of my poems here tonight, after all. It makes me feel better for whatever reason.
To Sylvia*
There was,
In your fragile being - an overly ripe pear
Ready to fall -
At the heart,
A gaping black hole.
Not vast intellect,
Poetry,
Children,
Fame,
Anger,
Pain,
Or the promise of Spring,
Could fill it.
It devoured everything it touched.
You sought out Belson,
Aushwitz, Dachau,
And sticking your head into an oven,
Found the gas chamber
That sent you,
A gypsy,
To join the Jews in death.
You closed your eyes
And thought the world dropped dead.
Perhaps you made us up
Inside your head.**
*Sylvia Plath - possibly one of the most talented poets to hit the airwaves since Shakespeare.
**Last four lines/stanza paraphrased from a villanelle written by Sylvia Plath
Autumn
Some care
And see the loneliness
Are they aware
They cannot breathe
New Spring for
Dead mother
Lost brother
Distant sister
Frail grandmother
Forever gone
Dying
Missing
Fading?
Incurable life
Scarring heart
And all other
Hidden places.
My leaves fall slowly
Crumbling into loamy tears
Sustaining the roots.
another Autumn poem (untitled):
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light,
En masse, yet lonely, fall the Autumn leaves. They waft and tumble,
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
They cannot breathe new life or restore sight
To hearts too sore, too tired, in their grief. They grumble,
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light.
Forever gone are those who sought another plight, from
This poor terrain, this earth, our home to broken hearts that crumble,
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
Our understanding of what waits for us is slight.
Religion tries and fails, yet leaves us humbled, feeling
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light.
Gone is the great pretense, all imaginings of our great might,
All we have left is our propensity to hope and stumble, while
Dying slowly, restless in our flight.
All that is hidden suddenly comes to light.
Whatever it was we thought we heard as some celestial mumble we now know
Were troubled souls that failed to catch the light; forever
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
**WARNING**
The following two poems may be disturbing to some people as they involve a much too early sexual experience and my response to the person who perpetrated it. Otherwise, they are not expressed in a vulgar fashion and do not utilize any profanity beyond the spirit of the incident itself.
Providence
It was lucky those
Construction workers found us
In the big cardboard box
With all of our clothes off.
You, your younger brother,
And me -
A little girl too curious
To know better.
You said only
Bad boys had penises
That stood out straight like that.
Your younger brother looked worried.
Then, the men found us,
Made us get dressed,
Then scolded us
And sent me home.
I think they knew
They had just saved
A seven-year-old girl from being
Raped by a twelve-year-old boy.
You killed the baby robin
And you killed my kitten, Tom.
Were you planning to kill me, too?
To a Twelve Year Old Molester
You have touched my life
In an unthinkable way
Yet again,
And I cannot forgive you.
I hope you never did those things
To any other little girl
But I think you probably did.
Looking back I know
I was not the culprit.
You were the one
Who slathered both of us with your dirt,
Your stink,
Your poison.
That poison is still working
Its way out of my soul.
I prefer not to think of you
Because when I do
I cannot see myself in the mirror.
I become a monster,
Something incubated
In your sickness
And I wish you every evil
Your curiosity, your lust,
Has imposed upon me.
I hope,
If you are the father of a little girl,
That no one like you
Has ever played with her,
Otherwise she might grow up
To realize
She has a monster
For a Daddy.
But then, at least,
I would have the
Satisfaction
Of knowing you had finally paid
For all of your evil plans.
The day began with all sorts of hopeful plans for posting some more of my writing on my blog and, hopefully, reactivating my old web page (which was shamefully ignored for far too long) and placing links from page to blog and blog to page. This can still be accomplished, but the fire of energy and inspiration has fizzled in the frump I now find myself stewing in. So, maybe tonight is not such a great time to think about trying to accomplish anything even marginally technically challanging. There is always tomorrow and, again hopefully, the sun will rise, the hurt and injury of an argument will have healed with no bruising evident, and I will be able to figure out how to use the HTML that I have mostly forgotten over the past six to eight years while pretty much ignoring my (rather cute, if I may say so) website.
When I graduated I was a little concerned that I might not keep up with my writing, but those concerns have been laid to rest because I discovered, late in the game but still in time, blogging and its attendant benefits to people who enjoy writing. This is a very good thing, at least for me. I will not venture to make such a statement with reference to those who have chosen to read that writing, but I hope the effect is more of an all over salutary one rather than one that sends them into any sort of literary shock or coma after exposure. So far, though few in number, I have received only positive comments and no reports of injuries, mental or otherwise, as a direct result of having experienced my blog.
It occurs to me that several of my entries have mentioned the weather at the time I have been writing, so I feel I should keep that up as a sort of signature feature of my particular bloginess. Besides, it has cooled off enough that my feet are cold so I am forced to pay closer attention to the weather than I might otherwise tonight. It is still Summer but there is a definite feel of Autumn in the air of New England tonight. I do not know if I offended anyone, but I decided to wear my "Autumn" shirt today - it has brown, green, and red leaves all over it - as a sort of premonitory to the approaching Fall and Winter weather. One of my friends has said that she feels we are in for a long, hard Winter, but I hope she is mistaken. We need a gentle, kind winter this year. One that does not cause power failures and too many snow related injuries. We need snowfalls on the eves of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day, and not too much else, except for some "maintenance" snow now and again. There is nothing quite as lovely as a white pine or a blue spruce with their branches coated in snow as they droop toward the earth in a ballet of burden. The trees do look lovely when they wear this layer of snow, but they also become hazardous to the open necklines of sweaters and jackets for those of us given to only traversing the great outdoors during this time of year from house to car and car to wherever then back to car and from car to house. All it needs is the sound of an evil snicker to issue forth from the arbor-ites as they dump tons of white stuff down peoples' necks to make the action take on the life it already seems to have whenever it happens. Nature is definitely more fun when it seems to have that anthropomorphic sense of humor to it. (It really is quite chilly tonight so I will leave that statement in my defence before I move on to another subject.)
I have just had Ross proof-read my earlier comments so he is aware of what I have posted. I do not like mentioning anything bordering on the too personal without checking with people first.
I am going to put at least one more of my poems here tonight, after all. It makes me feel better for whatever reason.
To Sylvia*
There was,
In your fragile being - an overly ripe pear
Ready to fall -
At the heart,
A gaping black hole.
Not vast intellect,
Poetry,
Children,
Fame,
Anger,
Pain,
Or the promise of Spring,
Could fill it.
It devoured everything it touched.
You sought out Belson,
Aushwitz, Dachau,
And sticking your head into an oven,
Found the gas chamber
That sent you,
A gypsy,
To join the Jews in death.
You closed your eyes
And thought the world dropped dead.
Perhaps you made us up
Inside your head.**
*Sylvia Plath - possibly one of the most talented poets to hit the airwaves since Shakespeare.
**Last four lines/stanza paraphrased from a villanelle written by Sylvia Plath
Autumn
Some care
And see the loneliness
Are they aware
They cannot breathe
New Spring for
Dead mother
Lost brother
Distant sister
Frail grandmother
Forever gone
Dying
Missing
Fading?
Incurable life
Scarring heart
And all other
Hidden places.
My leaves fall slowly
Crumbling into loamy tears
Sustaining the roots.
another Autumn poem (untitled):
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light,
En masse, yet lonely, fall the Autumn leaves. They waft and tumble,
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
They cannot breathe new life or restore sight
To hearts too sore, too tired, in their grief. They grumble,
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light.
Forever gone are those who sought another plight, from
This poor terrain, this earth, our home to broken hearts that crumble,
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
Our understanding of what waits for us is slight.
Religion tries and fails, yet leaves us humbled, feeling
Like troubled souls that fail to catch the light.
Gone is the great pretense, all imaginings of our great might,
All we have left is our propensity to hope and stumble, while
Dying slowly, restless in our flight.
All that is hidden suddenly comes to light.
Whatever it was we thought we heard as some celestial mumble we now know
Were troubled souls that failed to catch the light; forever
Dying slowly, restless in their flight.
**WARNING**
The following two poems may be disturbing to some people as they involve a much too early sexual experience and my response to the person who perpetrated it. Otherwise, they are not expressed in a vulgar fashion and do not utilize any profanity beyond the spirit of the incident itself.
Providence
It was lucky those
Construction workers found us
In the big cardboard box
With all of our clothes off.
You, your younger brother,
And me -
A little girl too curious
To know better.
You said only
Bad boys had penises
That stood out straight like that.
Your younger brother looked worried.
Then, the men found us,
Made us get dressed,
Then scolded us
And sent me home.
I think they knew
They had just saved
A seven-year-old girl from being
Raped by a twelve-year-old boy.
You killed the baby robin
And you killed my kitten, Tom.
Were you planning to kill me, too?
To a Twelve Year Old Molester
You have touched my life
In an unthinkable way
Yet again,
And I cannot forgive you.
I hope you never did those things
To any other little girl
But I think you probably did.
Looking back I know
I was not the culprit.
You were the one
Who slathered both of us with your dirt,
Your stink,
Your poison.
That poison is still working
Its way out of my soul.
I prefer not to think of you
Because when I do
I cannot see myself in the mirror.
I become a monster,
Something incubated
In your sickness
And I wish you every evil
Your curiosity, your lust,
Has imposed upon me.
I hope,
If you are the father of a little girl,
That no one like you
Has ever played with her,
Otherwise she might grow up
To realize
She has a monster
For a Daddy.
But then, at least,
I would have the
Satisfaction
Of knowing you had finally paid
For all of your evil plans.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Sisters, Antique Cemetaries, and Other Things
Well, my sister is back at work after all of the chemo and then a well deserved get away to the Cape. At the very least, she will be able to regain some of her stamina and strength before the need for any further treatments. I hope this is the last she, and thereby all of us, will ever see of the leukemia. I still worry though. Perhaps it is merely the burden or habit of most older sisters or maybe it is just my tendancy to worry as I would rather worry and find nothing wrong than not worry and be caught short when something does happen because life throws things at you, some times more than others, simply because that's what happens and there's no helping it for the most part. But, with all of the philosophical aspects duly noted and recorded here, I will still worry about her. I will worry that she, being the very strong and independant type, will overdo things and end up sick from exhaustion, stress, or some other yet unforeseen potential problem. I will worry that the kids are sliding back into their very comfortable world of Mom taking care of everything and forget how fragile a life is, that they need to help their mom at every possible turn from now on, that they came far too close to losing the one person in their lives they have always been able to count on for acceptance, love, and moral support. Patty's hair will grow back, the color will return to her cheeks without having to be assisted by a fever, and life will - somehow - become "normal" again. The resilience of humans, to know what we have been through - what we might yet have to deal with again, is nothing short of amazing. We, as a world family, survive and thrive despite terrorists, wars, and politics (not to mention politicians!) and are able to find happiness again, at least a great many of us do. So, there will be (I hope) a happy Thanksgiving and Christmas time, even if Patty has to start some new treatment before that. I think I will try to do a few extra things to make the season more fun. If God is truly considerate, I will have more non-caffiene induced energy than I will know what to do with and, thereby, be more of a help to my sister and the kids, my brother, and my Dad and step-mother. I may also be able to include my grandmother in that but, as she is not robust enough for too energetic a whirl, I will have to slow down by the time I get to see her. Maybe we can somehow manage a family get together again this year for all of us - at least as many as can make it -and get one last chance to chat and relax together, play a few hands of cards, a round or two of Scrabble, and find the beauty that is so present in New England at that time of year. Special gifts, chosen or constructed after much careful thought, should be the rule for times like these - at all times, if possible - especially now, under these circumstances. It is unusual to have what could even come close to being described as a "perfect" holiday, but perhaps we can manage it somehow, this once. Like Christmas sweaters, the love should be soft and fuzzy, without too much wine or egg nog, and the company should be convivial with all differences and arguments set aside for the span of the holidays, although with any teenagers around that may just be a pipe dream.
I have come to a transition in my writing here that I am hard pressed to make smoothly, relating one subject to the other and skillfully wording things so this one entry is a cohesive and sensible whole. I may figure it out as I type, but I hardly know where to begin to make the transition from a rhapsodic Christmas scene to an old cemetary, in the grey of a New England rainy day, on Cape Cod. They may not seem at all related but they truly are, as both of the subjects as discussed are intimately related to my family.
The cemetary I am thinking of is in Wellfleet, well past the one where Deborah Hopkins Snow is supposed to be buried but still along the GAR Highway. The cemetary of which I speak is further along the Cape to be found near the narrowest neck of land between Chatham and Truro; between ocean and bay. It is not very obvious, sitting atop a slight hill with sparse sea grasses sprouting at intervals along an old fence. You might drive past it a hundred times without ever really being aware of its existence, but it is there and in it sleep those in our family, though far from all of them, who have gone before. If you enter the cemetary and then turn back around to face the highway, you cannot see what was an inlet from the bay at one time, but you can feel its presence nearby.* It was kept open in the early 1900s by the use of dredges in order to allow sailboats inland access to their owners' docks, just off of their yards. I know this because some of the people with the sailboats were progenitors of mine and my siblings. It is funny to realize that I always picture these sailboats and people in black and white, like their photographs, even though I have seen the clear blue sky over the water there sparkling with the gemstone colors of the setting sun, grasses both green and sear waving in the breezes that carry the scents of ocean and other growing things with them. Turning back to the cemetary can be difficult at times like these, but those times also mean the light is fading and the visit to the cemetary, and my near ancestors graves, must be hastened or lost to the dusk. Several steps into the cemetary, I think, perhaps, a little to the left (or is it to the right?) is a small, unpreposessing plot that is the site of many graves despite its occupant-deprived appearance. My great-grandfather is there, my Aunt Camilla - who was known as "Sissy" her entire life, also rests there, and next to her is my Grandmother, still guarding her injured eldest child; still close. Other spaces, not too well marked unless one of my cousins decided to remedy the situation without telling us, contain the mortal elements of elderly cousins, great-aunts and great-uncles, lost children and, perhaps, a few others. It is a ragtag group and I only know for certain which part of the plot encloses those to whom I am most intimately related. Further along, to the right and down an incline lay the remains of another cousin and her beloved husband. I think that her parents may also be there. In the Spring there are wild roses and grass flowers; beach plums and honey bees. In the Autumn there is soft grey fog and rain; damp salt air and drizzle. All of this is enveloped quietly but definitely in the close proximity to the salt waters on either side of the Cape. When Winter winds blow across the land, they pass more swiftly over this spot than anywhere else and when the storm waters roar and surge on the ocean side, it is one of the least protected areas on the bay-side of the Cape, although even the Atlantic has not yet breached the peace to be found there at any particular moment in time. It really takes a map to appreciate the relative situation of this part of the geology of Cape Cod. On any sufficiently detailed map or aerial photograph, the narrowness of this piece of land, its closeness to the waters on both sides of the Cape, are very evident and the sight of this vulnerability merely adds to the poignancy of the place. Some day, perhaps during a hurricane or storm coming off of the ocean, I expect to hear that the little cemetary has been washed out to sea, that the lower Cape has become an island and the land prices have doubled, effective immediately, for the privilege of getting to live on an island with ocean views instead of a penninsula with a highway practically in your front yard. This would not be that much of a suprise given that the Cape has lost land many times before in this same, or similar, fashion and it seems a fitting denouement for a small and ancient plot of burial ground such as this; a return to elemental roots as determined by nature, the elements and time. Perhaps, if that time comes, somehow, during my lifetime, I will make every effort to be there to say my good-byes. I think I will stand on the peninsular side of the break and recall the stark, other-worldly peace and beauty I found standing amongst the slowly disintigrating stones and memories. I will be wearing a heavy sweater in all likelihood, as ocean winds blow cold most of the year, and I will wrap the sweater and my arms about myself and close my eyes. The winds and smells and sounds of ocean and the Cape will rush past me, running to fill up the bay on the other side and I will pick up, in that rush of current and air, the sounds of the voices of those whose graves have been reclaimed by the same elements that caused them to be created there in the first place. I will say a final fare-thee-well to my relatives, God-speed, and realize that there could truly be no more appropriate, fitting end to such a spot. I will throw wild roses on the waters, if they are blooming then, and perhaps write a little something, a note to my grandmother and aunt, and allow the tidal flow to claim my words, too. Of all the places I have been and known, of all the impressions I have formed or discovered, this place is nearest to my thoughts, my heart, and I will always treasure the memories of this one small antique cemetary along with the thoughts of those people there to whom I owe my existence.
*This inlet to the salt marsh may not be visible from the cemetary's highway facing side, as I wrote. My memory and its attendant inaccuracies may have you looking for a salt marsh that is actually located further along the GAR highway toward Wellfleet center and Truro. Both, however, are there and both are close enough for Mother Nature to take a serious hand in rearranging if that is destined to be the case.
I have come to a transition in my writing here that I am hard pressed to make smoothly, relating one subject to the other and skillfully wording things so this one entry is a cohesive and sensible whole. I may figure it out as I type, but I hardly know where to begin to make the transition from a rhapsodic Christmas scene to an old cemetary, in the grey of a New England rainy day, on Cape Cod. They may not seem at all related but they truly are, as both of the subjects as discussed are intimately related to my family.
The cemetary I am thinking of is in Wellfleet, well past the one where Deborah Hopkins Snow is supposed to be buried but still along the GAR Highway. The cemetary of which I speak is further along the Cape to be found near the narrowest neck of land between Chatham and Truro; between ocean and bay. It is not very obvious, sitting atop a slight hill with sparse sea grasses sprouting at intervals along an old fence. You might drive past it a hundred times without ever really being aware of its existence, but it is there and in it sleep those in our family, though far from all of them, who have gone before. If you enter the cemetary and then turn back around to face the highway, you cannot see what was an inlet from the bay at one time, but you can feel its presence nearby.* It was kept open in the early 1900s by the use of dredges in order to allow sailboats inland access to their owners' docks, just off of their yards. I know this because some of the people with the sailboats were progenitors of mine and my siblings. It is funny to realize that I always picture these sailboats and people in black and white, like their photographs, even though I have seen the clear blue sky over the water there sparkling with the gemstone colors of the setting sun, grasses both green and sear waving in the breezes that carry the scents of ocean and other growing things with them. Turning back to the cemetary can be difficult at times like these, but those times also mean the light is fading and the visit to the cemetary, and my near ancestors graves, must be hastened or lost to the dusk. Several steps into the cemetary, I think, perhaps, a little to the left (or is it to the right?) is a small, unpreposessing plot that is the site of many graves despite its occupant-deprived appearance. My great-grandfather is there, my Aunt Camilla - who was known as "Sissy" her entire life, also rests there, and next to her is my Grandmother, still guarding her injured eldest child; still close. Other spaces, not too well marked unless one of my cousins decided to remedy the situation without telling us, contain the mortal elements of elderly cousins, great-aunts and great-uncles, lost children and, perhaps, a few others. It is a ragtag group and I only know for certain which part of the plot encloses those to whom I am most intimately related. Further along, to the right and down an incline lay the remains of another cousin and her beloved husband. I think that her parents may also be there. In the Spring there are wild roses and grass flowers; beach plums and honey bees. In the Autumn there is soft grey fog and rain; damp salt air and drizzle. All of this is enveloped quietly but definitely in the close proximity to the salt waters on either side of the Cape. When Winter winds blow across the land, they pass more swiftly over this spot than anywhere else and when the storm waters roar and surge on the ocean side, it is one of the least protected areas on the bay-side of the Cape, although even the Atlantic has not yet breached the peace to be found there at any particular moment in time. It really takes a map to appreciate the relative situation of this part of the geology of Cape Cod. On any sufficiently detailed map or aerial photograph, the narrowness of this piece of land, its closeness to the waters on both sides of the Cape, are very evident and the sight of this vulnerability merely adds to the poignancy of the place. Some day, perhaps during a hurricane or storm coming off of the ocean, I expect to hear that the little cemetary has been washed out to sea, that the lower Cape has become an island and the land prices have doubled, effective immediately, for the privilege of getting to live on an island with ocean views instead of a penninsula with a highway practically in your front yard. This would not be that much of a suprise given that the Cape has lost land many times before in this same, or similar, fashion and it seems a fitting denouement for a small and ancient plot of burial ground such as this; a return to elemental roots as determined by nature, the elements and time. Perhaps, if that time comes, somehow, during my lifetime, I will make every effort to be there to say my good-byes. I think I will stand on the peninsular side of the break and recall the stark, other-worldly peace and beauty I found standing amongst the slowly disintigrating stones and memories. I will be wearing a heavy sweater in all likelihood, as ocean winds blow cold most of the year, and I will wrap the sweater and my arms about myself and close my eyes. The winds and smells and sounds of ocean and the Cape will rush past me, running to fill up the bay on the other side and I will pick up, in that rush of current and air, the sounds of the voices of those whose graves have been reclaimed by the same elements that caused them to be created there in the first place. I will say a final fare-thee-well to my relatives, God-speed, and realize that there could truly be no more appropriate, fitting end to such a spot. I will throw wild roses on the waters, if they are blooming then, and perhaps write a little something, a note to my grandmother and aunt, and allow the tidal flow to claim my words, too. Of all the places I have been and known, of all the impressions I have formed or discovered, this place is nearest to my thoughts, my heart, and I will always treasure the memories of this one small antique cemetary along with the thoughts of those people there to whom I owe my existence.
*This inlet to the salt marsh may not be visible from the cemetary's highway facing side, as I wrote. My memory and its attendant inaccuracies may have you looking for a salt marsh that is actually located further along the GAR highway toward Wellfleet center and Truro. Both, however, are there and both are close enough for Mother Nature to take a serious hand in rearranging if that is destined to be the case.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Poetry Just Because
I have decided to publish several random poems I have written (I have also added some more to earlier posts) "just because." I am hoping other people will enjoy some of it and also, hopefully, be amused by certain poems I have included - at great personal risk.
Poetry is one of my favorite things. I will leave the judgements as to quality up to all of you :-)
The News at Five, November 23, 1963
"The President is dead," the old man
On the black and white TV said.
Through the "snow" on the screen he cried,
"President Kennedy has died."
At five I knew something bad, very bad,
Was really upsetting my Mom and Dad.
Daddy came home early, looking sad.
They held each other close and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Later, there were sad, slow horses
And a big box wrapped in a U.S. flag
On the black and white TV.
The snow was still all over the screen
And his little boy saluted the scene
Not knowing his Daddy could never
Hold him again when he cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Thinking back all of those years
To the grief and the tears,
I can still hear the crippled innocence
Of America sigh
And recall the grief and the fear.
A small part of a five-year-old girl's heart
Held on to that and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Ages of Mice and Men
The young
Put such a different face
Upon Time's progress
And effect upon
Corporeal-self and space.
When merely young
A day is longer, more so,
Than a month is to those
Who have reached
An epiphany of years,
Though it takes but little time
For a child to feel
The burdens of eternity
From Christmas tree to Christmas tree.
As age encompasses feeble flesh,
The year becomes more plausible
But still insists on
Dragging time-sodden feet
For those whose perception of Time
Is still on the upside of Life's hill.
Age passes into age;
Time grows shorter
As Life moves onward.
At the increased pace
Our perceptions, incrementally
Shortened, force us
To consume our time in a daily feast,
The burden of which is
Our having less time to inhabit our
Unique and intimate space.
We long for the next phase of Time
While hoping for more to come.
We yearn for Time to pass our way
But want more; Time grows shorter
As our years grow long.
(untitled)
Clothes certainly look better
Hanging in loose grace from
A slender person's frame.
The scrawny model draped in
Shimmering gossamers and
Pliable lights
Was chosen.
The designer vetted her
With bulemia
High on his list of
Positive attributes.
Gay - he looks with lustful eyes
At boy-thin girls
And eats the image of
His creations
Draped deliciously
Over the thinly fleshed
Wings, breasts, and drumsticks
Served on the photographic plate
With a side of fresh satin salads.
Reflections On a Poem by David Barber - 04/07/2005
Ms. Arabella Young had a tongue that could flay.
She was not a happy soul
And those closest to her paid in spades
For what she had to say.
Critical and crabby,
She was her husband's dread -
Oft, for a moment's peace
He might wish her dead.
She jawed and fussed and commented,
Her verbiage burned like fire,
Until the day she held her tongue
And choked upon her ire.
To Mada
What was his name, Mada?
The little one you bore
That they killed and threw away like trash?
What was his name?
He has no grave
For you to cry over,
Weeping cold, dry tears
into the dust of his lost eternities.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Do you know his brother,
Or was it a sister,
You yourself killed
Because the pain was so great in you
You could not hold on to even one little life
For such a long time?
What were their names?
Can you still feel him, Mada?
Emerging from you, newly born,
One brief moment, one glimpse,
Then whisked away into oblivion and death;
The Nazis as babysitters
Led only to a cradle of fire and ashes, Mada.
What was his name?
Do you still long to hold him, Mada?
To feel his warm, sweet infant breath
Mingling with yours?
To touch his soft infant skin
To bury your nose in his hair
To feel the curl of gentle fingers
Grasping one of your fingers,
Tiny hands, so perfect,
Holding your heart
Forever.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Tiny siren of heartbreak
And you still hear his call,
I think,
Crying for your warm milk
To quench the choke of lifelessness
And hatred the Nazis gave him
For his first birthday,
His only birthday.
What was his name, Mada,
What was his name?
Baby of Mine?
Lost Love?
Father's Name In Flesh Appearing?
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Dream Sequence
You gave away the coat I had,
My only coat,
The one I had purchased for myself,
The one that fit properly,
The one worn with my use,
The one I was comfortable in,
And you gave it to somebody else
And tried to replace it
With another coat,
Someone else's
That was too childish and
Too small.
You professed surprise
When I got upset.
Fortunately, though,
My boyfriend's mother was there
And had a granddaughter
Who might like the coat
You tried to foist off on me,
So she has taken it.
She likes things
The original owners have cast off
As long as they still have
Lots of wear in them.
And all the time this was
Going on
Don McLean kept singing
"Vincent" in the background,
And I could sing along
Because I remembered the words,
Every one of them.
Poetry is one of my favorite things. I will leave the judgements as to quality up to all of you :-)
The News at Five, November 23, 1963
"The President is dead," the old man
On the black and white TV said.
Through the "snow" on the screen he cried,
"President Kennedy has died."
At five I knew something bad, very bad,
Was really upsetting my Mom and Dad.
Daddy came home early, looking sad.
They held each other close and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Later, there were sad, slow horses
And a big box wrapped in a U.S. flag
On the black and white TV.
The snow was still all over the screen
And his little boy saluted the scene
Not knowing his Daddy could never
Hold him again when he cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Thinking back all of those years
To the grief and the tears,
I can still hear the crippled innocence
Of America sigh
And recall the grief and the fear.
A small part of a five-year-old girl's heart
Held on to that and cried,
The day President Kennedy died.
Ages of Mice and Men
The young
Put such a different face
Upon Time's progress
And effect upon
Corporeal-self and space.
When merely young
A day is longer, more so,
Than a month is to those
Who have reached
An epiphany of years,
Though it takes but little time
For a child to feel
The burdens of eternity
From Christmas tree to Christmas tree.
As age encompasses feeble flesh,
The year becomes more plausible
But still insists on
Dragging time-sodden feet
For those whose perception of Time
Is still on the upside of Life's hill.
Age passes into age;
Time grows shorter
As Life moves onward.
At the increased pace
Our perceptions, incrementally
Shortened, force us
To consume our time in a daily feast,
The burden of which is
Our having less time to inhabit our
Unique and intimate space.
We long for the next phase of Time
While hoping for more to come.
We yearn for Time to pass our way
But want more; Time grows shorter
As our years grow long.
(untitled)
Clothes certainly look better
Hanging in loose grace from
A slender person's frame.
The scrawny model draped in
Shimmering gossamers and
Pliable lights
Was chosen.
The designer vetted her
With bulemia
High on his list of
Positive attributes.
Gay - he looks with lustful eyes
At boy-thin girls
And eats the image of
His creations
Draped deliciously
Over the thinly fleshed
Wings, breasts, and drumsticks
Served on the photographic plate
With a side of fresh satin salads.
Reflections On a Poem by David Barber - 04/07/2005
Ms. Arabella Young had a tongue that could flay.
She was not a happy soul
And those closest to her paid in spades
For what she had to say.
Critical and crabby,
She was her husband's dread -
Oft, for a moment's peace
He might wish her dead.
She jawed and fussed and commented,
Her verbiage burned like fire,
Until the day she held her tongue
And choked upon her ire.
To Mada
What was his name, Mada?
The little one you bore
That they killed and threw away like trash?
What was his name?
He has no grave
For you to cry over,
Weeping cold, dry tears
into the dust of his lost eternities.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Do you know his brother,
Or was it a sister,
You yourself killed
Because the pain was so great in you
You could not hold on to even one little life
For such a long time?
What were their names?
Can you still feel him, Mada?
Emerging from you, newly born,
One brief moment, one glimpse,
Then whisked away into oblivion and death;
The Nazis as babysitters
Led only to a cradle of fire and ashes, Mada.
What was his name?
Do you still long to hold him, Mada?
To feel his warm, sweet infant breath
Mingling with yours?
To touch his soft infant skin
To bury your nose in his hair
To feel the curl of gentle fingers
Grasping one of your fingers,
Tiny hands, so perfect,
Holding your heart
Forever.
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Tiny siren of heartbreak
And you still hear his call,
I think,
Crying for your warm milk
To quench the choke of lifelessness
And hatred the Nazis gave him
For his first birthday,
His only birthday.
What was his name, Mada,
What was his name?
Baby of Mine?
Lost Love?
Father's Name In Flesh Appearing?
What was his name, Mada?
What was his name?
Dream Sequence
You gave away the coat I had,
My only coat,
The one I had purchased for myself,
The one that fit properly,
The one worn with my use,
The one I was comfortable in,
And you gave it to somebody else
And tried to replace it
With another coat,
Someone else's
That was too childish and
Too small.
You professed surprise
When I got upset.
Fortunately, though,
My boyfriend's mother was there
And had a granddaughter
Who might like the coat
You tried to foist off on me,
So she has taken it.
She likes things
The original owners have cast off
As long as they still have
Lots of wear in them.
And all the time this was
Going on
Don McLean kept singing
"Vincent" in the background,
And I could sing along
Because I remembered the words,
Every one of them.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Brief Reflections On 30th High School Class Reunions
It seems strange and yet excruciatingly familiar to be back in touch with friends and acquaintances from high school. That feeling grows with each passing decade as the reunions come at ten year intervals. This October the Chatham High School (Massachusetts) Class of 1976 will hold its 30th class reunion and it will be an interesting one, although I am not anticipating being able to take as much of a part in it as I had hoped. This morning started with a telephone call from a friend I have not spoken to for that entire 30 years. The voice was familiar but the person behind it, though still very much my former classmate, was different and I could feel that difference even over the phone lines. This is not a bad thing or a sad occurance - there is nothing wrong with that being the case at all and, in fact, is probably a very good thing as maturing and growth are integral to our existence, but it still accentuates the passing of time and the changes that have taken place, the aging and the losses of some of our fellow classmates, the lost moments when an old friend would have been so very welcome even though they would have ended up being present during the forging of new relationships had they been there, relationships that formed because of the gaps caused by the absence of those same old friends. And so it goes, life flows constantly and we flow with it but, when there are certain events to be taken part in, that flow can seem to suddenly stop or to slow down so the years feel as though they are dropping away although the creaky knees or the aching back remind us that those years are still very much a part of our present, as well as past, existence. Hearing her voice took me back to one specific party we and another friend attended during our stint at the local community college following our high school graduation. Too much detail or too good a memory would be unforgivable at this point in all of our lives, but the memories that do present themselves, often unbidden, speak so strongly of more than just one static moment or occurance in time. There were the three of us, newly fledged as adults back in those few rare years when the legal drinking age was eighteen and we were learning to fly. Whatever mistakes were made, or merely unfortunate choices, were all part of our individual journies into the people we are today, which is not such a bad thing.
It will be fun to be able to see some of the people I went to high school with, to hear of their trials and mistakes, triumphs and joys over the years, and to get to at least see pictures of children and grandchildren because we are now far enough removed from our own childhoods that some of us are, or soon will be, grandparents. Our hair is greying, our faces wrinkling, our eyesight slowly failing us. Some of us have had health problems only "older" people have, and some of our number are gone, having succumbed to the cycle of life and nature at too young an age. We will be flabby in spots, somewhat or very overweight, although not all of us, tired by early in the evening, and too well aware that even more of us will not be there for the next reunion that will happen on schedule because most of us really do like to see one another and catch up with each others lives despite adolescent differences or animosities, despite widely different lives or life-styles. And we will treasure our encounters. We will, for a brief time, understand what treasures are held in the form of human flesh in each of our former friends and classmates, and we will enjoy getting to know one another all over again, although if some of us drink too much we may end up resurrecting arguments and anger, jealousies and hurt feelings best left in the past, where they rest for infinity in a grave not of our own hands.
We will also learn new things about ourselves, sometimes about our past selves (as in "I didn't know you ever did that in high school!"), and definitely about our present, slightly age-worn, selves. It seems that school can never be truly dismissed. I just hope I am not late for class.
Dreams of Pizza and Apocalypse
I am fleeing to Canada in a car with a boy
I knew in high school.
He is dressed in a tux,
I am dressed up, too.
I take the wheel so my friend can
Wave at someone behind us,
They are fading into the horizon.
The windshield is a giant computer screen.
Suddenly, I dodge a dead donkey
Splattered in the road,
Like that deer two Springs ago.
The steering wheel is a thin
Ultra-modern mystery.
There are cars and smoke up ahead.
I panic and my friend takes the wheel again.
It is the Apocalypse,
We'd be crazy to turn back now.
The car rolls slowly to a stop.
I look at the boy next to me as
He gazes calmly ahead.
The Democrat is dead but
The pizza is delicious.
It has the extra crispy crust.
Teenager Nerd Revenge
I have to smile...
I was young and foolish once
And wanted to play the electric bass guitar
And rotate my hips as I
masturbated the strings along the neck
Sliding, sensual sounds
While wearing skin-tight
Bell-bottomed sequin-studded jumpsuits
Letting my cleavage show
And maybe my navel
With pants so tight across my ass
All the boys who wouldn't look twice
Would get all hard and horny
And then, in their faces, I could
Choose Jim or Mick or
Maybe Keith and
That would show them
While I smiled with perfect teeth
Into the cameras
Hoping all the boys
Who couldn't see me
Were watching.
It will be fun to be able to see some of the people I went to high school with, to hear of their trials and mistakes, triumphs and joys over the years, and to get to at least see pictures of children and grandchildren because we are now far enough removed from our own childhoods that some of us are, or soon will be, grandparents. Our hair is greying, our faces wrinkling, our eyesight slowly failing us. Some of us have had health problems only "older" people have, and some of our number are gone, having succumbed to the cycle of life and nature at too young an age. We will be flabby in spots, somewhat or very overweight, although not all of us, tired by early in the evening, and too well aware that even more of us will not be there for the next reunion that will happen on schedule because most of us really do like to see one another and catch up with each others lives despite adolescent differences or animosities, despite widely different lives or life-styles. And we will treasure our encounters. We will, for a brief time, understand what treasures are held in the form of human flesh in each of our former friends and classmates, and we will enjoy getting to know one another all over again, although if some of us drink too much we may end up resurrecting arguments and anger, jealousies and hurt feelings best left in the past, where they rest for infinity in a grave not of our own hands.
We will also learn new things about ourselves, sometimes about our past selves (as in "I didn't know you ever did that in high school!"), and definitely about our present, slightly age-worn, selves. It seems that school can never be truly dismissed. I just hope I am not late for class.
Dreams of Pizza and Apocalypse
I am fleeing to Canada in a car with a boy
I knew in high school.
He is dressed in a tux,
I am dressed up, too.
I take the wheel so my friend can
Wave at someone behind us,
They are fading into the horizon.
The windshield is a giant computer screen.
Suddenly, I dodge a dead donkey
Splattered in the road,
Like that deer two Springs ago.
The steering wheel is a thin
Ultra-modern mystery.
There are cars and smoke up ahead.
I panic and my friend takes the wheel again.
It is the Apocalypse,
We'd be crazy to turn back now.
The car rolls slowly to a stop.
I look at the boy next to me as
He gazes calmly ahead.
The Democrat is dead but
The pizza is delicious.
It has the extra crispy crust.
Teenager Nerd Revenge
I have to smile...
I was young and foolish once
And wanted to play the electric bass guitar
And rotate my hips as I
masturbated the strings along the neck
Sliding, sensual sounds
While wearing skin-tight
Bell-bottomed sequin-studded jumpsuits
Letting my cleavage show
And maybe my navel
With pants so tight across my ass
All the boys who wouldn't look twice
Would get all hard and horny
And then, in their faces, I could
Choose Jim or Mick or
Maybe Keith and
That would show them
While I smiled with perfect teeth
Into the cameras
Hoping all the boys
Who couldn't see me
Were watching.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
How Many Quiet Days Do We Get Before Everything Explodes?
Life has taught me many things. Among them is that it never stays quiet for very long, at least for my family. In worrying about Patty, however, we have the seeds of a palpable fear and a distraction that might keep us from fully realizing that something truly good is going on. Instead of peaceful days bringing life back into dying souls, they are fraught with worries over when and what the next tragedy, the next heartache, will happen or will be. This makes relaxing a little difficult but it definitely keeps you on your toes, even though what you feel you need and want is to be in a slightly more recumbant posture. I often envy people who seem to have quieter, less painful lives. However, it is wonderful to be able to see individuals and families who do not have eight million tragedies or trials going on at any one time, to hear a child laugh because there is nothing hindering their childish happiness or to watch a proud parent glow with the love and joy of seeing a healthy and successful child take first steps into a larger and more promising world. But then, there is the let down of having to return to my own reality and remember that such joys have been, at times, nonexistant in our lives and may be again all too soon. I hope and pray that our times of trial and pain will soon yield to joy and relief as unbidden ills heal and as the burdens of worry slowly dissolve because there are no new trials to nourish them back to life. Even though my sister is not consistently present, I feel her life persistently present in my heart. I am with her even when I'm not. Every fiber of my being is filled with the hope for her full recovery from the leukemia and also the dread of her not recovering. It is like a tightrope drawn across the very deepest, most primal part of the soul; savage and wild, infinitly strong yet curiously weak and fragile. It is hard to say how the balancing act is accomplished, deep in these normally forbidden recesses of individuality; the center stage is shrouded and the safety nets may or may not be in place and secured. The walker may be temporarily or permanently blind or experience vertigo while hovering over a Niagra Falls of grief and distress. There is no knowing if the current actor will make it to the other side of this abyss because the other side is cloaked in mystery and steeped in a morass of ignorance and care.
Enough of this introspection, this philosophizing about the uncertainty of life and untried premonitions! Today there was no bad news so perhaps tomorrow will refuse to yield to the negative energies of fear and dread. Whatever troubles might happen may yet prove too distant from the day for any sort of speculation and the sun may shine again and again before anymore trials render our hearts and minds numb again. It should become my mission in life to fight such misery, and surely I will win, with memories of happy moments and joyful times of jubilation: the births of a nephew and a niece, the recovery of a parent thought too ill to mend, the return of a beloved pet thought gone forever, the beauty of a perfect day of soft air and glowing sunshine, the whisper of a high breeze through the tops of lushly green trees throwing their arms about in the sky with the abandon of natural freedom and beauty, the murmurs and chatterings of birds tending young ones and nests as the dusk settles in and the night gently folds itself over the earth. These are the things of life; these are the things that give life, forming the backbone of the defense for human continuity in the courts of Heaven itself.
Am I too human, and therefore too frail, to carry or to be sustained by what nature provides for my survival when there has been so much trouble seeing any survival?
That depends on whether I can take nature's gifts along with nature's requirements; whether I can soar into the Heavens, touch the face of God, and return to earth unscathed by the reality I have found at the foundations of life itself.
Many religions provide some explanation or instruction about an afterlife, but it is always shrouded in that particular religion's requirements for membership and salvation - according to their rules. What if each religion has only grasped a small part of the reality; the truth? Nature, as it stands, is the creation of an omnipotence beyond the understanding and perceptions of human minds and hearts although we try very hard to fit it into our limits and rules. God is not able to yield to our molds. Perhaps we should set the Almighty free and stop insisting he adhere to our understanding, our thoughts, our limits and limitations. Just as God does not need any of us for PR purposes, so he does not require our permission to act as and be God. God is true to his own nature and cannot yield in any way to ours. We need to let go of God, stop telling him and one another what and who he is and how he will behave, what he expects, and start giving to God the one thing we desperately need to give to each other, the freedom to merely, gloriously be. We must, finally, be as kind to God as we would have him be to each of us and we need to let go of our demands on other people who do not share our beliefs and choices. God gave each of us a free will, how can we rightly assume he does not, therefore, have one of his own?
How can I, thinking all of these things, not understand the terrible beauty, the unending threat and ever present promise that is nature and that is found in the very heart of God and the hearts of every member, every being, of his creation?
Seeing God - a poem
We try to fly but find
We are tethered to the earth.
We have yet to learn
We can truly soar.
We must release our hate,
We must destroy our fears,
We must give up the rules
We have cherished for so many years.
We can only truly soar if
We release the demands
We require of a God
We can never fully understand.
We need to see ourselves as restricted from our births.
We need to give God freedom to act upon this earth.
We will learn, someday, to fly.
We will soar throughout the space
We create in our own minds, then
We will be able to see God's face.
We will someday touch his heart,
We will someday see
We could never get it right alone, because
We have always been too "wee."
Enough of this introspection, this philosophizing about the uncertainty of life and untried premonitions! Today there was no bad news so perhaps tomorrow will refuse to yield to the negative energies of fear and dread. Whatever troubles might happen may yet prove too distant from the day for any sort of speculation and the sun may shine again and again before anymore trials render our hearts and minds numb again. It should become my mission in life to fight such misery, and surely I will win, with memories of happy moments and joyful times of jubilation: the births of a nephew and a niece, the recovery of a parent thought too ill to mend, the return of a beloved pet thought gone forever, the beauty of a perfect day of soft air and glowing sunshine, the whisper of a high breeze through the tops of lushly green trees throwing their arms about in the sky with the abandon of natural freedom and beauty, the murmurs and chatterings of birds tending young ones and nests as the dusk settles in and the night gently folds itself over the earth. These are the things of life; these are the things that give life, forming the backbone of the defense for human continuity in the courts of Heaven itself.
Am I too human, and therefore too frail, to carry or to be sustained by what nature provides for my survival when there has been so much trouble seeing any survival?
That depends on whether I can take nature's gifts along with nature's requirements; whether I can soar into the Heavens, touch the face of God, and return to earth unscathed by the reality I have found at the foundations of life itself.
Many religions provide some explanation or instruction about an afterlife, but it is always shrouded in that particular religion's requirements for membership and salvation - according to their rules. What if each religion has only grasped a small part of the reality; the truth? Nature, as it stands, is the creation of an omnipotence beyond the understanding and perceptions of human minds and hearts although we try very hard to fit it into our limits and rules. God is not able to yield to our molds. Perhaps we should set the Almighty free and stop insisting he adhere to our understanding, our thoughts, our limits and limitations. Just as God does not need any of us for PR purposes, so he does not require our permission to act as and be God. God is true to his own nature and cannot yield in any way to ours. We need to let go of God, stop telling him and one another what and who he is and how he will behave, what he expects, and start giving to God the one thing we desperately need to give to each other, the freedom to merely, gloriously be. We must, finally, be as kind to God as we would have him be to each of us and we need to let go of our demands on other people who do not share our beliefs and choices. God gave each of us a free will, how can we rightly assume he does not, therefore, have one of his own?
How can I, thinking all of these things, not understand the terrible beauty, the unending threat and ever present promise that is nature and that is found in the very heart of God and the hearts of every member, every being, of his creation?
Seeing God - a poem
We try to fly but find
We are tethered to the earth.
We have yet to learn
We can truly soar.
We must release our hate,
We must destroy our fears,
We must give up the rules
We have cherished for so many years.
We can only truly soar if
We release the demands
We require of a God
We can never fully understand.
We need to see ourselves as restricted from our births.
We need to give God freedom to act upon this earth.
We will learn, someday, to fly.
We will soar throughout the space
We create in our own minds, then
We will be able to see God's face.
We will someday touch his heart,
We will someday see
We could never get it right alone, because
We have always been too "wee."
Aging: Its Not Just For People Anymore
Along with the two of us, our cats have been going through their aging processes as well. One of the male cats, Tiger, is just beginning to develop problems that will eventually lead to kidney failure but he is not quite "there" yet. Unlike our cat, Pudge, who died this past February (one week to the day before we got the news Patty had leukemia) of kidney failure, we think the vet caught Tig's in time to at least fight it off more successfully and for a longer period of time that we could with poor Pudge-cat. This being said, we gave Tig his first subcutaneous fluid injection last night and it really seemed to perk him up, so much so in fact, he kept Ross awake until about 3:30AM and enjoyed doing it. This is heartening and scary at the same time because Ross and I both have various difficulties sleeping and when you multiply that by one twerpy pussycat in the middle of the night...
We would rather have a healthy cat than worry about whether we are going to lose sleep because said cat is being too playful or not, so we rejoice and figure we can always trade off cat-sitting while the other one gets a couple of hours under their belts. We are also going to give Tiger his fluids earlier and hope he lets off steam before we head for bed.
Other than the disturbances caused by Tiger having an indecent amount of fun keeping Ross awake, the day has been a relatively quiet one. I think one of the rationales held in the back of my mind for starting this blog was to try to keep up the entries on a regular enough basis so I can actually, objectively determine that we are not constantly under assault as a family - a feeling that has grown to unacceptable proportions as we have all had to deal with what seems like an inordinate amount of family and health crises and loss over the past several years. It will also help me focus more on positive things that happen so I can avoid depressing everyone who reads my blog. Positive feelings and thoughts sometimes seem so far away it almost hurts to have them take place at all. I guess its that the muscles used for being happy tend to atrophy if you cannot find anything to smile or laugh about after awhile.
It is now after midnight ET, and the air coming through the windows is soft and cool. The incessant, high-pitched tones of the crickets and other insect life in our yard blends with the high pitches produced by table fan and computer and meld into one sound that hovers and hums in the background underneath every other sound. A small fan blows this air directly onto my skin making it cool to the touch of fingers that now feel quite warm and I can hear Ross getting ready for bed in another part of the house. The light in this room is dimmed and the sounds swell from the background and envelop two very tired people as they wend their way to bed and the rest they could not claim last night. There is a tangible peace in the air surrounding us and I pray that nothing will shatter that peace as we lapse into sleep and prepare for the day tomorrow.
Some more poetry about the subjects discussed:
Pudge
My sweet, now scrawny cat,
Frail tail, too tired to
Leap into another lap.
Purr and bones
Snuggled in my arms.
Too short a life for
So much love
Embodied in a cat
Named "Pudge."
Beautiful face and loving eyes,
A special being
By love made wise.
You knew, but did not
Want to depart,
Even while in pain you were
Content to snuggle
In my Heart.
Sweet soul of the eternal cat
A universe of love on
Four legs, with a tail.
Soft, warm fur and feline grace;
I will forever feel
Brushing on my face
Loving pats and taps.
I hear a cat-song bridging eternity;
Deep in my heart
I will always hear
Your loving call and, with a hopeful heart,
Know that what is now rendered seperate
Will not spend eternity apart.
To Mom
So simple
To pick up the phone
And call.
Long distance is no problem
Assuming you will hear me at all.
Five years ago at your bedside
That all too final "Good-bye."
The love of a lifetime
Spilled in tears and
An eloquence of broken-hearted
Kisses on a chilling brow;
Mom, where are you now?
Is there a number you can send me?
Maybe an address, so I can
Write a few lines.
Mankind will have reached
Its ultimate achievement
When we can, finally, call back
Through time.
Before I hang up an "I love you
And miss you more than you will ever know."
My mother, my heart,
A lifetime,
Cradled in a daughter's heart
And not so distant now.
To Patty, Who Needs To Know How Her Sister Feels
Like a thief in the night
Entering unbidden, unwelcome, unwanted,
Under inky-wisp clouds creeping across a frozen, secret
moon.
Keeping little bits and pieces of our time,
Each precious moment gone, a shattered diamond; sand -
Making a desert where a garden needs to grow.
I saw a barren waste, glittering and sterile,
After my sister called.
(untitled)
Desperate, my Tuxie,
To see you breathe,
I tried, my sweet, to
Share my breath with you.
Could you, my sweet, sweet angel kitty,
Feel my kiss of love?
Of desperate love?
Paws
They cannot know the sweetness
That was my Pawsie's heart.
That special first mouse for Mom-cat
Delivered lovingly with melifluous cat-song
And happy trills swelling from an endless supply of love.
They cannot know the sweet, soft
Taps and pats I received from Pawsie's gentle touch,
So much like loving hands and words,
Expressing so much love.
Sweet looks of love, such gentle love,
Even to the last.
So great a thing as love
Was trapped inside my Pawsie-Cat.
Her cheerful chirrups when I cried that
I will never hear again,
At least not in this present world
Upon this present plain.
Too weak to purr
She used her gaze to tell me, yet again,
How loved I was by heart, sweet heart,
That beats no more, is still,
Yet my sweet kitty's love goes on
And carries my own aching heart
Up Life's bitter hill.
My sweet, sweet cat's
Pure love for me
Heals the loss and eases pain
Though I can never give her love
To let her know I know
Again.
Death Sprint
It came too fast, too fast,
The death that took my Pawsie Cat.
Too quick, too quick
For loving hearts, and hands, and paws.
Loving looks and sweet caresses
Were not allowed the day,
It came on too fast, too fast,
That stream of quickening death,
That bore my sweet friend away.
They cried, "Too slow, too slow!"
They hurried with the plan
And stole the briefest,
Merest time from
Our eternity.
Last looks of love were there,
And could have been for hours,
But they cried, "Too slow, too slow!"
And robbed us of our
Last sweet looks,
Our last sweet time
Of gentle, sure
Reminders
Of the love our hearts
Embraced,
And stilled my sweet kitty's face
And heart and rushed us into
Death's cold and still embrace.
We would rather have a healthy cat than worry about whether we are going to lose sleep because said cat is being too playful or not, so we rejoice and figure we can always trade off cat-sitting while the other one gets a couple of hours under their belts. We are also going to give Tiger his fluids earlier and hope he lets off steam before we head for bed.
Other than the disturbances caused by Tiger having an indecent amount of fun keeping Ross awake, the day has been a relatively quiet one. I think one of the rationales held in the back of my mind for starting this blog was to try to keep up the entries on a regular enough basis so I can actually, objectively determine that we are not constantly under assault as a family - a feeling that has grown to unacceptable proportions as we have all had to deal with what seems like an inordinate amount of family and health crises and loss over the past several years. It will also help me focus more on positive things that happen so I can avoid depressing everyone who reads my blog. Positive feelings and thoughts sometimes seem so far away it almost hurts to have them take place at all. I guess its that the muscles used for being happy tend to atrophy if you cannot find anything to smile or laugh about after awhile.
It is now after midnight ET, and the air coming through the windows is soft and cool. The incessant, high-pitched tones of the crickets and other insect life in our yard blends with the high pitches produced by table fan and computer and meld into one sound that hovers and hums in the background underneath every other sound. A small fan blows this air directly onto my skin making it cool to the touch of fingers that now feel quite warm and I can hear Ross getting ready for bed in another part of the house. The light in this room is dimmed and the sounds swell from the background and envelop two very tired people as they wend their way to bed and the rest they could not claim last night. There is a tangible peace in the air surrounding us and I pray that nothing will shatter that peace as we lapse into sleep and prepare for the day tomorrow.
Some more poetry about the subjects discussed:
Pudge
My sweet, now scrawny cat,
Frail tail, too tired to
Leap into another lap.
Purr and bones
Snuggled in my arms.
Too short a life for
So much love
Embodied in a cat
Named "Pudge."
Beautiful face and loving eyes,
A special being
By love made wise.
You knew, but did not
Want to depart,
Even while in pain you were
Content to snuggle
In my Heart.
Sweet soul of the eternal cat
A universe of love on
Four legs, with a tail.
Soft, warm fur and feline grace;
I will forever feel
Brushing on my face
Loving pats and taps.
I hear a cat-song bridging eternity;
Deep in my heart
I will always hear
Your loving call and, with a hopeful heart,
Know that what is now rendered seperate
Will not spend eternity apart.
To Mom
So simple
To pick up the phone
And call.
Long distance is no problem
Assuming you will hear me at all.
Five years ago at your bedside
That all too final "Good-bye."
The love of a lifetime
Spilled in tears and
An eloquence of broken-hearted
Kisses on a chilling brow;
Mom, where are you now?
Is there a number you can send me?
Maybe an address, so I can
Write a few lines.
Mankind will have reached
Its ultimate achievement
When we can, finally, call back
Through time.
Before I hang up an "I love you
And miss you more than you will ever know."
My mother, my heart,
A lifetime,
Cradled in a daughter's heart
And not so distant now.
To Patty, Who Needs To Know How Her Sister Feels
Like a thief in the night
Entering unbidden, unwelcome, unwanted,
Under inky-wisp clouds creeping across a frozen, secret
moon.
Keeping little bits and pieces of our time,
Each precious moment gone, a shattered diamond; sand -
Making a desert where a garden needs to grow.
I saw a barren waste, glittering and sterile,
After my sister called.
(untitled)
Desperate, my Tuxie,
To see you breathe,
I tried, my sweet, to
Share my breath with you.
Could you, my sweet, sweet angel kitty,
Feel my kiss of love?
Of desperate love?
Paws
They cannot know the sweetness
That was my Pawsie's heart.
That special first mouse for Mom-cat
Delivered lovingly with melifluous cat-song
And happy trills swelling from an endless supply of love.
They cannot know the sweet, soft
Taps and pats I received from Pawsie's gentle touch,
So much like loving hands and words,
Expressing so much love.
Sweet looks of love, such gentle love,
Even to the last.
So great a thing as love
Was trapped inside my Pawsie-Cat.
Her cheerful chirrups when I cried that
I will never hear again,
At least not in this present world
Upon this present plain.
Too weak to purr
She used her gaze to tell me, yet again,
How loved I was by heart, sweet heart,
That beats no more, is still,
Yet my sweet kitty's love goes on
And carries my own aching heart
Up Life's bitter hill.
My sweet, sweet cat's
Pure love for me
Heals the loss and eases pain
Though I can never give her love
To let her know I know
Again.
Death Sprint
It came too fast, too fast,
The death that took my Pawsie Cat.
Too quick, too quick
For loving hearts, and hands, and paws.
Loving looks and sweet caresses
Were not allowed the day,
It came on too fast, too fast,
That stream of quickening death,
That bore my sweet friend away.
They cried, "Too slow, too slow!"
They hurried with the plan
And stole the briefest,
Merest time from
Our eternity.
Last looks of love were there,
And could have been for hours,
But they cried, "Too slow, too slow!"
And robbed us of our
Last sweet looks,
Our last sweet time
Of gentle, sure
Reminders
Of the love our hearts
Embraced,
And stilled my sweet kitty's face
And heart and rushed us into
Death's cold and still embrace.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Why Is Being Middle-Aged So Wearing?
Tonight I am comparing my lack of energy with the vast supply of energy I used to have when considerably younger. It seems to have been the first thing to go as my age increased and is the first thing I notice in the evenings now. It is this lack of energy that defines my choices of evening activities and, where a few years ago I would have been eager to get out of the house and visit with friends at some favorite restaurant I am now content to sit at home relaxing with a good book or, mostly, vegging out in front of the television. Today has been partially spent hoping that what a classmate told me about another fellow classmate was or is somehow untrue. To hear that someone for whom you had even a marginal affection has died creates a frame of mind that does not only lead to rather gloomy thoughts and reflections but also causes a certain quiet grief that refuses to alleviate. For some reason this lesser sort of grief seems to have more staying power than the huge kind that begins to fade over a period of time. It remains at about the same intensity for a decade, maybe two, before it is "dealt with" enough to begin to dissipate. This is perhaps the result of it not being intense enough to be at the forefront of the grieving process and, therefore, it does not get dealt with quite as rapidly as a more intense, more painful grief. I do not understand why the thought of a former acquaintance's death should remain in my thoughts and heart for so many years, and yet it has and I would like to try to resolve it before I , too, go the way all of us do in the end. I have sent an inquiry to another former classmate who I feel certain will clear up the question for me once and for all. I think that this unresolved hovering between hoping the news was incorrect somehow and all of the little things that I recall that remind me it probably is true are what has kept the grief, though not intense, from healing and resting in its proper place beside the memory of a young man, probably with more than his fair share of struggles as he entered adulthood, who is remembered with an inaccurate fondness born of the distance of many years and their ensuing events. I hope he had a happy life from the last time we spoke until whenever whatever happened however, forever.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Strange Days and Dreams
Tonight is the end of what has seemed a very strange day. All I can think of is that I may not have been the only one experiencing this strange sort of day and that it must have been the weather. Random thoughts and wierd dreams began the day and they escalated into a mild paranoia and some very wishful thinking. Several years ago a former classmate told me that another classmate had passed away from cancer. At that point, if I recall correctly, that made three former classmates gone, all from some type of cancer. It is tempting to try to reach back through the years to try to find some words that might seem a fitting eulogy, but if I am to be honest with myself, I have to acknowledge that I really did not know any of them well and that I could hardly compose a fitting tribute without more information from those who were a great deal closer to each of them. Brian died right after we all graduated and I am forced to recall that most of my interactions with him had not been very convivial. Adam, who I recall primarily as having given himself some really terrible and disgusting burns from cigarettes - some kind of macho-teenage-testosterone toxic dare thing - and I remember thinking how idiotic that was. Adam later became a dentist and had married before he died from the same type of disease my sister is now battling.* The last of my former classmates that I know of was Robin. I had a very obvious crush on him from eighth grade until about my Junior year, I think, when other interests and possibilities in life began to present themselves to me (it was only a transfer of adolescent emotions to a less worthy object/individual) and I do not recall being overly interested in any kind of relationship by the time of our graduation. Robin was an interesting person, and so I defend my adolescent yearnings as being those of having been attracted to someone worthy of such attentions. He was interested in acting and, although we were all still very young and acted like it when we shouldn't have, he was a nice person to talk to, but then again, we really never had much opportunity to converse beyond a few projects here and there during the last two years of school. Still, I was suprised to hear he was gone and I found that I was feeling a genuine grief that we would never be able to talk again, to find out about one anothers' lives, to compare notes on life after high school and to catch up on all we were no longer too clear on about having been in high school. I do not think it matters that I knew Robin so little or that we really hadn't spoken much or too often during school. In some way and at some level I was fond of Robin and had counted him as a friend, or at least a friendly acquaintance, both of which seem rare and more precious than they did when we were so much younger. Because of this, no matter when or how or if I ever make it to one of our reunions, I will always feel something missing, lacking, from those reunions because Robin is no longer there. In retrospect there was probably very little I could have done to help him or to comfort him during the time of his final illness, although I will always wish I could have somehow held his hand or been able to truly be a friend, as I realize now we would have never been anything more than that to one another and yet, being a friend and having a friend is a very profound and meaningful thing and should not ever be taken for granted or scoffed at by any of us. I hope Robin somehow knew this and, if he ever thought about it at all, realized that only kind thoughts were his, and hope for something better than an ignominious death at too young an age. I wrote a poem in high school that I think may have been about my feelings for Robin during those young and frustrating years of growing up and becoming myself, finally. I will share it here and hope that it is not one that would have offended him or hurt him in any way and I hope, wherever he now is, that he even likes it a little.
(untitled)
My love for you is unrequited.
I never told you how I feel.
Instead of speaking up,
A broken stick for pen I wield.
I write my passion in a flowing hand
Upon the beaches endless sand.
I know for certain you would laugh at me.
Its a "school girl crush" in a transitionary rage.
I spill my heart upon the shore,
An actress on an empty stage.
From each grey dusk 'til greyer dawn
I write, knowing that with the next tide,
All evidence against me will be gone.
Another poem, this one new:
They have gone before us and
We in our life cannot abide
The memory of death now attending
All thought of those who have died.
Yet, none of you seem completely gone,
Merely moved to another shore
But still able to see and hear our thoughts
Just unable to touch a hand, caress a face,
From your current dwelling place.
This seems somehow correct to me
Although my mind denies the realm
Of afterlife where you're now framed
As being mere imaginary flame.
One puff of logic and reason and you are all undone
My mind may insist you no longer exist
But my heart has eyes of its own.
To A Brother
To look on my brother
Is to see a soul
Wounded.
God, in your
Eternity
Could heal and
Mend,
But then, You
Don't really
Listen to me,
Though I call you
Again and Again.
My Brother
He sounds tired on the phone
Maybe its the emphysema
Or the cigarettes
Or the antipsychotic medications
A parade of benevolent dictators
Regulating his emotions
His soul
He is only one year
My junior
But he looks and sounds
So much older
An ancient in tattered, dirty jeans
With tobacco-stained nails
That carry the ages of eternity
In a filthy crust
Brilliant was one of the words
They used to describe the genius
The poet
The incredible, arrogant intellect
Now framed by the sagging and sad shell
Housing what is left of my brother.
With love to all of my former classmates, relatives, and friends. Wherever they dwell.
*Since this was written I have learned how little I really new about Adam. There is a very fitting tribute to him at this url: http://www.chathamclassof76.com/adamthornton/adamthornton.html
Although primarily for our class to read the tribute to Adam is so touching I felt it would be unfair not to make sure anyone reading this in the future remain uninformed as to who Adam actually was and what impact he had managed to make in his short time with us. I wish I had known him a little better than I did. He was an amazing person.
(untitled)
My love for you is unrequited.
I never told you how I feel.
Instead of speaking up,
A broken stick for pen I wield.
I write my passion in a flowing hand
Upon the beaches endless sand.
I know for certain you would laugh at me.
Its a "school girl crush" in a transitionary rage.
I spill my heart upon the shore,
An actress on an empty stage.
From each grey dusk 'til greyer dawn
I write, knowing that with the next tide,
All evidence against me will be gone.
Another poem, this one new:
They have gone before us and
We in our life cannot abide
The memory of death now attending
All thought of those who have died.
Yet, none of you seem completely gone,
Merely moved to another shore
But still able to see and hear our thoughts
Just unable to touch a hand, caress a face,
From your current dwelling place.
This seems somehow correct to me
Although my mind denies the realm
Of afterlife where you're now framed
As being mere imaginary flame.
One puff of logic and reason and you are all undone
My mind may insist you no longer exist
But my heart has eyes of its own.
To A Brother
To look on my brother
Is to see a soul
Wounded.
God, in your
Eternity
Could heal and
Mend,
But then, You
Don't really
Listen to me,
Though I call you
Again and Again.
My Brother
He sounds tired on the phone
Maybe its the emphysema
Or the cigarettes
Or the antipsychotic medications
A parade of benevolent dictators
Regulating his emotions
His soul
He is only one year
My junior
But he looks and sounds
So much older
An ancient in tattered, dirty jeans
With tobacco-stained nails
That carry the ages of eternity
In a filthy crust
Brilliant was one of the words
They used to describe the genius
The poet
The incredible, arrogant intellect
Now framed by the sagging and sad shell
Housing what is left of my brother.
With love to all of my former classmates, relatives, and friends. Wherever they dwell.
*Since this was written I have learned how little I really new about Adam. There is a very fitting tribute to him at this url: http://www.chathamclassof76.com/adamthornton/adamthornton.html
Although primarily for our class to read the tribute to Adam is so touching I felt it would be unfair not to make sure anyone reading this in the future remain uninformed as to who Adam actually was and what impact he had managed to make in his short time with us. I wish I had known him a little better than I did. He was an amazing person.
Day In and Day Out
Today was quiet, which was nice. No pet tragedies, no family tragedies - at least that I know of yet - and the night is quiet with just a little humidity in the air and the sounds of insects somewhere in the dark but busy realm of our backyard coming through the window on a light breeze that smells a little of rain. Ross watches television quietly in the living room and I sit at the keyboard in the office/back room/sun room and type. I have so many things I need to tend to; my two novels, my poetry (I really should send some in to Oprah, maybe my Walmart poems), finding a job that will not interfere with the master's program I have been accepted into, although I do not know absolutely that the loan will come through OK, as well as various long overdue household tasks that have been on hold while I was working on my undergraduate degree. But tonight, I am just going to sit and type for a while. Maybe a poem will pop into my head, maybe I will just get to do little quiet thinking in preparation for tomorrow. It still seems a little strange, even though it has been more than five years now, to know my mother is no longer there because it still seems very natural to reach for the phone (maybe not quite this late in the evening) to call her for a little chat and family gossip. Mom would have enjoyed blogging, I think, but it was not really around much before she died. I realize that I think a lot about dying, but that also seems to be what God, nature, fate, whatever, has kept at the forefront of my mind for many years now. Perhaps it is merely that I am now middle-aged and more morbid, not having reached the point where I no longer fear death and can ignore it again, as I did when I was much younger. It is probably the single most terrifying fact of life - scarier even than sex and taxes - and it seems to have become too present in my life, the fear if not the reality. So I shake my head a little, repeat my favorite "proverb" ("I was put here on earth to accomplish a certain number of tasks. Right now I am so far behind I will never die!"), brush the night time flying thingy out of my nose, and carry on. My high school class is staging their thirtieth reunion this October and I have been wondering what it would be like to see everyone again, knowing how radically the years have altered each of us, and have been reflecting on the way old high school relationships might insist on playing themselves out in this, the beginning of our approaching and increasingly decrepit old age. (Will I ever like scotch? Will anyone show up dressed like we did then? Did that rotten man who taught _____ ever get in trouble for _______ after I talked to the vice principle?) There is such a rich supply of left over teenage, angst-ridden, guilty thoughts and feelings that can still be explored and exploited for writing material - hmmmm! On a more serious note, I hope all of my former classmates who are still with us are doing well. There have been a few losses but the pictures of children that have so far been posted on the class website speak of burgeoning life and hope; pride and familial love; triumph and courage. Well, if time and finances permit, perhaps I will make a day trip over to the south east of my current residence, across one of the two old bridges, down the mid-Cape highway, and back to the latter part of my childhood, because now, looking back, I can see that we were still children, although we were also rapidly becoming adults, too. With college, jobs, families, and travel - all of life, in fact - before us we had no reason to think about growing older, failing health, bad economies, and the rest of the baggage we have picked up through the years. We especially had no reason to dwell on the fact of death as a part of life. Hopefully this reunion will be a few moments in time when all of us, whether physically present or not, can relive the wonder and anticipation, fear of the unknown and the longing for new adventure and experiences, that were so present in our lives as we graduated from high school. I used to scoff a little at nostalgic older people but realize it was ignorance and youth: nostalgia looks better and better each year and helps make up for all of those wrinkles and flabby spots the mirror reflects while I sigh, feeling too young yet for such things.
Like a butterfly,
Life flies away
Fluttering and weaving
Drunkenly
From flower to flower
As I watch and envy
The erratic path
Of something as lovely
And impermanent
As a miraculous butterfly.
Like a butterfly,
Life flies away
Fluttering and weaving
Drunkenly
From flower to flower
As I watch and envy
The erratic path
Of something as lovely
And impermanent
As a miraculous butterfly.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
What I Learn From Oprah
I know this may sound a little lame, and even a little strange, but I have been indulging in "Oprah therapy" for the past few months. I cannot claim that any great and earthshaking changes have taken place, I have not suddenly embarked upon a successful bout of weight loss, my finances still are a mess, and I still eat things I shouldn't. At least my cats are not obsessed with their looks and my boyfriend is not having affairs all over the place (at least he better not be doing that!), nor am I deliberately injuring myself with self-inflicted cuts and burns as I try to get through school so I can teach at the college level. With everything that has been going on in my family lately I have really felt the need of having someone to listen to me as I try to work my way through everything. Oprah has helped and, if I keep at it, maybe my life will prove to be exactly what she wants for one of her future shows! What makes this funny is that I am not the sort of person who would have, unchallenged, ever even considered baring my soul online or on television because it "just isn't done." Desperation makes strange, and not so strange, bedfellows at times, such as me and Oprah, the TV and the internet. But here we all are and I feel that I am the one getting the better end of things. I get to "talk" to a renowned celebrity (or at least one of her producers) and unburden my soul, I get to daydream about maybe, somehow, getting my 15 minutes of fame some day, and I also get to let everyone interested in taking a look at my journal know how things are going in my life and how I am feeling, what I am dealing with, what new tragedy has us in its grasp, and so on while I can just take my time in giving the same back to others - at least for awhile. There is also the hope that someone will be helped by, or at least just enjoy, some of what I have written and get back to me with a little news about their life and experiences. Because, even though often snowed under in a quagmire of emotions and paralyzed by the burdens of my many burdened moments, I really do hope that all of this will at least prove a comfort or a help to some one out there who, like me, is doing Oprah therapy and beginning to feel at least a little better about everything in their life.
Some poems:
(this one is for Oprah)
To Mattie
Frail blonde boy
In chair too rigid and correct
Weak beyond comprehension
Tube trailing from his neck
His smile
First thing
The eye rests upon
This is his vehicle
Carrying him home
He was a small blonde boy
In glasses with gold trim
A smile of pure peace
Glowing through the rims
Smile of perfect peace
And a spirit in the trim
(these are the Walmart poems)
To Janice, whose Daddy is in Jail
Too young to see in grownup terms,
But old enough to know how rough the world
can be.
She saw her father stand and fight,
Defending a woman abused by her mate.
Now her Daddy, the defender,
Is uncertain of his fate,
And is forced to see the painful truth
Upon his daughter's worried face.
Two sad tears flow slowly down from
Beautiful eyes holding questions
Suspended in her heart's eternity.
Even many grownups cannot tell
How to answer the questions
Her heart is screaming into her head.
In pain, she longs for her Daddy's hug.
Learning too early
That even heroes make mistakes
Now and then.
(untitled)
She was suddenly there
Chewing her gum too fast
In a mouth used to bitter flavors
One cheek
Stained black by a bruise
Cried out like a festering soul
She stopped short
Her eyes looked desperate
Needing a reason to smile
To find something to laugh at
But they remained hollow and void
From forgetfulness and pain
Eyes like the arid blue of a desert sky
Sear, dry, nearly dead
And all the time
Her mouth moved
Chewing endlessly on her life
Some poems:
(this one is for Oprah)
To Mattie
Frail blonde boy
In chair too rigid and correct
Weak beyond comprehension
Tube trailing from his neck
His smile
First thing
The eye rests upon
This is his vehicle
Carrying him home
He was a small blonde boy
In glasses with gold trim
A smile of pure peace
Glowing through the rims
Smile of perfect peace
And a spirit in the trim
(these are the Walmart poems)
To Janice, whose Daddy is in Jail
Too young to see in grownup terms,
But old enough to know how rough the world
can be.
She saw her father stand and fight,
Defending a woman abused by her mate.
Now her Daddy, the defender,
Is uncertain of his fate,
And is forced to see the painful truth
Upon his daughter's worried face.
Two sad tears flow slowly down from
Beautiful eyes holding questions
Suspended in her heart's eternity.
Even many grownups cannot tell
How to answer the questions
Her heart is screaming into her head.
In pain, she longs for her Daddy's hug.
Learning too early
That even heroes make mistakes
Now and then.
(untitled)
She was suddenly there
Chewing her gum too fast
In a mouth used to bitter flavors
One cheek
Stained black by a bruise
Cried out like a festering soul
She stopped short
Her eyes looked desperate
Needing a reason to smile
To find something to laugh at
But they remained hollow and void
From forgetfulness and pain
Eyes like the arid blue of a desert sky
Sear, dry, nearly dead
And all the time
Her mouth moved
Chewing endlessly on her life
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
The Remains Of My Day
I suppose too much reflection is not such a good thing at times, but it does seem to instigate revelatory thinking of the type that actually does help us gain insight - at least into ourselves. My big thing tonight is thinking about my sister, Patty. She is the sister with the two kids and the leukemia. I realize afresh, every so often, that I do not want to lose my sister. She is younger than I am and does not deserve this thing, this disease, that has become her life, or at least a lot of it, over the past months. I do not know if getting to the doctor a little earlier would have made any real difference, but it is hard to not kick yourself at least a little for not having noticed how wrong things actually were before her doctor gave her the bad news.
I think, also, a large part of what makes this all so difficult is that to feel that Patty may be slipping away from us leaves a hollow space in my heart that echoes of all of the loss and tragedy my family has had to deal with over the past thirty or so years. It gets to the point where you are not asking "Why me/us?" but you end up wondering how to continue coping. Patty's illness takes on the dimensions of a final blow for the heart of our family and I feel so small, so much a part of something good that is being eaten away instead of growing in strength and beauty as it should. Patty is supposed to be at both of her childrens' weddings. She is supposed to get to hold her first grandchild and to dote upon all of the riches a family is supposed to be heir to in this life. We hold onto each other and with each illness that threatens, with each loss, including the family pets, that grasp loosens and begins to slip until frantic fumbling and holding onto air seem to be all that is left. Oh, how I wish I could take everyone in my family and gather them into strong and loving arms that could protect them from all of the foibles and pain life has dished out to us!
I know there are many families more torn, more worn out, more damaged than ours, but ours is the lot I have to deal with and though I feel badly for those other families I cannot live their lives, or even take them upon myself, because I have us to deal with, tend to , and love.
I wonder about the fact that I am deliberately avoiding television shows and various articles about families who have lost their loved ones to what ever form of cancer runs rampant throughout their family genes. I realize I am avoiding the subject, that my fear and pain are determining the subject matter I allow myself to view. It is all so disorganized and frightening and it reminds me of the way, when I was little, I had my entire life laid out all very neatly and tidily. Everything good or bad was supposed to happen to me first because I am the oldest. It takes realizing that living your life is not supposed to be a competition but a task that helps put things more into perspective. Besides, this is a race with no winners, only losers, and I am hoping it is one that the cancer treatments have gotten my sister out of running.
As an adult you realize that life is full of wonder and miracles but that it is also full of pain and loss. Perhaps by refusing to face the pain of other people, other families, I am attempting, for a moment, to revert to that innocence lost with my maturity. Some people try to regain theirs through reason or religion, I am working on regaining mine through avoidance, although I suspect I will not succeed as well as others might. I am not "down" on religion, I am down on the use of it for purposes of escaping this life's requirements, for using it to opt out of having to deal with our inborn imperfections, our humanity. God does not let us off the hook for our sins during this lifetime and those fortunate enough to have the sort of life that has led them to believe otherwise are doing both life and God a major disservice. They do not see how fortunate they actually are because life's randomness effects them just as surely as it effects unbelievers; "the just and the unjust."
Having already lost the second half of my blog by trying to check the spelling, I will send this one through, warts and all. Perhaps that is the key to surviving this life - accepting it, warts and all, and "sending it through" whether it has been succesfully "spellchecked" or not.
Poetry for our mother:
Another Birthday, Mom
You seem so far, yet near;
The meager distance of a tear
Trailing down a weathering cheek.
Nature left no options,
We knew you were dying
But then you were so suddenly dead.
There was no time for conversations
About birthdays and other notions.
Not knowing what to do a tear or two
Is shed in honor of the day
As if you were merely "away."
Perhaps I'll light a candle on a cupcake,
Just in case. You can be
A puff of wind and blow the candle out,
But remember to make a wish first.
As a falling star, you can give me a wish.
It will be like old times, old birthdays.
We will spend the day together,
Heart in heart. Two souls entwined
Caressing my face, pretending to be tears.
Dear Mom,
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Forever is too long a time to wait
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
I know within Life's ebb and flow we long
to speak, to touch, to see; so we await.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Sometimes I tremble, like some woodland fawn,
because my child-heart grieves for mother late;
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
So much to say with chances come and gone.
My heart's yearnings will not soon abate.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Why does loss release Love's poignant song?
In life, so much is held and said too late
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
And so Life moves forever on and on.
For sweet reunion we with patience wait.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
For heart's release, old love will find its new dawn.
(for a missing friend)
To Grace
Dear heart! (for that you are!)
Words feebly express what shall be missed.
Pausing a moment in Time's progress,
Happily by Acquaintance kissed.
Bereft of the sun true friendship needs to flower
Yet, love seemed to spring so easily
In a minimum of hours.
God bless you, Grace.
Nothing less suffices.
You'll never know how
Truly loved you are
In spite of your irrascible devices.
A sweet "Adieux" on leaving
Since pain claims you for its own,
May love and heartfelt wishes
Help ease your journey home.
(just because)
Time
So much we have, and yet we have not much.
We run and panic looking for surcease
From Time's persistent marching on, and such,
Hoping for a little more, at least.
The panic comes as Time refuses rest
For those of us, too much, within its grasp.
We bemoan our sorrows, striving for our best,
As we long for some respite as repast.
Along, and long, we wend our weary way
Through vicious Time's distorted torture maze.
We cannot see the twists of fate that lie
Upon the path Time lays in measured days.
How do we fight such cunning and such guile?
We stop and rest among the flowers for awhile.
I think, also, a large part of what makes this all so difficult is that to feel that Patty may be slipping away from us leaves a hollow space in my heart that echoes of all of the loss and tragedy my family has had to deal with over the past thirty or so years. It gets to the point where you are not asking "Why me/us?" but you end up wondering how to continue coping. Patty's illness takes on the dimensions of a final blow for the heart of our family and I feel so small, so much a part of something good that is being eaten away instead of growing in strength and beauty as it should. Patty is supposed to be at both of her childrens' weddings. She is supposed to get to hold her first grandchild and to dote upon all of the riches a family is supposed to be heir to in this life. We hold onto each other and with each illness that threatens, with each loss, including the family pets, that grasp loosens and begins to slip until frantic fumbling and holding onto air seem to be all that is left. Oh, how I wish I could take everyone in my family and gather them into strong and loving arms that could protect them from all of the foibles and pain life has dished out to us!
I know there are many families more torn, more worn out, more damaged than ours, but ours is the lot I have to deal with and though I feel badly for those other families I cannot live their lives, or even take them upon myself, because I have us to deal with, tend to , and love.
I wonder about the fact that I am deliberately avoiding television shows and various articles about families who have lost their loved ones to what ever form of cancer runs rampant throughout their family genes. I realize I am avoiding the subject, that my fear and pain are determining the subject matter I allow myself to view. It is all so disorganized and frightening and it reminds me of the way, when I was little, I had my entire life laid out all very neatly and tidily. Everything good or bad was supposed to happen to me first because I am the oldest. It takes realizing that living your life is not supposed to be a competition but a task that helps put things more into perspective. Besides, this is a race with no winners, only losers, and I am hoping it is one that the cancer treatments have gotten my sister out of running.
As an adult you realize that life is full of wonder and miracles but that it is also full of pain and loss. Perhaps by refusing to face the pain of other people, other families, I am attempting, for a moment, to revert to that innocence lost with my maturity. Some people try to regain theirs through reason or religion, I am working on regaining mine through avoidance, although I suspect I will not succeed as well as others might. I am not "down" on religion, I am down on the use of it for purposes of escaping this life's requirements, for using it to opt out of having to deal with our inborn imperfections, our humanity. God does not let us off the hook for our sins during this lifetime and those fortunate enough to have the sort of life that has led them to believe otherwise are doing both life and God a major disservice. They do not see how fortunate they actually are because life's randomness effects them just as surely as it effects unbelievers; "the just and the unjust."
Having already lost the second half of my blog by trying to check the spelling, I will send this one through, warts and all. Perhaps that is the key to surviving this life - accepting it, warts and all, and "sending it through" whether it has been succesfully "spellchecked" or not.
Poetry for our mother:
Another Birthday, Mom
You seem so far, yet near;
The meager distance of a tear
Trailing down a weathering cheek.
Nature left no options,
We knew you were dying
But then you were so suddenly dead.
There was no time for conversations
About birthdays and other notions.
Not knowing what to do a tear or two
Is shed in honor of the day
As if you were merely "away."
Perhaps I'll light a candle on a cupcake,
Just in case. You can be
A puff of wind and blow the candle out,
But remember to make a wish first.
As a falling star, you can give me a wish.
It will be like old times, old birthdays.
We will spend the day together,
Heart in heart. Two souls entwined
Caressing my face, pretending to be tears.
Dear Mom,
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Forever is too long a time to wait
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
I know within Life's ebb and flow we long
to speak, to touch, to see; so we await.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Sometimes I tremble, like some woodland fawn,
because my child-heart grieves for mother late;
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
So much to say with chances come and gone.
My heart's yearnings will not soon abate.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
Why does loss release Love's poignant song?
In life, so much is held and said too late
for heart's release. Old love will find its new dawn.
And so Life moves forever on and on.
For sweet reunion we with patience wait.
There's still so much to tell you even though you're gone.
For heart's release, old love will find its new dawn.
(for a missing friend)
To Grace
Dear heart! (for that you are!)
Words feebly express what shall be missed.
Pausing a moment in Time's progress,
Happily by Acquaintance kissed.
Bereft of the sun true friendship needs to flower
Yet, love seemed to spring so easily
In a minimum of hours.
God bless you, Grace.
Nothing less suffices.
You'll never know how
Truly loved you are
In spite of your irrascible devices.
A sweet "Adieux" on leaving
Since pain claims you for its own,
May love and heartfelt wishes
Help ease your journey home.
(just because)
Time
So much we have, and yet we have not much.
We run and panic looking for surcease
From Time's persistent marching on, and such,
Hoping for a little more, at least.
The panic comes as Time refuses rest
For those of us, too much, within its grasp.
We bemoan our sorrows, striving for our best,
As we long for some respite as repast.
Along, and long, we wend our weary way
Through vicious Time's distorted torture maze.
We cannot see the twists of fate that lie
Upon the path Time lays in measured days.
How do we fight such cunning and such guile?
We stop and rest among the flowers for awhile.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
After The Day Off
Despite my determination to do this every day, I skipped a day yesterday. I sat and thought about signing in then decided not to, and I am still not too certain just why I so deliberately did not log on and write something. The usual excuses could be in play here, or maybe I just needed a brief holiday from introspection and reflection.
Perhaps it was also because that, other than forgetting a lunch date with my younger brother (only brother - so there is really no need to qualify him as though he were part of a plurality) and scurrying to get over to pick him up, not too much happened. Oh, I did find out that I have been accepted into the Master's Degree program I applied to, for which I am eagerly awaiting the "official" letter of confirmation - as much for my "scrapbook" as for anything else - which will complete the feelings of victory and accomplishment. My sisters headed for their vacation yesterday, with the leukemia and chemo effects still present but not immediately pressing, and I hope they have a really good time or at least get to relax awhile. Grief is fading quietly, although the hole where Miss Kitty was is still felt, and a vacation will do them both good.
My Dad and stepmother continue their version of living in a social whirl and can be hard to get hold of sometimes but, with his mom gone for awhile, Dad will be staying with my nephew while my stepmother traverses the span of miles between home and a job she opted to keep even though living out of state.
I am sitting here looking into our wildly overgrown backyard and wishing, since I cannot enjoy the view of a manicured lawn, that some interesting creature would venture into our field of goldenrod and purple vetch - which really has a charm of its own - so I can watch to see what a deer or a woodchuck or a skunk, perhaps, does during a rainy day. Its finally cool enough to keep the windows open even during a "muggy" morning and I can hear the rain as it falls on various architectural features on our house. The melody played on the small aluminum awning over the back door is especially fun to listen to, although it is not a concert that occurs too often due to angles and ells and other architect-type terms for corners and juttings out of parts of houses. The day is a soft grey and the birds, particularly the blue jays, seem to have a lot to say about more than just the weather. Our cats seem to want to be extra quiet this morning. You would think that a cool day would give them more energy than one could decently expect to have, but they are quiet and seem subdued. I don't know why, but it worries me when they are like this, taking into consideration their ages and various infirmaties, and I think it is due to having read too many articles on the sensitivities of animals that is supposed to presage natural disasters and acts of terrorism. Hopefully it is just the rain and the time of day. I really have not been sleeping too well so maybe I will plan a nap for later, as I must tend to some errands this morning. It will be something to look forward to as I traverse the wet, grey universe in search of banks and postal boxes, groceries and other amenities, and then head home.
Weather has always affected my moods although I have a friend who swears she is completely unaffected by the changes in the days, and I have definite weather types that I refer to as "nap days." Grey and cold are almost a given for those, but there are also the quiet, beautifully clear days of gentle breezes and soft sunshine that make me long for a cozy hammock out in an imaginary backyard with beautifully manicured lawns with me, and two trees deliberately placed at their plantings for the sole purpose of supporting a hammock and one napper, dozing in the perfection of a rare and wonderful summer day.
Perhaps it was also because that, other than forgetting a lunch date with my younger brother (only brother - so there is really no need to qualify him as though he were part of a plurality) and scurrying to get over to pick him up, not too much happened. Oh, I did find out that I have been accepted into the Master's Degree program I applied to, for which I am eagerly awaiting the "official" letter of confirmation - as much for my "scrapbook" as for anything else - which will complete the feelings of victory and accomplishment. My sisters headed for their vacation yesterday, with the leukemia and chemo effects still present but not immediately pressing, and I hope they have a really good time or at least get to relax awhile. Grief is fading quietly, although the hole where Miss Kitty was is still felt, and a vacation will do them both good.
My Dad and stepmother continue their version of living in a social whirl and can be hard to get hold of sometimes but, with his mom gone for awhile, Dad will be staying with my nephew while my stepmother traverses the span of miles between home and a job she opted to keep even though living out of state.
I am sitting here looking into our wildly overgrown backyard and wishing, since I cannot enjoy the view of a manicured lawn, that some interesting creature would venture into our field of goldenrod and purple vetch - which really has a charm of its own - so I can watch to see what a deer or a woodchuck or a skunk, perhaps, does during a rainy day. Its finally cool enough to keep the windows open even during a "muggy" morning and I can hear the rain as it falls on various architectural features on our house. The melody played on the small aluminum awning over the back door is especially fun to listen to, although it is not a concert that occurs too often due to angles and ells and other architect-type terms for corners and juttings out of parts of houses. The day is a soft grey and the birds, particularly the blue jays, seem to have a lot to say about more than just the weather. Our cats seem to want to be extra quiet this morning. You would think that a cool day would give them more energy than one could decently expect to have, but they are quiet and seem subdued. I don't know why, but it worries me when they are like this, taking into consideration their ages and various infirmaties, and I think it is due to having read too many articles on the sensitivities of animals that is supposed to presage natural disasters and acts of terrorism. Hopefully it is just the rain and the time of day. I really have not been sleeping too well so maybe I will plan a nap for later, as I must tend to some errands this morning. It will be something to look forward to as I traverse the wet, grey universe in search of banks and postal boxes, groceries and other amenities, and then head home.
Weather has always affected my moods although I have a friend who swears she is completely unaffected by the changes in the days, and I have definite weather types that I refer to as "nap days." Grey and cold are almost a given for those, but there are also the quiet, beautifully clear days of gentle breezes and soft sunshine that make me long for a cozy hammock out in an imaginary backyard with beautifully manicured lawns with me, and two trees deliberately placed at their plantings for the sole purpose of supporting a hammock and one napper, dozing in the perfection of a rare and wonderful summer day.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Wasn't Certain What To Do
It's really great having my boyfriend around. He helps me get things into perspective, especially when my world seems like it is going crazy and I feel so shocked by certain things happening that I have trouble knowing exactly what to do about other important things that crop up. For instance, as you can tell by reading my postings for the past two days, we were embroiled in a family trauma and the aftermath which distracted me from calling the police when I probably should have earlier. My only excuse is that I was home sick for several days which were followed by the family's loss of a beloved pet and that what transpired that I should have called the police about took place during those days of illness and grief. It was also one of those situations that seem very unclear because you are not sure whether merely hearing something and knowing what it sounded like to you was not good vs. having actually seen (i.e. "witnessed") something and being able to give accurate physical descriptions, naming names, etc. So, tomorrow, in the aftermath of my family's loss and the ensuing results of that, I will go into the local police station and make my report. Hopefully someone else heard the same things and reported them and my reporting what things sounded like to me will reinforce an already existing report. If mine is the first, hopefully there will be another report, perhaps by someone with more actual knowledge of the situation and events than I am aware of. Sometimes it feels as if the lid is flying off of everything and rotten stuff just keeps happening. Thank goodness for the more blessed moments when things go right and no one does anything too terrible for at least several days.
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