not just yet

  

The leaves dazzled me today, drenched in golden sunlight, dancing wildly in the wind, hanging on for dear life with their crimson-flecked friends. Fall is a literal season. Everything falls. Everything dies. The earth sleeps. Yet today the world was alive. Everywhere I turned, the colors screamed vibrancy and verve; the plants rebelled, and the air, candidly fresh, carried a hint of sweet-smelling insurgence. Brava. Good for you. And a girl was happy. 

those mountains

I wasn’t expecting this. This feeling of soft, absolute and embracing peace, of Dorothy’s assured utterance to Toto to linger in my mind…if indeed there is no place like home, why did I feel such home here? The mountains, faultlessly vibrant in tints of intoxicated nature, always placed perfectly in the horizon…and then not quite so far reaching, actually underneath your own two feet. However present in their exquisite grandeur, there is an undeniable charm here. The sky may be misty gray, or the most picturesque azure blue, it may be biting cold and snow for days or beam down the warmest rays of happy sunshine…there is just something about those mountains, those beautiful mountains in the distance. 

Lady Lazarus

Swirling, twirling madness devours my brain bit by bit. The world a wobbling haze before me, eyes heavy, coveting darkness even for a moment, needing to surrender for the day. Sweet surrender. A smile flashes as it is trained to do. The show must go on, until dutifully the day is done. I am held captive somewhere in here, amidst the coiling, the spinning, this body that doesn’t seem my own.…yet I will claw my way out, I will return. It will not have me. Does it not know me? Does it not knoweth my persistence? My will? My faith? I have beaten it once, I will rise again...like Lazarus; I will rise again. 

welcome back spring

Sometimes you just need to stop and take it all in...marvel at the the pink...she outdoes herself every spring.

change

The sky was lit ablaze tonight, the earth glowing in its fiery madness. Without notice, almost overnight, the forest of bones has become a mingling of all things budding, promising, jade. The first leaves gently whisper of things to come...yes...

A change is acomin. 

none of it, all of it

The noise is good. It’s lurid, almost sweetly deafening, high squealing delight. Feet disco above me, pitter-pattering this way and that across the hallway, echoing down in euphonic content. Out the window they swing back and forth, the sky safeguarding them in clusters of perfect white puffiness, only the smallest frames of blue peeking out amongst shapes of porcupines and castles.  I sit and listen. I sit and watch. I sit and smile.

And none of it is mine. 

ghosts

They dance all around me, these ghosts. My wanderlust, my ceaseless friend.  They tell me of a place where flowers bloom in the cracks of concrete, where clouds are palpable and take you places if you dare. Sheer organza drapes my body in fluidity and grace, but I am not in Kansas anymore. These ghosts will fool with their trickery. I have been here before. 

clock on the wall

She sits at the table, waiting for him. Her legs crossed just so, her top leg daintily bobbing nervously. Her honey-colored hair coiffed, not a strand out of place. The wise old mahogany clock on the wall ticks loudly. Each tock weighted with the unsaid, each tock screaming to her what she already knows, what she’s known since their return from Rome. She glances to the door. Nothing. She hesitates leaving her post; she is somehow frozen in this life that became hers. Her eyes slowly fall to the floor. She smoothes over her skirt with her delicate hands and pauses for a moment. She notices silence. Her head tilts as if in puzzlement as she stares to the wall. The ticking and tocking has stopped. In the hush she manages to move. Without haste she makes her way to the clock, lifts her hand to feel the silkiness and persuasiveness of its lines and without faltering, calmly thrashes and batters it to the floor watching it break into a million muted pieces.

Leaving the mess on the cold tiles beneath her, she steps over the shards and walks away in reticence, quietly smiling to herself in silence. Sweet ignorant silence. For now.  

fruit fly away

I always believed myself to be a person who loved all creatures, big and small. It’s true…I befriend even the tiniest of ants, carrying them on pieces of paper and hurry to the door in hopes of their lifelong freedom, their quest to the big anthill, or wherever else they choose to roam. Their life surely can’t end at the bottom of my shoe, however cute it may be. Yet, as of late, when I look in the mirror, I see an entirely different face looking back at me. Yes. I have become a murderer...of fruit flies. It’s true. And admittedly, it's not even haphazard; it is quite diligent and purposeful. These flying invasions have infested my dear Friend, hovering in swarms around him, pestering his quiet, peaceful life. Not ok. Really not ok.

What’s a girl to do? Save friend. Kill enemies. Any way you can. What other choice do I have? And thus an assassin was born.

Various methods you may wonder: Swatting, (ineffective, though gratifying), apple cider vinegar—pft. Home remedies have proven minor leagues for these buggars. To the Garden Nursery I wandered. Here is where I was met face to face with another one of mine foes…GASP….chemicals. Indeed I did (arm twisted) buy non-organic and use in my home. What one will do for a friend in need (to which, I have applied with no avail). Last option: repotting.

I am part Italian, but my doing-away-with-the-fly’s skills seem to be lacking in quelque chose. Ah French, so much for the Italian. 

For now, I do what I do best, love. That's me anyway. Love him…yes, a plant, whose name is simply, Friend…put him out in the sunshine on beautiful days, hum to his leaves, and maybe, just maybe violently slaughter a fly or two in eyesight. 

the tree

I make no excuses for myself. If I could however, I would say that the biting cold took hold of my will to acquiesce to the wanderings upstairs. I would admit awkwardly and unabashedly to being more parts animal than human in my winter hibernation mode, burrowing warm in isolation until the first buds appear. But, I make no excuses myself. I should have written to you dear screen…my love. You called many a times, and I shunned you guiltily. Yet, the sun is shining today...  Take me where thou wilt? …

It takes a moment to get there…it was, as always just you and I. I saw our tree resting in an open meadow, surrounded by green, stoic and lonely at the same time, its leaves bellowing a grace only nature can yield with every movement of the wind.  The sky wasn’t quite blue, but all shades of dove grey and salmon. The air was warm  and welcome on my skin. The meadow seemed like the ocean, no end to the horizon, just emerald rolling hills. My feet found their way to you on top of the cool, soft grass and we lay under our tree for the night. My head nuzzled its way into the crook of your chest, your arms wrapped around me entirely, and my legs entangled in yours. This is our place…under this tree. This is where I come to meet you in my dreams.

Seems I’ve waited my whole life for you. 

the calmness of it all

This may seem like an odd picture...however, I really heart my bag. It deserved a little spotlight.

As such...I found this smile-enducing.

?

Life was seeping out of her every pore. She tried in moments to cling on to what she could, but her efforts seemed futile. It wasn’t noticeable to the naked eye, not at first glance, or even second or third. It was only recognizable if you knew her. Ever since her return to Caracas, something had changed in her. Her face had grown sallow, gradually, and her body sluggish.

There was nothing medically wrong with her. Nothing at all. It all started on that day, that day she can’t remove from her mind.

animal friends

It took all three of us to lift Luke up on the gurney. His anguished, frail body had given up. Big, soft, brown eyes looked to me, so gentle and calm…this Great Dane, this massive and brittle creature in my embrace. I wondered how and why it had gotten to this point. As we struggled to find a comfortable position for his leg to be x-rayed, the exigency of the reality whispered to me, the weightiness of the moment seemed heavy. He with his warm resolve, whimpered only a little on the cold, clinical table, his leg looking as if it had swallowed a cantaloupe whole. Instead it was the well-known, ever popular, dark looming cancer eating him alive, consuming his simple, happy life. Luke couldn’t walk on it anymore. He couldn’t eat. This Great Dane, this Great Dog was sick, and still his temperament remained sweet and kind, silently stoic, using what energy he could to barely nuzzle his nose into me for affection. It’s times like these, I marvel at the spirit of animals. They are amazing in the very most literal of terms. Their eyes tell us so much about their personalities--indeed they are windows into their souls. Their body language shows us who they are in a different way--what they want. They are all unique beings and so very extraordinary.

There is a grace in what we can do for them in their pain. Lamentably, we must sit back and watch our human spirits deteriorate in agony until life/sickness/etc. runs its course, but we can help our animal friends leave their pain. There is something peaceful in that.  The pain in losing what we love is our heartbreak, an enormous heartache, but we free the ones we love from a suffering we cannot know.

Luke was allowed that grace. I too, have had to make that choice. I believe it is one of the greatest forms of love we are capable of.

For my animal friends…of all kinds…the life you live brings me joy beyond measure. 

birthday

A mad ballooner stopped by last night, unexpected, forever propelling my theory onward: life surprises. People surprise. And it always seems to do so right on cue. 

There is indeed a vast ocean that bellies with ripcurrents and untamed serpents...yet I know to hold on, for there will always be a calm in the horizon where waters sparkle like diamonds, and the moon reflects beauty in bright neon, at every angle for all to see. It’s here where one sails quiescently out into the vista, skimming the frothy undertones of all the turbulence that has past.  My sail is up, the wind is on my face, balloons bobble around me, and I am reminded of wonderful fortune.   

meatball encounter

I love going out to eat. Some poke fun of my bachelor refrigerator, stalked only with condiments and fruit (not to go together of course), or my frozen dinners tucked safely away in the freezer for midnight meals…and yes…the truth is, I don’t cook. At all. I microwave. I have the fastest draw in the east.  My fingers beep-beep and produce a warm whatever-night-meal better than Betty Crocker herself. Ok, that last part isn’t true, but it sounded good. I can cook. At least, I can read directions. The point is; I love going out to eat. And do so often.

Being a vegetarian, I’ve never really had a problem; there’s always something on the menu…some places are better than others…yadda-yadda. However, in all my years of veggie ordering, I’ve never had a situation quite like this:

My step-mother and I were having lunch at a quaint Italian bistro. 

I order a pasta dish with veggies. 

We continue to talk and catch up until our lunch comes. 

Looks delicious: small bowl with pasta heaping over it. 

I bite into it and decide I will need a bigger plate (we're going to need a bigger boat). 

My eyes scan over and see only broccoli and mushrooms, pasta and olives (force of habit). 

I have already taken a few bites. At this time the larger plate comes and I pour the pasta onto it. As the pasta comes toppling down, I see entangled with it, five enormous gray, chunky balls of cow. I immediately shriek and jump back. I have already ingested the pasta which has touched, and been cooked, and been rolled around in the juices of the slaughtered moo-cow. My jaw drops and I realize what has just occurred. My stomach curdles. My face goes white. It has been 17 years. I look at the plate and see the gray, lumpy, gristly meatballs on my plate. It is too late. There is nothing I can do. This is a tragedy of immense proportions. A moment of silence please.

While I realize, this is in part, a comical story to many, and written as such, (also admittedly, even I was laughing hours later)…the actual moment, was not. Anything that is personal, anything that one person believes so deeply in, and lives their life in accordance to, when another interferes with that, it is quite jarring.

So, this was my meatball encounter. I’m surprised there haven’t been more. This is not to say it will keep me from dining out, or rather an impetus to learn to cook. Heavens no. As long as the meat is on the plate next to me and not on my plate, everything is just peachy. 

butterflies

I find myself walking far tonight. The overgrown grass sways in the breeze, rippling up the hill like a bevy of waves, and reaches up faintly tickling my bare legs. I do not know how I got here, or where I am going. The sky shields me in pure, creamy white, and I lay down, enveloped in downy, feathery meadows. The earth is whispering her secret as tens of gilded butterflies fly overhead. They approach closer seemingly magnetized to me, alighting all over my body. I lay motionless, breathing in their intent, and realize they are suddenly gone. My eyes close. I know what I must do. 

feist

One of my favorite videos from 2011.

Artsy, cool, dance-y, trees. Love.

her surprise

She is almost home. They all have been…these wonderful places to rest, to seek shelter from the outside. The night breeze, so gentle and unflawed ruffles her hair just a bit in front of her eyes as she makes her way through her overgrown yard. The smell of sweet roses greet her devotedly, so bittersweet. She tucks the few blond stray hairs from the summer sun behind her ears and takes the steps up to her “home,” her resting place. The key turns, and she thinks silently to herself, how very much she loves this resting place…how she’s truly loved all her safe places…these places in waiting. Yet as she walks in, she knows she is walking in to nothing, to no one, to an empty space…

She shuts the door behind her and breathes in this reality of hers, this reality she never anticipated. Some days paralyzed at the door, imagining what could be waiting at the top of the stairs. She imagines the voices, the various noises, the arms that might welcome her, and the many names she might be called.

But then, she manages to breathe again, a different kind of breath, a heavy, saturated, corpulent sigh.  She sets down her keys. And knows she hears nothing... knows, in this resting place it is just she. The only noises heard are of her own thoughts, at times deafening in her mind.

And then another thought, a more familiar voice, pick yourself up, dust yourself off. No more than that. With lackluster verve she bends down to grab the mail and her moxie deep within and takes the stairs, keeping her gaze locked at her feet as to avoid her fantasies of what could be. Reaching the top, turning the corner she does hear a noise…

SURPRISE!!!

She stands in stupor for a moment. The hugs pile on and her smile grows bright. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Inside she questions its intent, happiness or melancholy.

There was something waiting for her today. For now, it will have to be enough, she thought. Surprises do come. She will hang on to that. If only for a day.