cosmic shifts

marking time with broken matchsticks and metaphors

2009-11-09T02:33:00.003-06:00

There are at least several handfuls of phrases I could throw across the metaphorical paper as an inadequate staving off of the wild beasts hungry for what I truly keep hidden inside. I’m not hiding anything on purpose. Well, not anything important.

Yes, I am. Why did I just write that phrase, when I fully realize that everything I’m not saying, or more realistically, writing, is the exact stuff that is important on some level and very much worth hiding.

Do not let the drama slide in, I’ll slip away, dashing off across the moonlit field of thorns and grass before I splinter this mood with an exclamation point.

Suddenly the leftover words freeze in my chest as if I were going to dare to speak them. I won't. It's the middle of the night and everyone I could possibly talk to is asleep, like all good and proper citizens of society should be. Yep, I'm a rebel and I'll never ever be any good.

Harsh criticism! And there slips in the exclamation point, marking my earlier thought moot.

Phrases are turned over and over, like a rotisserie of juicy dripping goodness that I cannot partake of just yet. This is all just the procrastination rearing it's ugly head to remind me there are a metaphorical million things I could better be doing with my time.

On to the next.

no answer

2009-11-02T06:12:00.003-06:00

While I sit here pressing upon the keyboard and reframing pictures of mystery, he twists.

At least, I imagine him twisting and trashing, wondering just how I'm going to respond to his unbidden missive. Wondering if I'll respond to his declarations.

I'm wondering the exact same thing, bub.

Where is is written that all rights are given to say I love you to those who graced our past? Because he deems it so, the light is falling and I must answer?

In all probability I will not. In all honesty, I do not feel the same, did not feel the same, and have my own swirling, changing, crazy fun-filled life to lead here and now. A life that does not involve trips down memory lane as to what once could have happened. Those doors closed. Those doors were never open. What doors?

This heart o' mine, this muscle still beating in my chest, this metaphoric soul - were never yours to play with, mister. Why, oh why, in a million years would you believe that your fantasy was about to become reality because of this letter that you so eagerly await a reply to?

Two days so far. In this age of instant communication, that's a life time. There is no gloved hand bowing as my escort and I am not sitting daintily in petticoats and corset, fanning myself at the arrival of a letter eschewing my qualities and begging my hand in his.

No answer is the best reply I can offer now.

To continue as if it never arrived. To continue with my life and the man I do love and cherish. To ignore the past and hope he moves on and eventually finds his own way. To let him hope that it was never delivered in the first place.

blurring lines

2009-10-28T02:48:00.002-05:00

There are so many words now, so jumbled up inside, dying to describe everything all at once. It's a mess. A mess of words.

The colors are more vivid in the dreams and the reality that sucked the life out of me is slowly fading into past as I breathe anew each day. Now there are things to be accomplished and reasons to live out loud again.

Reaching back inside to find just what works for me to put this next crazy wheel in motion. No longer marking time, now making art.

More. There is always more. There will always be more.

hidden response

2009-08-18T23:27:00.003-05:00

I'm going to come here to hide. Because I don't want the advice everyone is trying to give. Because I just want to vent, to put it out there, to get it off my chest - I'm not asking for anyone else to solve my problems.

The winds have already shifted. Winter is approaching now, whether we like it or not. It will be here in the next several months, just like last year. And the year before that. And the year before that...

With the shift has come so much potential. The desire for things to be different before the first freeze. The desire for relaxing into my future of my design before the first of Fall. The desire to proceed on the path of my choosing, to pick the place I will call home before the air turns bundle-up cold.

I do not solicit your response. I do not grieve at your feet to make me better. There is nothing wrong with me that I cannot acknowledge. I am me, twists and turns, desires and fears, hopes and dreams. I am the person who continues to breathe along the day in hopes the choices I make will prove the road is traveled.

I do not ask for your advice. I do not ask for their advice. I just write. I just express. Do not solve me. I am whole.

where did I lose the light along the way?

2009-07-14T23:12:00.003-05:00

So many not so many years ago, long before now before I forgot, here I stood embracing the world around me.

I wore flowers in my hair just because it was a day when I saw flowers. I wandered through a sprinkler or fountain just because I felt like it.

Today stopped me in my tracks. I stood there, watching the water splash down, reflecting the hot sunlight and inviting me in to play. I wanted to. I wanted to get soaked and laugh and not care. To release all this that has built inside, threatening my fragile acceptance.

I didn't do it. I have finally bent my will to everyone elses standards of proper behavior. I cried inside. Even further than I already had been. I broke a little more.

To supress the rebel, to shush the laughter, to hold back the screams and tears...

She aches to run free once more. She yearns to enjoy once again. She longs for her path to be her own.

She is so ready to burst forth, to splash in the water sprinklers, to sing out loud, so color on the walls, to throw her hands in the air and wave them like she just doesn't care, to wear flowers in her hair just because she sees flowers.

This ache inside, this thinly plastered wall of cheap promises and lousy reality, needs to be torn down. Needs to be tossed out so the lovely knotted wood that supports this frame can be polished and shine through with laughter and silliness and hope and care.

catching

2009-07-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

I know it's just the breeze from the ceiling fan that tossed the papers and riff-raff hanging on the wall around, just enough to catch my eye. A badge, from a conference in January, one that opened my eyes and gave me so many ideas. This badge just caught the breeze, flipped enough to catch the light and thus catch my eye.

There are innocent reminders everywhere, really. I leave them there on purpose. To remind me when I walk by. To remind me how much fun I had or what I was doing or what I was thinking. To inspire future creativity and ideas.

It has been said that I had a horrible time when I traveled in April because I don't like being out of my comfort zone and I didn't give the place or the people a chance. But I routinely do go out on those limbs and try new things and new places and sign up for new classes - because I do want to learn and experience them.

And then I place reminders everywhere to, well, remind.

To say "I enjoyed this." "I learned this." "I did this."

To inspire new directions and new hopes and new thoughts.

In hopes that they'll lead to new reminders...

happiness is...

2009-07-02T00:23:00.002-05:00

Strangely missing from the day to day world is the sound of laughter. Anymore it's full of reasons to run screaming or contemplate taking up suicidal martial arts that involve sharp pointy instruments and blood-curdling screams as you attack whomever has pissed you off.

I think I need to find a new hobby. Keeping those blades sharp is tough.

Beyond that, things have changed. The world did not end when these things changed, but rather it keeps turning. Frustrating and calming at the same time.

My desires are put on hold, yet-fucking-again.

My opinions and thoughts do not matter in these decisions, so I'm left holding the bill for something I did not order and I'm told I have to be happy with it.

You know what? I don't work that way.

When I'm second-guessing myself, something is wrong. The ache in my gut tells me so long before the fire-alarm goes off. So when I don't listen, when I'm told to be quiet, when the majority rule decrees what is best and I'm sent to the corner to think about what I've said, that's when it's time for me to leave anyway.

sometimes there are too many questions

2009-06-18T22:18:00.000-05:00

Within the hour I knew why, but i still didn't know why. The vibes were shifting all afternoon and I didn't know why. There was an edge, a shift of wonder to concern.

All in all, you never see it coming. Never is that phone call the one you expect. Never is that statement the one you thought you were going to hear. All in all, your adrenaline starts flowing and you're in the wrong place.

The tears don't stop because I will them so, they stop because I've cried them all into my sleeve. Soaked and fresh, tender puffy eyes that beg for one more round, one more release.

The littlest thing sets me off now. It's raw in here. A moth glances off my arm and I burst into tears anew. My comment was disregarded, the humor lost, I feel stupid and foolish, the waterworks rebel. I wrap my arms around myself in hopes this very bad dream will wake me up to a better day full of hope and laughter, only to realize this dream is the suddenly surreal world I cannot repair all alone.

Please, I pray now, please make it right. Please make it better, easier. Please. I don't know how much more I can take, and from what the fates dealt today, I'm going to have to take a lot more.

just a few things to say

2009-05-19T19:18:00.002-05:00

I'm finally back on familiar ground. Sorta. Tons of things will never the the same, least of all my perception of how the world turns.

Crazy is as crazy does. Everybody has their own brand of crazy - including people who are 'experts' on what works and what doesn't.

I'm not an expert. I'm a student. I prefer asking questions and learning as I go along. Just to see where the roads, or the conversations, turn.

I hate being talked down to, no matter what. This is a sticking point with me no matter who I'm in conversation with, and if the person talking down to me is a boss or leader or as in this case, a family member - well, I get riled.

I'm hunched over as I write this. My body language is on defense even now. Still working through emotions and responses.

Ups and downs regarding the income have made me tense regarding paying bills as much as just daily living.

No, I'm not perfect. I'm human. I'm learning what works for me as I go along. I sure as hell don't like being told I should be doing things a certain way just because the person giving advice has a piece of paper declaring them an expert, when that piece of paper doesn't preclude their own choices. Thus proving they don't always know what they're talking about. Further proving that what they say is not always for the best.

Yep. Still irritated. Angry responses and conversations have been rolling through my head for the past few days/weeks, just begging for sense or freedom, waiting for me to say something. Anything.

My body is still trying to tell me I need to heal. Skin irritations and muscle pain that are still working themselves away.

Time. Time to heal. Time to work things through. Time to make new changes and slide into place for a new direction.

mired morose middle

2009-04-29T03:36:00.002-05:00

I’m in a strange place doing things I never wanted to do. Pack school lunches, cart kids to after school activities, dentist appointment – and not for me, which I desperately need to do but can’t afford.

Normally the location would be considered paradise. Normally. This is skin crawling. Chicken poop, half-eaten dog food, bird feathers, a couple of mice that have yet to be caught, a dog that is half-blind & farts all the time, a kitchen counter that is covered in residue from probably hundreds of meals since the last time it was wiped down, the encouragement to go barefoot in all this filth where one can blatantly make out the scent of sweaty feet, bath towels and sheets hung to dry where the pigeons roost, quilts and pillows that smell of urine, either from the dog or children…

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep yet. I have to survive this 10 more days.

Taking care of children who are being raised as if consequences don’t matter – a 10 year old who cannot read and has no desire to, kids who don’t know how to clear a dinner table, much less to wash dishes, pre-teens who still wet the bed, and the attitude that ‘toss it on the floor, mom will pick it up’ and when I point out I’m not their mom, I’m just the week-long full time babysitter and I’m not going to put up with that, I get the yelling – they honestly think this is an ideal way to raise kids.

I’m all for unschooling and home schooling and the emphasis on arts in education and developing programs to adapt to a child’s learning needs, but this is awful. Not knowing how to read by 10. Not even basic words. It’s pitiful. How will these children ever learn anything else in life? How do they learn anything now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My empathy is extremely stretched right now. Last week was hard and I still haven’t had time to grieve. I’m in an unfamiliar place, stuck doing things I don’t want to do, and I’m not getting much sleep which just makes me more cranky.

When I travel I like to get lost and explore. I cherish the alone time to wander an antiques store or sit and sip a tea while people watching. I need things that bring me comfort like a beautiful design or a well written story. I want to go wander about to see what I see. I want to take the time to take a nap.

Although no matter how physically tired I am from dealing with the kids and trying to get my work contracts fulfilled and apply for jobs – I’m not in the same zone of depression I had been in. Which has been both a blessing and disbelief because I haven’t had the time to just sit and think or wander or take care of me.

Yes. I’m selfish like that. I know I need my quiet time and sleep and food I can eat and at least some semblance of cleanliness and time to just wander off by myself and escape everything else. Or everyone else.

goodbye old bear

2009-04-19T00:00:00.004-05:00

the surrealness of the moments today stick out far too clear. the crying. the climbing over a fence. the tracking down. the phone calls. the sight. the crying. the comments. the headaches. saying goodbye. the crying.

everything else is too public. too shiny happy face or too holding her shit together.

I am not holding my shit together as well as anyone might think.

I'm pissed at the #$@%#$^$@#% airlines because they have 'oversold' their two possible flights, hoping that someone won't show, meanwhile people who need to be in places at the last minute, like for a funeral, are screwed. And I want to know when customer service really died, because there is not an ounce of compassion in any of the people I talked to.

I'm pissed at the "goddamned Army" (MASH) because BF is theirs and I can't talk to him or tell him whats going on so we can sort through this mess, but if it weren't for the Army he would be here now anyway and it would be a moot point, but again, if it weren't for the Army we wouldn't have met. I rail. It does no good.

I'm tired of trying to get things settled. I'm tired of crying. I'm tired... I'm just tired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was a grouch. A coot. An ornery bear. An ogre. And these were the affectionate terms. Really. But he did a lot of great stuff and was a huge civic leader and influence for decades. He got shit done. His way. He knew what was right and what needed to happen and he growled and made sure it happened.

He built this city. He helped push laws into place on a state level. He was in the Army Air Corp in WWII. Which nearly killed him and then forgot about him. He taught so many programs. He was hard on his family and had a terrible temper. He was an alcoholic. He died just before noon, alone in a hospital bed.

And I can't stop crying.

The Cost Of Living Now

2009-03-28T00:54:00.000-05:00

She bats away the question, going on to answer her own thoughts out loud. I stand there in wonder and break just a little more inside, knowing that she is my family and because of this she is my future.

It scares me. To watch her react like that, to stand there as if nothing is happening and go on in her own world.

And I admit I do the same. The denial. The evading. In my own way, I do live in my own world.

~~~~~~~

My grandmother refuses to do anything for my grandfather right now. She's tired of fighting him, of arguing with him of what he needs to do for his health. Maybe not so much refuses as has given up on trying.

He's ornery and grouchy and in pain because he's 87 years old and his body is failing and he doesn't want to drink the fluids his body needs because it hurts to walk to go to the bathroom. He should use a cane or walker, but doesn't, and has fallen more times in the past few months than my grandmother admits, he's fallen in the middle of the night, with no one around, and so he just goes to sleep there on the floor.

These traits are in my DNA. These are things that scare me about my genealogy. The temper. The attitudes. The addictions. The denial. The workaholism. The stubbornness. The depression.

Several reasons why I lean towards not having children. I remember screaming that statement once when I was younger. I don't want to pass this on to yet another generation.

I want to hope that I won't be like that when I'm older. I want to hope that I'll still be painting or throwing pottery or carving wood or doing something. I want to hope I'll still be active. But the reality of my situation is that I'm already like that. I don't go out, except for the business meetings or occasional family dinner thing. I spend a lot of time sitting here in front of a computer hoping that the words I write will get me paid so that I can afford more staples or canvas or supplies, as well as pay the bills & purchase food. I shuffle around, some days not leaving the house at all, some days only eating once a day because it's inconvienient or too costly to eat three meals a day.

Right now, I am exactly like that. And aside from knowing that death happens, this is what scares me.

Absolution

2009-03-27T01:16:00.002-05:00

As night settles in and wraps around you, there is the cool yet stilted comfort of darkness and cricket noises.

Just stand there a bit longer, soaking in the deep purple vibes of a day sifting away.

I want to say yes.

I really do.

I want to say yes and just jump in and go with it. To be able to dive in. To take that leap of faith. To strap on that parachute or wings or bungee cord or whatever and to just launch off that cliff or building or whatever.

I want to take that step and jump for it.

I want to be able to dive right in. To go for it.

And there are so many 'it' moments that beg to be taken.

I need that hope and strength to think that when that moment really happens, I will be able to take that step.

who am I, who are you?

2009-03-25T00:15:00.003-05:00

I want to be the type of woman who wears a sexy dress on a daily basis, complimenting with strappy heels and a cute clutch purse.

I want to be the type of woman who looks good in eyeshadow and lipstick, who has clear skin and toned muscles.

I want to be the type of woman who cleans her house weekly, getting rid of clutter and dust bunnies and has the laundry done and put away.

I want to be the type of woman who doesn't bat an eyelash at adversity, who takes everything in stride, who calmly handles whatever happens.

I want to be the type of woman who gets the yard work done, the daily work done, makes a home cooked meal, and still has time to take a long hot soak with a good book.

I want to be this super, sexy, talented, rich woman.

Instead I am the type of woman who chews her hangnails, wears the same tattered tennis shoes nearly every day because they're comfortable and easy, wears the same pair of jeans every day because they're comfortable and easy, and sweats through tank tops and t shirts.

I am the type of woman who finally gets laundry done every three weeks, and hasn't dusted anything in over a year. My idea of a home cooked meal usually involves dropping pre-made pasta into boiling water for 8 minutes.

I love working in the yard, but that is an all day affair. I like writing, but it takes me hours on a good day and days on a bad one just to put together a 600 word article. I love painting, but I have been holding myself back from what I could do for fear of lack of resources to be able to make mistakes.

I am the type of woman who fights depression nearly daily, wishes she could go farther and do better things with her time.

I am the type of woman who no matter how long or short my hair is, it will be pulled back into a ponytail to keep it out of my face.

I am the type of woman who wants to study so many things, but is tired of arguing with the fucking education system that tells her she has to learn geometry and spanish first.

I am the type of woman who doesn't like to shave her legs or wear makeup or jewelry, who probably owns the strappy sandals and sexy dress but doesn't want to bother with it, knowing that people don't expect it from her and wouldn't know what to say if she did.

I am the type of woman who wants, sometimes needs, change. And when I don't get it, I get stuck in a rut.

Bitter Fingers

2009-03-23T02:00:00.000-05:00

No words were spoken as she lowered her hand from her face, clenching her fist in angry regret.

He'd slapped her because she'd spoken already, said things that set him off and he felt his arm shooting out and his hand connecting with the soft skin of her cheek before he could stop himself. He stood there, seething in anger as much as he was stunned silent by what he did.

She stared at him. She took one step and turned around, walking through the door and closing it quietly behind her.

Oh, if only she's slammed it, he would have felt slightly more justified. Who was he kidding, he felt terrible about what he'd just done and was now ready to crawl under the nearest boulder and hope for a quick crushing death.

She had closed the door without saying a word.

Somebody Like You

2009-03-19T04:04:00.001-05:00

It's the touch. Skin against skin. Warm physical contact with another person. Preferably one you like. Preferably one you want to be pressed up against.

It's the quickening of pulse and shortness of breath and moistening of lips and darkening of eyes in desire and want and need.

When I don't have your hand to hold, I feel lost.

I can close my eyes and imagine dancing my fingertips across your neck, sending those pleasant little shivers through your body, which make you smile and roll your shoulders back in eager anticipation of more.

More of me touching you. More. Of my hands moving over your shoulders and back.

Of my lips grazing across your neck, moving toward your ear, whispering sweet love and dirty thoughts before nipping gently with my teeth on your earlobe. Knowing you've closed your eyes to breathe in my scent as I press so close.

Our desires match. You tell me how soft my skin feels, how good I smell, how nice it feels to be in my arms. I let my hands roam your body. Pressing tight, firm muscles, feeling the gentle hum of electricity we produce together as my palms slide across your chest and down your arms, meeting your hands so our fingers can lock.

I love looking into your eyes. Soft blue, constantly searching for me, searching for affirmation I'm here with you, I'm real, I'm yours. So sexy when you're hungry, the want and desire darkening your face such that turns me on. Making other women jealous because I get to go home with a handsome devil who has, how did she refer to them? Oh right, 'Pussy-eating eyes'. Yes, my dear, you do. And I'm the girl who gets to enjoy that sight.

I love kissing your lips. Pressing my mouth to yours, in effort to shut me up, or shut you up. Pressing my mouth to yours to just kiss you, feeling your mouth move with mine, tongues dancing and teeth nipping, just to kiss because we can. I really enjoy kissing you.

I love holding hands. Fingers twined together as we walk down the sidewalk or sit together with friends at dinner. Fingers tangled as kisses deepen, our grip tightening in driving, sweaty passion or as we drift off to sleep curled into each other. Slowly waking from foggy dreams and my hand searches for yours, holding tight to anchor back to reality.

I love resting my head on your body. Laying across your legs as we draw on each other or as we talk about everything. Laying my head on your chest after sex, when we're sweaty and our hearts are racing, listening to your breathing as you relax. Curling into your side, resting on your shoulder as you devour another book or read aloud to me. Leaning into you while we watch a movie, just feeling your arms around me and sharing the experience.

Don't get me wrong, I love your mind, too. I just talk to you every day so I hear what you think and say; right now I'm needing to touch you again. To touch you and never let you go. To touch you, to kiss you, to whisper in your ear all the things I love about you and all the things I want to do to your body. To look into your eyes and plan for tomorrow.

It's the touch. To know that you are real. To know that this is us.

Of Shadows and Wings

2009-03-15T02:38:00.000-05:00

He stands there, wings spread in defiance or self defense, large and looming over his broad shoulders in the shadow of falling night. Or perhaps, in his standing there, the shadows come from the very wings protecting him, the wings that offer his stance that sweet level of authority and peace.

He is not perfection in the tame sense of solid beauty or strength, he is only perfection in the sight of passion and drive and instinct and power and desire and the forward movement to make life real. He is perfection in that real moment you look up and see him, standing in that shadow of falling shadows.

The pavement is hard. Not cold, just hard. Whether I'm on my knees or standing, I cannot tell, now in this moment I'm curious as to where I stand. Or kneel. Darkness surrounds and all I can see is his dark jeans and dark jacket and dark boots and dark hair and those wings. Do I really see those wings?

Am I on my knees or standing? Does anyone else see his wings. Am I imagining this moment tonight, right here, right now? He does not take his eyes off me, I am here, but is he real?

One look around, the street darkened behind me, people passing, cars driving, absolutely no one stops to stare at this dark man with the giant wings. Perhaps I am crazy. I turn back, looking for the briefest of seconds to see if what I see is really what I see.

He still stands there. The hem of his jeans falling across the top of his boots. The length of his dark jacket just long enough for his fingers to touch. His broad shoulders giving me the impression he could storm through the nearby wall and be perfectly fine with the hole he would create.

But those wings. This is a majesty that is never spoken of anymore. This is a presence that is all too real and all too imagined. His height, his stature, his demeanor, his standing here near me on this hard pavement means this is where I am and where he is. He is rough and driven, sustained and nurturing, intense and calm, quiet and resounding in the shadows of falling night. With wings made from the most gentle of feathers, large broad brush strokes of feathers, whispering as they shift in the silent night breeze feathers. His wings are beautiful.

His wings are taller than he is, they overpower him and hold him back yet there is a subtle force within these two wide swaths of shimmering lightness that will take you out if you make the wrong move.

I am not afraid. I am fascinated. I am here, looking at him, looking at his wings, while he looks at me, quite unsure what to believe. Am I really the only one to see this powerful sight here, now? Not another soul pauses, not another person notices. Each is too busy and wrapped in his own life to look up or care.

A soft, strong, light-reflecting feather drifts toward me. I finally pull my eyes away from the man in front of me to look down. I reach down, picking up the piece of him that he released to assure me he is here, he is real. I nod now. I nod to him. He is real. He is here. He can cause great destruction and devastation, but he will not. He can lift me away from here, but he will not.

He is here to remind me he is here. He is real to remind me to see what others do not always see. He is here to silently offer that strength and peace and drive and passion and hope and desire and optimism and reality. His reality is this world. My reality is both worlds. I can see him. I can see these powerful black, glistening, daring wings and the shadows they provide tonight. Not another person does. Not here. Just me. Just him.

His wings shift, the feathers settle in the silent night breeze, reflecting street lights and car lights and moon light. These black, dark, powerfully intense wings anchoring this silent, dark, powerfully intense man to the ground in front of me. He could take off in half a breath, leave out and push away, those guardian wings guiding him home. Here he stands, protecting, offering, showing, being. He is here. To let me know he is here.

I know. I hold that rich black feather in between my thumb and finger, gently letting my fingers sift through the soft lines of darkness, knowing what I know. I look at him once more. I have to begin here. He nods. I know I do.

In this moment I am finally scared. Not in the moments before, when he stood there, darkness cascading, looming black wings shifting, not another soul seeing him, not another person seeing his majestic black wings. I feel the fear. I stand here, unsure where to go now. He is in my path. Do I continue on, right into him, or turn around and go back the way I came.

I search his face, needing an answer, looking for an answer from him and hoping to find one. No. He stands there. Watching me. Waiting for my decision. I know he waits. I feel it now. He shifts ever so slightly again, sending one more beautiful wave of shudders through the glistening, black feathers of his dark, powerful wings.

I know. I nod. One long breath in sigh and I step forward, ready for that which lies ahead. He spreads his wings, so breathtaking, so sweet, so intense, so wide, tips of feathers gracing the ground I stand upon but never getting dirty. He is ready.

He steps once and is gone. Another soft black feather drifts down in front of me, I reach out to open my palm and let it settle there.

The direction has been chosen. He offers sight to those who do not always see and he offer strength to those who do not always feel it. In stepping forward, in pressing on through reluctant fear, he knows I'm here. I stand my ground holding two gentle black feathers. I hold them and look up. He is gone. I look behind me, knowing that direction is now closed. All I can do is move forward, knowing of the passion and intensity and drive and peace and silence and desire and protection that he offers is here.

He stood here tonight to tell me so. His wings take flight and I suspend the words he cannot say in one sharp instance of comfort, of peace, of standing still and seeing what he was in the falling shadows of night. His dark wings are there to see. His presence is there to feel. I see. I feel.

Tonight this angel with the black wings spoke when he said no words and I listened to what he had to say.

Mantras

2009-03-13T03:42:00.000-05:00

The silence is irritating. I hear the clock ticking, knowing the battery needs replacing because it does not keep a steady one-second click pace. There is thumping echoing through the walls from someone who thinks he's cool to drive down the street with his bass stereo so loud the donkey down the street brays in annoyance to drown him out. I wish I could be more like the donkey, bray out loudly when something annoys me like so.

So it's not a total silence, but I need a buffer. Trance music would be nice, but I don't want the beat. Jazz is too melancholy for now, and with a term like 'world music' it could end up being anything.

A distraction. From the thumping, braying, off count ticking... From the chatter in my own head that tells me over and over again to go to sleep, to stop this, to do that, to quit this, to try that... I'm tired of my own mind telling me what to do.

The stress is new. The fears are different here. I stand up and stretch and wonder what to do now. Now that I cannot sleep at a 'normal' hour, now that I wake as the afternoon wanes because I feel so tired and want more sleep.

There are new things to think about and work through. The decisions I make daily now make a difference, an impact on where I'll be next week. Is this the best choice for this situation? Could I have made that one better? Will this get me one step closer to being able to pay the bills next week? It's terrifying.

That's why I need the distraction now. Because I won't let myself go there. I won't let myself go down that scary dark road that says bad and nasty things that I'm all too vulnerable to believe in the middle of the night when the only things I hear are low thumping and braying and off beat clicking. I need something better now.

Hanged Man Tells the Tale

2009-03-12T03:44:00.001-05:00

The Hanged Man. The 2D drawing with orange lines along the sides of the tarot card offers little in the way of a threat. It's just a card.

Isn't it?

It's a just a card. How terrifying it feels to see this card placed in front of me once again.

Not like I know what it means any more than before.

Delusions of death and destruction made me choke on my chewing gum. With coughing and sputtering interrupting the reading in progress, I heard nothing past her whispery voice saying "The Hanged Man". She continued on, pointing out the cups and numbers of coins and facing up or down. Facing up or down to her or to me, though, I cannot remember.

The Hanged Man. He caught my eye.

I stood up from her folding chair and ducked out of the tent into the bright sunshine and noise of the county fair all around me. An empty cotton candy cone rolled past my feet, dancing in the afternoon breeze as screams of laughter echoed off the makeshift walls of dart throwing booths and kissing booths and jewelery stands and homemade jam stands.

Suddenly, I needed quiet. Someplace quiet, please. I walked past the last stand, a guy selling his hand made rocking chairs, beautifully polished and carved works of art and relaxation, rocking in the breeze, begging to be sat upon and enjoyed. I moved past him and his rocking chairs, past the edge of the clearing to a small stand of trees, just on the edge of the field, offering a bit of solitude and shade on a day like this.

This is where I chose to sit and contemplate. What did it mean, this Hanged Man? This man hanging by one foot from the branch of a tree? I look up above me and ponder this thought.

One moment in suspension... and clarity of a different view comes into focus.

These thoughts are too much to bear now, I'm afraid of digging too deep and finding out what I should not know or what I should already know but am choosing to ignore anyway.

He hangs. He views his world upside down for a mere whimsy of a thought, just long enough to let the loose change fall from his pocket to the ground, just long enough to let the blood rush to his head, I'm sure. Then again, the last time I hung upside down was probably the jungle gym on the playground when I was small, before they were deemed as "unsafe structures for children to climb on". There were whole adventures up there, and part of the thrill was the scare that yes, you could fall and hurt yourself, so you had to make sure your grip was strong and sure, make sure you had your hand on the next bar or your foot upon one to lift you up. The ground loomed below, daunting and inviting. Ready to catch you if you fell, ready to catch you if you jumped. If you jumped off, you were in far more control than falling, thus jumping was deemed far superior than the painful lump of falling.

Perhaps this is what the fabled hanging man saw. A world from a different view than this flat world upon which we stand. Everything was upside down. On purpose. He did not do it to fall, he was not placed there for his death, it was just to seek a sight he could not see on his own two feet upon the ground. This time the ground was above him, catching his falling change, offering to catch him if he fell. This time the tree branches held him firm, as he exercised his right to a different view of his world.

We view him as the odd man, upside down, suspended in time and place. A tarot card telling me to look at things with a different perspective, perhaps upside down to see what stuff falls away, to pause long enough and realize this whole wide world I take for granted is just there to catch me if I were to jump the same as if I were to fall.

The breeze knocks a leaf off the branch above me, it floats down to the ground in front of me, suggesting all along this may very well be true. Just because I'm right side up or upside down, doesn't mean everyone see the same thing.

Someone is throwing darts at a blue balloon in effort to win his girl the stuffed teddy bear. A child is screaming at the top of his lungs because the clown frightened him and he dropped his ice cream - but if he screams from fear of the clown or agony over the ice cream, it's tough to tell. A girl is sitting in the metal folding chair to have her fortune told, hoping the boy she likes is the one for her and hoping this lady with the whispery voice and the well-read cards will tell her this is so. A woman stands on her tip-toes to place another necklace on the jewelry booth wall hook, grabbing her back as she twists in a way that is painful and curses that this is the life she chose so many years ago but is now so entrenched she doesn't know that she, too can change her view or change her world.

I take a moment longer, to look up once again at the branches above me. I know better, this spindly tree would not hold me if I tried to climb it, so I pat the bark and sigh. Maybe having the ground catch you doesn't just have to happen if you fall or jump. Maybe having the ground catch you happens with every step you take. So I stand up and take one.

And promptly fall as I trip over a rock.

Yes, the ground caught me. It was there all along. I lay there for a moment stunned, glancing around to hope against hope no one saw my lack of grace, feeling my hands for the raw scratched and dirt on my palms. I'm ok. No one seems to have seen. I push myself back up and laugh, shaking at the adrenaline rush from the trip. Yep, seems that I changed my perspective after all, if only for a few minutes.

sleep during the day like a vampire at night

2009-03-03T02:26:00.000-06:00

I've been working on project till the wee hours of the morning, some mornings so wee that the sun is beginning to rise as I fall asleep.

Several things pop up in this pop psychology brain of mine as I try to figure out what the hell is going on with me for doing this.

*Avoidance? Sorta. Yes. No. Mmmm. Well, apparently I'm avoiding the question so it must be something. Go figure.

Yes. I'm avoiding... ... ... well, the BF? He's getting up for his day as I go to sleep, I wait till he goes to bed so I can launch into the music and the work I have on my plate. I love him. I resent certain things about our relationship - we've talked, he knows - and I've pointed out that I need to take care of myself for the next few years until his commitment to the friggin military is done. Since the Gov't owns him for a few years more, I have to be able to build my own savings, pay my own bills, and continue to follow my dreams - instead of waiting around for him and wasting time hoping I'll get to see him next week/month/semester/whatever.

So. I sleep most of the day in a subconscious effort to avoid talking to him all day. And when he goes to bed I work on things, one of them our partnership endeavor, all night.

*Silence? It's quieter at night. Everyone else is asleep, the phone isn't ringing - not like it rings much during the day anyway - the world as a whole just feels slower and quieter. I can spend several hours finishing research and writing articles or roll around code for website development or work on designs for artwork.

It's quiet. I like it. I embrace it. I enjoy it. I revel in it. It's beautiful.

The daytime feels dragging, busy, loud, traffic-filled, annoying.

*Depression? I don't have a day job. I don't have a 'valid' reason to get up every morning and get dressed. So much of what I've been doing up to this point is done by email. Yes, there are a few things I need to venture forth for - try to book myself more, find a company to help with our business needs, just get out and network - but by sleeping during the day I avoid those, thus sabotaging myself from growing my business and repeating the cycle of failure.

I secretly feel I'm not good enough to make this stuff work. So I avoid it.

But I put these things into effect, small steps, baby steps really, in the middle of the night so I don't have to see the results, or worry about making a presentation for my skills.

~I don't run on a normal time-table though. So parts of the weird schedule make sense. My brain does not shut off in the middle of the night - I stay up drawing, writing, designing. With the recent changes I'm even more aware of how it works. Or doesn't. Whatever. Several projects are getting crossed off the list, slowly. Like suddenly all those little pieces fall into place for one thing and it's done and ready to go.

It's an amazing relief when this happens. Like I look up and it's done. Wow. Cool. While I'd like to say deadlines are easier, well, some are, some aren't. The writing feels better, more trust from my editor combined with the fact I can take my time to get things done because I don't have to finish writing so I can go to bed so I can drag into an office by 8am.

Art things - well, hitches in the project workings involve lack of tactile substance to be able to finish several pieces. It gets put on hold, I move on to other things and come back to it later to try again only to realize an opportunity to sell something has passed.

Our business partnership is moving along. Slowly. Designs, business plans, options, etc. It scares me. Because he's doing what he can from there, but a large part of it feels like it's on my shoulders. And it will be to make the sales because I'm the one who's putting it on my credit card to get it started and I'll be indebted for that.

Some days I wake up - yes, at 2 or 3 in the afternoon - and feel ready to take on the world, ready to go make things work and make calls and get things done. And some days, unfortunately like today, I want to stay in bed and keep dreaming the wickedly visual dreams I have and ignore everything else in the world.

So I figure as long it's only once in awhile, and not every day, I'm ok. As long as I'm not traipsing along the darkened streets looking to suck someone's blood, I'm doing pretty good.

steering towards better

2009-02-24T01:27:00.000-06:00

I dropped a plate. I could hear the smashing and see the tiny bits scattering all across the floor in that split second it left my hand to start the descent towards crash. In that odd, natural knee-jerk reaction, I moved my hand under it as quickly as I could, knowing full well I could not catch it, but instead diverted the plate from the path to the floor and shattering to the trash can instead. A loud noise, but no breakage. I just stood there, staring at it...

Far too many times in my life I've felt like I'm heading for that ultimate crash. The scattering shards, the high cracking sound of shattering fragility that no one ever wants to hear...

I've felt on that road far too many times.

These last few weeks have been eye-opening in so many ways. I'm no more cut out for a 'real job' taking orders from someone else or sitting at a desk 8-5 than I am cut out for snowboarding Everest or performing brain surgery with knitting needles.

I am doing things my way, a way I didn't know was possible until I did it. I'm more aware of time, and yet so less aware of it. I'm more in the moment as I go through my day. Sure, my sleep schedule is a little off right now, but there is absolutely no demand that I do my work from 8-5 anymore, so if I stay up until 4am editing or writing or designing, so be it.

I've stuck my hand out there to keep the plate from breaking. I divert the crash course into another direction and save the plate, save the potential mess, save the idea that I can make a difference in what direction I'm going in.

Eight Minutes

2009-02-18T00:22:00.000-06:00

One harsh, bitter whisper into the cold night air offers up futile resistance to to the desolation of knowledge. She screamed into her sobs as the letter fell from her hands, all I could do was hold her as she cried.

It's a surreal moment of clarity in such a strange situation when I stand there, holding her, crying for her, and the only thought going through my head involves how orange the sky is as the sun is setting. Orange and pink and purple grey washing under the thick winter clouds as the sun sinks lower and darkness cascades behind us. She's shaking so hard. I almost expect her violent sobs to unleash the snow that's building up above us, let it come raining down upon our heads, cover the ground around us, in a futile attempt to reign in her tears.

The officer who delivered the letter catches her as she finally collapses in my arms. I can't hold her weight up any longer so I let him help guide her back inside. He's so quiet, so strong. He's done this before. I see the silent agony in his face, the way his lips purse as he speaks, the way his jaw clenches at her sobs.

She never saw this coming. She was so hopeful, so open, so in love. She was planning their life together up until eight minutes ago.

Like a kick ass rolling stone, baby!

2009-02-13T23:54:00.000-06:00

Oh. Here I am.

Feeling comfortable in my own skin.

Antsy to put plans into action.

Tending to all the irons in the fire, keeping the fires stoked to stay warm until the natural warmth of summer heat slips into the cycle yet again.

There is a bounce in my step. I sing with the music. I answer Bob Dylan with a resounding "YES!" when he asks "How does it feel" and "How does it feel, To be on your own". Why, Mr. Dylan, it feels fucking amazing to be a rolling stone at this point in my life, thankyouverymuch.

Don't get me wrong, about a week ago I was bitter and crying, but I made those changes, got some things moving, and life feels better now. Waay better.

I. Quit. My. Headacheinducing. Suicideenvy. Cryingredeyed. Mybossisbatshitcrazy. Iwanttoscream. Job.

And I've worked on a few things that I want to be working on, am aiming in a direction I'd rather aim, and have about 2 weeks of imaginary savings to get this rolling. And a few of them are falling into place. And I'm not scared. I feel pretty good about it. (check back in a few weeks and we'll see from there, of course...)

Somewhere in this last week more than the job situation shifted.

Certain realizations about our relationship were reminders of where we're really at right now and how much longer we have to deal before we can get to where we want to be. I have a funny peace with this. Not funny 'ha-ha'. Just a bit o' irony regarding our situation that we both knew from the beginning. So we step back and deal best we can for now. So it goes. But I'm no longer gnashing my teeth over this, I have a calm peace with it and us.

I did have an epiphany. And almost got hit side-on by another car. One of those moments where life really does tell you to PAY ATTENTION!

So. Several shifts where the steps in front of me suddenly fall into place. It's beautiful. And wonderful. And hopeful.

How does it feel? Pretty damn good.

there is more than one thing I believe in, really

2009-01-07T21:16:00.003-06:00

So. It's a new year.

When did that happen?

According to the calendar it was just a few days ago.

It's kinda loopy. Or I am.

Day job - makes me want to stab a spork into my thigh.

Projects - make me happy.

Now, to make the projects into the day job and things would be awesome.

Still long distance for now. Other wrenches thrown into that make it tougher.

I feel a little lost, but I don't.

Because I do know what direction I want to go in, am going in. Just yesterday I stood up for myself. In a situation that normally would have been intimidating. In a situation where the person I was talking with was a person who held a huge opportunity for me... until she pointed something out that I don't agree with. At all. I said goodbye right there.

It felt strangely jazzing to do this, to turn around and walk away.

Yet a few hours later I was beating myself up for walking away from an opportunity. No matter that I know this would have been bad once past the shiny facade. I'm still torn about this. Probably will for awhile until some flash point comes along and I tell myself "Whew, I'm glad I didn't do that after all! I'm glad I stood up for something I believe in, even if it's something relatively insignificant to others."

Waiting on that particular flash point.

Ok. I need to cut some designs out for a painting. More words later.

the floodgates are open

2008-12-06T02:07:00.000-06:00

emotions are tricky bastards.

tonight I need a dive diner booth to stretch my legs out in and a friend to talk to as we order pancakes and coffee. I don't drink coffee, but in all my years of dive diner friend conversations there has been coffee.

I should have gone out of town. It's tearing at me that I'm not. I'm frustrated at the situation and after hitting the boiling point this afternoon my yelling has hit the limit as well. That and my vocal chords are scratchy from it.

It's why I take off and just go. I'm pissed at myself for not being able to. I'm pissed at BF and he doesn't know it but I don't need to bother him with it because he has Army stuff this weekend that a)he has to pass the PT test an do whatever XO stuff they have him doing right now, and b)it's my fucking birthday and I can't be with him, oh and c)because right now I'm really not strong enough and I need him and he's not here.

I flipped my lid this afternoon. I'd left work early to take care of things and the situations that happened, I just snapped. I was yelling and cussing at the top of my lungs in the car, blood boiling and I wanted to use my car to ram things. Bad, bad feelings.

I calmed down moderately through the evening, trying to go on. My plans got changed, so what. But then I just got more and more depressed. Over the situation, over the weekend, over everything. I finally made it home, took a looong hot soak in the tub & crawled into bed and now all I want to do is cry and write. At least the writing part is doing me some good. The crying, not so much.

Yes. I should have done what I wanted to do this weekend. Didn't happen. It sucks. So what am I going to do instead? Try to make some use of the time and work on backlog of projects. Try.

I'm upset. I want there to be an easier way for things. I want to be able to do the things I want to do. When I want to. Right now, i don't like the word compromise very much. In fact, right now, I don't like it at all.