Audacia Muliebris

Better

2009-07-17T16:01:00.004-04:00

We are in a shady bower, out in the air of high summer, scented like hay; I am leaning against him, and he is weaving daisies in my hair. The little ones, the English type, which we do not have around here. He is all in green.

It is good to be Pagan.

He sighs, then says, "Tell me a story."

Oh. Me? Tell him a story?

I think about it a moment.

"All right," I say, "but it's a sad one."

"Yes," he says, shutting his eyes. I begin:

"Once there was a boy who became lost. He lived in a little stone cottage by himself on the edge of an old dark wood, an ancient and enchanted place. But familiarity had made him unwary; and he would go for walks in that little wood, thinking himself safe. But he wasn't.

"For while he walked the forest sang to him, quietly but steadily, of circles and sleep and the easy way, though it was all lies. But the boy was lonely, and the song sounded comforting; and before he knew it he had let it into his heart a little and so become ensnared. And so he walked in circles, for that day and many others; and he slowly came to know that he had been fooled after all, even though he had thought he was safe in his own back-yard.

"Finally he had to accept what his heart had been telling him all along: that he would never find his way out. But in recognizing that his despair and loneliness became too great, and his heart broke within him. And soon after he laid himself down on the forest floor, and he died."

He looks at me, troubled but silent. Ah, me.

I continue, because that is of course not the end.

"But this was an enchanted forest; and though the boy had died, and though his body went the way of all, dissolving into the forest, his heart remained. For the magic on it was strong. And it became hard and imperishable, like a jewel; and it lay there on the forest floor, in two pieces, like a ruby cleft down the middle. And because it was a place of magic, his heart began to sing its own song, quiet but sad.

"And it remained there for many years, and the leaves fell about it.

"Then one day a girl came to the little stone cottage on the edge of the wood, the one that had been his. She was a determined sort, and hadn't had much use for people; also she was a bit of a witch, if you will, and an old abandoned cottage on the edge of a wood with a very bad reputation suited her quite well. But unlike him she was not fooled by the woods, and though she had a healthy respect for it she recognized its lure and was unimpressed.

"So she took up house there, and lived well and contentedly in solitude.

"But after a time she found the place was haunted. Now, as I said, she was a no-nonsense kind of girl, and so ghosts as a rule did not particularly frighten her; but this ghost, well, he was just so sad that she could not feel anything other than compassion for him.

"And his sadness began to affect her, to cast its own little spell on her and make her sad in turn; and so, out of compassion both for her ghost and her self she determined to see what she could do. She was a witch, after all.

"So she called to him, her ghost, to come to her; and she sang songs of comfort, true comfort, whenever she remembered, whether she could feel him there or not. And sure enough her gentle coaxing worked, and he slowly grew more present, more solid; and one day she found him standing before her. So she said, 'Come sit with me.'

"And he did. And she sang to him, again, of comfort and of sympathy. Then she said, 'Tell me.'

"But he just looked at her, sadly and silently. So she sang again, of kindness and of healing. Then she again said, "Tell me."

"But he was yet silent. So she sang a third time, of compassion and of love. Then she said, "I hear you."

"And he shut his eyes, and he said, 'Oh.'

"And so, with time, and with patience, little by little she coaxed his words from him, by offering a kind heart; and the more he spoke the more solid and stable he became, though he was still a ghost, and though he was still very sad. And so, eventually, she was able to piece together what had happened.

"Now, though she appreciated the forest's evil repute in keeping pesty neighbors from her door, she was, as I said, quite unimpressed with its ways herself. And though she knew it was enchanted, and that many others before her had been ensnared within it, she knew herself to be clear-eyed and level-headed, enough so that she doubted the forest's songs would have any allure for her. Besides which, she could sing a few of her own.

"And so she set her foot on the path into the forest, the one that began at her back door; and sure enough, soon the forest took up its song. But to her ears it sounded discordant and conniving; and instead of feeling confused, or obedient, she found herself angry that it was trying to fool her too when she was on a mission of compassion.

"So she said one word: 'Cease!' And the forest did. For she knew herself.

"So she stood there, then, in that new silence. And she tasted the air; and she found that little strand of sadness, that quiet quiet song made by the two pieces of the boy's broken heart. And she followed that strand, deep into the forest and the dark, until she came upon the pieces, shining like gems among the leaf litter; and she picked them up and held them to her.

"And she walked out of the woods to her home, and the forest gave her no trouble.

"Then she cleared a table in her bedroom, and laid the two pieces of the heart on it; and she began to sing a song of healing. Before long she found that her ghost was standing there, watching her with wide eyes.

"When she had finished her song she picked up the two halves of his heart. Though they were still separate, they now had a magnetic force about them, the two pieces being drawn to each other. She laid them down carefully on the table again, lining the two pieces up.

"'Now Love,' she said to her ghost. And she took his hand, and found it solid enough; and she brought him over to the bed. And she sat down on top of it and drew him down to sit next to her; and she put her arm around him and kissed his forehead, and they sat there together on top of the quilt. 'Tell me again,' she said then, 'I hear you.'

"And he did, and he wept, and the more he spoke the more real he became; and when he had finished she sang again, of healing and compassion and love.

"And she knew that his heart, over there across the room, was healing; but it was not mended yet. So she again said, 'Tell me. Tell me the details this time. I hear you.'

"And he told her what he had left out, the things both little and shameful; and when he had spoken, and wept again, she sang to him, of gentleness and patience and cleansing.

"But she knew his heart was still not mended, not quite; and so she said, 'Tell me. Tell me why you fear healing. I hear you.'

"'Oh,' he said, surprised. But he told her, and she listened, as he wept yet again; and she wept with him. And when he had finished, she sang one last song, of strength and wholeness and completion; and he looked at her, in wonder.

"Then she got up, and went over to the table. And there was his heart, in one piece, solid and shining and whole, without even so much as a hairline crack. And he stood beside her. She picked it up.

"'Open your shirt,' she said then, and he did. There, on his chest, just to the right of center, over where his heart should have been, was a small red shape, like a birthmark.

"'Here,' she said, holding it up to him, 'now you sing.'

"So he did; and he took his heart, still held in her hands, and laid it against the mark; and he closed his hands around her own, and he quietly sang a song of wonder and grace; and when his song was sung his heart had vanished into him, and the mark was gone. And he stood there, solid as any living man; and he looked at her, smiling a little in pure wonder and surprise, and he said, 'Beloved.' And he put his arms around her.

"The end."

"Oh," he says, like the ghost-boy, his eyes dark and wet.

I brush his hair from his forehead and kiss his brow. There are leaves in his hair. "How are you?" I ask.

"Better," he says.

Realization

2009-07-14T22:23:00.002-04:00

This process I am going through--it feels like I'm going straight from Maiden to Crone.

No wonder I'm all discombobulated.

Random

2009-07-04T20:26:00.003-04:00

The leeks reminded me (I really do hate them).

Out of the clear blue the other day I was hit with a genius new word. It describes a really truly horrible type of cooking, i.e., my mother's:

Queasine.

Spread it far and wide!

Postscript

2009-07-04T20:06:00.000-04:00

Oh yes, this postscript. I nearly forgot.

Just after I woke, while I was lying there half-awake and confused, this:

I see a very young Changing Woman, the Goddess Estanatlehi of the Navajo. She is standing on the middle of a desert plain of red earth and scrub, the plants in those three shades of green corresponding with the three plants that grow there: the silver-green of the sage, the new spring green of the grass, and that darker juniper evergreen. She is looking out over the world She has just created. She, too, is newly made. She is satisfied. From Her the cardinal directions flow out, east, south, west, and north.

I think it is all right.

Burn Away

2009-07-04T17:10:00.005-04:00

It has been pretty quiet, lately, for me, in the realm of dreams and visions, anyway; I've been assuming it's one of those periods when things are working themselves out underground, unconsciously, at a level I can't access. But then last night I had this dream:

I am in a meadow with him. He is himself, meaning, he looks like he usually does, like that Dallas-born Monkee;* and in the dream I know him for my husband. He is lying down in the grass and flowers, talking to a male friend who sits next to him. I sit at his feet, and put my hand up the leg of his jeans to rest it on the skin of his ankle, above his socks. When I touch him, he smiles at me. He obviously loves me very much.

Then we are in a store, some sort of home decor/home improvement store (kind of a combination Pier One and Home Depot, it looked like) and we have wandered apart from each other. I look all around but can't find him; and someone else there, either a mother with her young child, or a dwarf (!?) is harassing and physically threatening me, and also trying to make me eat something I don't like (leeks, I believe). I am in a bit of danger, or trouble, and I am afraid. But I can't find him.

Then I am out in the parking lot of the store, and I see his car. It is an old Volkswagen bus, a very specific vehicle, one that used to in real life live in the garage for years and was originally the property of a place called the Music Mansion in the next city over before getting t-boned in an accident, which is how my father ended up with it. My brother has now taken it to his place with the hopes of restoring it. But in the dream it was his, my husband's car. And I see that it has been partially taken apart in the parking lot, and parts of it have been sanded down to the bare metal either to be painted or because it is being cut up, like in a chop shop. I look around and see another car in much the same state; there are two women there working on it. I suspect they have nefarious purposes. I go over to them and grab them each by a wrist, and not gently. They read as lesbians.

I drag them over to the Music Mansion bus with the intention of catching them trying to steal or destroy it; but when I get there he is inside it and it is obvious he is the one working on it, to fix it up, and the lesbians are innocent. They are rightfully annoyed with me, and before I release them I look into their eyes and tell them I am sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion about them. They scowl at me and walk away.

Then I am inside either the same store or a different one; and parts of it are on fire. But the fire, while bright and hot, is not immediately dangerous, and is only spreading slowly. The heat from it does not burn but is merely hot. The perfume counters or cabinets are on fire; I pass by them to the dressing rooms behind them. There are women in there trying on clothes. I am worried about them and tell them to Get out! The place is on fire! but they don't seem concerned. I leave. I find him and tell him; he freaks out because it is the perfume that is on fire, and it's mostly alcohol; he thinks it will explode and makes me run, RUN! to hide behind a car. He doesn't follow, though. It doesn't explode.

So I decide to walk home, though I don't know where he is again. From the outside I see the burning store is faced with metal plates, and it reminds me very much of a newer building over at that local hideously ugly state university, though being newer it's in a different style. It is still very, very, ugly though. I see there is a class inside, going along like nothing is wrong, though the building is burning. Still, it is a very contained burn, and I mean quite contained, as if the building were made out of blocks and only some of them are on fire; as if the fire itself were made up of blocks.

I leave and set off down the road. It is not a long walk; but halfway home I pass a swamp, and the old dead trees there are also on fire. That fire is blocky as well; it forms a flat and precise wall of flame right in line with the sidewalk. I don't trust it, even though it seems fairly well-controlled. I cross to the other side of the street.

Then I am in the Music Mansion and he is driving; we pick up one of his brothers and give him a ride, though it's not far. I think it is much like a city bus.

And then I am back again by the burning store walking home. But I don't know where he is, and I am very sad and worried that we are growing apart; my heart is beginning to break. He has a large family, mostly sisters, and we are all in a group; I walk with one of his brothers-in-law, a kind man with medium-length dreadlocks, sort of Rasta-looking though not a stoner. He is alert and attentive and quite kind. I think he is a little worried about me. We walk back, though I am worried about passing the burning trees again; then I see the Music Mansion bus driving towards us and I think, oh, good, there he is and he'll give me a ride. There is a woman in the passenger seat, one of his sisters who is also a lesbian. But he drives right by, as if he doesn't know me at all. That is too much for me and I collapse in the middle of the road wailing and weeping. Two great heaving sobs and I wake up.

(Yeah, I know, quite an elaborate dream! And there are still details I'm leaving out, never mind the ones that have faded.)

Well then. I lie in bed contemplating all this; but this time, he is not immediately apparent. I am upset and confused, though I know these things are not to be taken literally in a dream. So, since he is not there, for once, I do the next best thing, the thing I always forget to do when interpreting dreams: I go back in and ask the different elements what and why. So it goes something like this:

I say, "Store, what are you?"

And it answers, "I am a building. I am built. I am an edifice, a facade, something created, a framework."

"Why do you look like that ugly building at [that local university]?"

"Because you hate it. I am ugly, yet I am relatively new."

"Ah, so you are not something old."

"No."

Then I ask, "Why are you on fire?"

"Ask the Fire," the store tells me. I roll my eyes. Fine.

"Fire, why are you?"

"You are angry," says the Fire.

"But you are not out of control," I say.

"No. Anger is not always a loss of control. I am contained and I am not harmful, though you are frightened of me. I am powerful but I will not harm you. I am right."

"You are anger?"

"Yes."

"Why are you burning the store?"

"Because it has to come down." I think about this a moment.

Then I ask, "Why the perfume displays? What are they?"

"They are the artificial, the mask of the true scent."

"Why the changing rooms?"

"That is where new clothes, new personas are tried on."

"But the women weren't worried," I say, confused. The place was burning down around them!

"They were ignorant. It will all fall down soon. It is no longer necessary."

"Why was there a class still inside?"

"It is what you have been taught. It is hard to walk away from even when the structure around you is being destroyed."

"What will be left when the store burns down?"

"An empty cleared lot with fertile ashy soil."

"What shall I build there?"

"Don't build anything there. Plant a garden there instead. Make it Paradise."

Oh.

"So why were the trees in the swamp on fire too?"

"They were dead. It must all now go back to ashes, back to soil, back to building blocks, the elemental, down to the molecular level."

Okay. I ask, "What about that first store, the one I was lost in?"

The Store answers again. "Home decor, home building, home. You are making a home."

But I felt so lost and helpless. Oh. Because he was not there, my help was not there.

"He is always there," says the store, apparently on his side.

Hmmm. Even when I can't see him he's there, right?

"Yes, but also, it is proper for you to be the one doing it. He can't do it for you."

"Okay, why the Music Mansion?"

"It is old things made to work again. But ask it yourself."

"Okay Music Mansion bus," and I feel rather silly, even here in my own mind, "what are you?"

"I am travel and the old made new and working again. But you don't like me, do you? In fact it is quite well known that you hate hate hate Volkswagens, right?"

Oh God yes.

"Then it is something that is not suited to you. This will not be done merely by refurbishing the old. You cannot accept the as-is. It must be broken down further, down to the elements; it must be truly transformed."

And then he is there, finally. I am a little annoyed with him. But I jump right in with the questions nonetheless, since I'm on a roll.

I ask him, "What are you showing me this time?" Because it's always to show me. I've learned that much, anyway.

"You are heartbroken," he says, quite compassionately. "You are in mourning, and it needs to be acknowledged."

Ah yes. I am changing and that always involves destruction of the old, and mourning for that which is gone.

"Yes," he says, looking at me steadily. What dark eyes.

But it's so hard, every time. Will these dreams stop when I finally get it?

"Well," he says, "it's not a question of getting it so much as the fact that it will always be part of the process. I suppose if you learn to recognize when you are mourning a change I won't have to show you so much, yeah. But it's not something to realize once and then be done with; it will always be part of the process and every time you change, which you are always doing if you are truly alive, it will come up."

"So what is being destroyed?"

"Something you loved and that you thought loved you."

Something I thought served me?

"Yes."

"But you love me?" Not that I doubt it, but I need to hear it. These dreams always throw me for a loop.

"Oh yes," he says, quite dreamily. "Never fear that."

But then I'm confused and a little concerned. "Who was your sister in the bus? Why was she a lesbian? Why am I dreaming about lesbians as a symbol?"

"I don't know," he says, and shrugs. "What do they represent for you?"

I am uneasy. They were quite stereotyped.

"Stereotype, archetype; they aren't that far apart to the unconscious," he says, unworried.

"But it's not meaningless in life."

"No," he says, "in life you are dealing with full actual humans, of course. But in dreams, it's shorthand for other things. So tell me about the stereotype."

Okay, well, I guess, the stereotype of a lesbian is that she's someone who does not need a man, who is independent, capable, strong, and handy; but she's not beautiful, or at least not society's idea of beautiful. I suppose to put a positive face on it she is not playing along with the feminine crap and is wilfully holding herself outside of the patriarchal rules. Still, though, the stereotype in my head is that butchy lesbians are not beautiful and it doesn't appeal.

He shrugs. "It could just be a different kind of beauty."

I don't know. It's not reading as rich, or magical; it feels too practical. But it's a stereotype, not realistic at all.

"Well that is what we are talking about," he says.

Yeah, I guess. But it's ringing in my conscious mind as unfair. It was just so bleak, such a disappointing view of the future. Is that what I'm condemning myself to, if I take radical feminism too literally? I mean that's kind of stupid, isn't it?

"No," he says, "it's not stupid. Fear is fear. It's not rational, and doesn't care to listen to conscious ideas of fairness or equity, or what you have seen reality to be. Fear makes cardboard cutouts of things."

Ah, yes. That makes sense.

Okay. I ask, "Why did you have so many sisters? Who are they?"

He smiles. "The Muses, Who else?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?" I say. "You had nine sisters?"

He shakes his head. "Eight sisters. I'm married to Thalia, remember?"

Oh, yes, I think, and laugh. "Then who was your brother-in-law?"

"That was just me in a different skin. You needed comforting."

I nod. But then I think about the ending of the dream, and it troubles me. Because I'm thinking that my point of view, the me crying and wailing in the middle of the road, is that of what is left behind, the old, while the new (his sister) drives off with him; but he shakes his head.

"No," he says, "that's not how it works. Whatever point of view you are seeing, it is the view from the center, the truth of you. If it's you seeing it then it's you."

So what are my fears, then? A bleak future without you?

"Maybe. But it's not true. I'm here, and I always will be."

But then he looks at me, quite carefully and cannily. Then he says, slowly, and with kindness, as if it is a truth I don't want to hear, "What I think you are beginning to realize, though, is that no one but you can actually do this. I can guide you, I can show you, and I am here, always, but even if it were proper I cannot do it for you. You are the one who must make the change. Only you."

Oh. I can see why that might frighten me.

"Yes," he says. "But you are doing it. In a most splendid fashion."

So, I am the one who set that building on fire?

"Oh yes," he says, and gives me a very knowing, and very vibrant, smile.

So then, what am I destroying?

"Why don't you tell me?" he says, still smiling.

I think about it.

It is ugliness and the practical; it has been built at the expense of beauty. It is something that is good enough, what is needed to get by. But it will no longer do. It represents restrictions.

"Yes," he says, beaming at me. "And it is being burnt away by a clean, hot, brilliant and illuminating anger."

Ah, yes. It is the framework of the past burning away. No wonder I feel lost.

"Yes," he says. "But I am here, in one form or another. Never fear."

And even though I didn't get a ride, I know that home is not far.

"Nope."

And even though those burning trees in the swamp frighten me, I've passed them before and I was all right.

"Yes," he says again. "And you have friends, many friends, the family you've married in to. And they are inspiration and motivation and love and comfort."

Yes, I suppose he is right.

"Yes," he says. "I am. All is well."

*Oh dear God. I don't think I will ever get used to the embarrassment of that.

Angry

2009-07-01T21:17:00.003-04:00

Last night I dreamt that I was watching TV and lo and behold and wonder of wonders there was a special just on Mike Nesmith. Needless to say I was surprised and happy and excited to see it. It was some MTV show that was only fifteen minutes long or something, and may have even been titled that, Fifteen Minutes, in reference to that Andy Warhol quote about how in the future everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame, oh my clever clever unconscious. But anyway, there I was surprised and happy to see a special on one of my very favorites.

Except--

My father was there. Not like he is now, since he's had the stroke, but how he was before, meaning, very talkative and very oblivious. Really, he was the kind of guy a young relative would dread getting stuck with at the family reunion--he would corner people and just talk and talk and talk at them. I grew up hearing the same stories over and over and over again. And they were never good conversations, or at least not "good" as I, an introvert, would define it. It was all pointless stupid stuff about nothing at all, coupled with his obsessive and narcisstic tendencies and an inability to actually hear what anyone else was saying. (In this respect, he's barely changed at all since the stroke.) Car rides with him were absolute hell. He just wouldn't shut up.

So there I was with a short and highly desirable show on, and there of course is my dad, who has decided that right now is the ideal time to start talking at me and to demand my undivided attention. And you could never just tell him to piss off; he was so self-absorbed that he couldn't even hear stuff like that. Really truly. Pretty much all you could do was walk away.

But in the dream of course I couldn't, since the TV was there and not somewhere else. And I didn't even have a videotape, either, or it was too late to try to find one because I'd miss half the show as it was and there I was, stuck and aggravated to the point of tears that this beautiful opportunity was going to be lost because my stupid, stupid father was being his usual clueless narcisstic self. I was so very angry and didn't know what to do.

Over the years I learned several methods for untangling myself from him when he insisted on cornering me to talk at me. Funny, I guess I got good at it--when I was working up in the city one of my co-workers was a guy with Down's syndrome (high-functioning, I guess you'd call it--he could drive and everything), who worked in a back corridor by the kitchen. He also was of the type who would talk at you and was completely unable to take a hint; and I remember talking to another co-worker about how he dreaded going to heat up his lunch or, God forbid, head off to the bathroom (since that was beyond the same corridor) because he didn't want to get shanghai'ed by Seth. And I thought it so strange, because compared to my Dad Seth was nothing and it hadn't even registered as an issue.

But anyway in the dream I knew that detaching myself from my father, though I had gotten it down to a science, was going to take more than Fifteen Minutes; and so I was shit out of luck, as they say.

When I woke, I thought that yep, that was about right. That I was not able to live my life, do what I wanted, be myself in my parents' house. And I was angry, very angry about it.

What I remember of the show is that the interviews were all of Mike Nesmith when he was young; and he seemed so angry to me, like his life was all some bitterly ironic joke. He was so angry.

Yeah.

Hard

2009-07-01T20:38:00.008-04:00

I am just so angry lately. Everything pisses me off.

I am living in my mother's house. She has never actually said, my house, my rules, and if asked would certainly deny it; still, living here is living her life, not mine.

But I can't just leave. Even if I had the money (which I don't, no way right now) she's 82 and I'm stuck. Yesterday when I asked her when she planned on going food shopping (she doesn't like me to do it, I think, because I actually bring home food) she said Friday, and that until then there was bread and water just like in prison. She said it like it was a joke.

The other day I was in the supermarket, buying fruit and honey for a spell. I scrounged my quarters and dimes and came up with an even $10.00. That's not a lot; so when there I weighed everything carefully and didn't buy very many of anything; I even opened up one of those huge bags of cherries and took half or so out to put in another bag (they sell them by the pound so I figured it was all right, but I was worried). I also got a single fig and a single apricot.

I got to the checkout and the girl didn't blink about the cherries; and I found I had calculated correctly and the total came to $9.22.

Except I hadn't counted correctly at the start. I had nine dollars even, not ten. And so I found myself 22¢ short. So there I was asking if I could put a few cherries back...

When the older guy behind me asked how much I needed. Twenty-two cents, I told him. He gave me a dollar. Then the guy behind him said, oh, he had it if I needed it, then something about how we all needed to look out for each other. I took the first guy's dollar and paid. He wouldn't take the change back. In fact, he leaned over and picked up a dime from the floor and gave that to me, too.

Two days ago I went into the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription for my mother. But when I got there they had no idea about it. I had been in a day or two earlier and they hadn't seen it then; they'd (and I'd) assumed it had simply not gone through yet. This time the woman asked if I was sure. I said, yeah, unless my mother is lying. She laughed, and I said, well it's entirely possible she picked it up but forgot; it wouldn't be the first time.

A little later Bob the pharmacist took over and went looking on the computer and checking the date sheet; and it turned out they had gotten it but not filled it for some reason. He said he was sorry and that it would only take him a couple minutes. Which was all fine and is just how it works at a pharmacy and I wasn't in a hurry anyway.

When he finished he brought it up to the counter himself to have me sign for it. Now Bob the pharmacist is an older guy who (from what I've seen) is never in a bad mood, though his sense of humor is pretty sick. I rather like him, and he seems like he'd been a really good boss to have--laid back, not easily annoyed, with an attitude that it's all good; yet kinda twisted, which I can definitely appreciate. So anyway he brought it up to the counter.

Now, maybe it was the fact that I was also getting a box of tampons and a chocolate bar, or maybe it was the talk about my mother possibly having forgotten that she'd already picked up the pills, but for some reason then Bob looked me straight in the eye and said that he thought my mother was doing a lot better. That a year ago she had seemed confused, and had just answered questions in monosyllables, but that now she was a lot more alert and communicative. I was completely baffled. I didn't think she was any different, really, and she's not got any (age-related) problems with her brain as far as I know--she doesn't have Alzheimer's or dementia or anything. So I was thrown. I mean, lately, it's true, she's come out of her shell a bit--a couple weeks ago she had an opening for her paintings (and she sold quite a few of them) and she's got more of a social life than I have, which I find very surprising; maybe that was what he meant?

And I don't know why, except that it caught me off-guard, but then I said something about my father, and that compared to him I guess I wouldn't notice anything about my mother, since he's had a stroke and all. And Bob asked if he lived at home. No, I said, thank God, he's in a nursing home. We couldn't do all that.

And then Bob said that even so it was hard on my mother, very hard. And then he looked me straight in the eye again and said, "And hard on the child, too."

When I got home it all struck me as strange. All I could think was that the Universe is concerned about me for some reason. And it felt very foreboding, very ominous--like, what does the Universe know that I don't? What is heading towards me?

Maybe that's just the depression talking, I don't know, some way my relentlessly negative brain has to turn strangers' kindnesses into something terrible. I don't know.

But it's making me nervous.

Dear God

2009-06-26T02:12:00.003-04:00

Now, down to the real business of mirth, which I take quite seriously. (I am named Thalia, if you hadn't noticed.)

So my mom inherited this cranberry bread mix and a bunch of frozen berries in a bag; thinking they were, naturally enough, cranberries, she defrosted them in the fridge. Where the bag leaked and left a dark, ominously blood-like puddle on the terracotta tile floor, which she cleaned up, after she got over the horror of it and realized it was in fact not blood.

So tonight she calls me down to give her a hand with baking the thing, asking if I'll chop the cranberries for her. This would have been fine, except opening the bag up I discover they are in fact blueberries. Which is actually far nicer than cranberries, in both our opinions, so that's all good.

So, since the thing had leaked earlier, she had stuffed the bag in a mixing bowl before she had put it back in the fridge. And at the bottom of the bowl was a whole bunch of blueberry juice.

The mix called for a half cup water. Well, I reasoned, we both like blueberries. Why not make it even more blueberrilicious by using the juice instead of just water?

Well that might sound like a plan. However, there are a couple of things to remember about blueberry juice:

One, it's very highly colored, meaning, it is very very very strongly blue-purple.

And two, well, really there is no two. One is enough. Trust me.

So when I mixed it into the batter it turned a very shocking thick greyish lavender. (Alas, I did not think to get a picture of it.) It really was quite an unusual color; not at all what one would think fit to eat.

But so what? I mean, it's just a color, right?

Well, now, see, the thing with baking is that things tend to turn kind of yellowish; I don't know if it's just the sugars browning, or if it's the yellow in the egg, but, well, do you remember, children, what happens when you mix blue and yellow?

That's right; you get green.

Which isn't to say it wasn't perfectly yummy, in a Dr. Seussian sort of way. But still. It's kinda horrific, don't you think?

The Cat

2009-06-26T02:10:00.002-04:00

Okay, so it's a cute picture of Puss One, hanging up-side down on the back of the couch.

That's reason enough.

Grrr.

2009-06-23T02:31:00.003-04:00

Can I just say that this particular month of June in New England has been a real pain in the ass weather-wise? I've spent most of June--June, people!--freezing.

Sorry, fucking freezing.

What the Hel?

I hear it was hot on Saturday, the one hot day we've had so far in the year; except of course I was not in the area at the time, instead being in the Albany area. Where it was miserable and rainy, of course. And it was one of those things that because I traveled back yesterday going west to east I managed to experience the same bit of rotten weather twice. Joy, and argh.

Certainly didn't feel like the Solstice yesterday though, did it?

I Am Where

2009-06-23T02:25:00.004-04:00

Well it would seem that I am going through some kind of cycle-type process; it's not really surprising, I guess, that after writing a whole bunch of long, detailed posts exploring all kinds of deep and odd issues that I wouldn't have anything to say for a bit. I'm processing things, I suppose, as an old therapist would say, and these things take time.

Still, I feel a bit guilty for not posting here so much this month. I do like to keep the number of posts about equal to the days of the month. And it's not like I've been super busy, though I have been trying to get some work-type stuff done. I am being too hard on myself, I know.

I've just been so tired lately.

I have to keep telling myself that processing, emotional processing of things, actually does take a certain amount of physical as well as mental energy. It is draining.

But I don't know where I am anymore.

Progress

2009-06-23T02:19:00.003-04:00

Was at an event this weekend, and a guy I was having a conversation with saw my Monkees shirt and pentacle and was like, "The Monkees and Satanism? That's a strange combination!"

So I scowled at him and said, "Well, yeah, that'd be because I'm Wiccan."

He looked a little embarrassed, and muttered something that might have been an apology, but I was just not in the mood. This is basic stuff, people.

So I said, "Yeah, whatever," in a flat and unamused tone.

And then I proceeded to not feel guilty about it at all, even though he turned out to be a perfectly nice guy, and I was perfectly nice to him the rest of the weekend.

This is progress for me.

Metaphor

2009-06-12T17:38:00.002-04:00

I was being fed cherry cheesecake by a very cute boy in my dream last night.

"Oh," he said, "Your lips are very red."

Do you think that's some kind of metaphor?

So Close And Yet So Very Very Far

2009-06-10T03:36:00.002-04:00

Had a dream last night that I was being given a hickey by Davy Jones. Though the boy has apparently done plenty for lots of other people, I fear I must say he has never done anything for me. So it was a bit strange.

He was pretty good, though.

Strange

2009-06-01T23:09:00.007-04:00

It's funny. Or it strikes me as funny, anyway.

No name has ever fit him. Though right now his hair is a little darker and a little longer, he is otherwise patterned quite exactly, and I mean down to the constellations of freckles, after a man named Mike; yet he does not at all look like a Mike. Nor has he ever looked like a Billy, or a Danny, or a Sean, or a David, the names of the men he has taken after, some of his bodysakes. He just does not.

But he looks like a Donal, all right. Absolute dead ringer.

It is the strangest thing.

I Don't Know

2009-06-01T23:05:00.005-04:00

What a weird, weird, week this has been. I won't go into details, as I don't feel like it, for once, but I don't know what I think, or what I believe, or what should be believed. I don't know. But, as he told me, even if I can only, right now, manage to accept things on the level of metaphor, it is okay. As metaphor, it is all important, and all relevant. So I think I will do that, for now, anyway.

But I found myself a couple nights ago actually thinking, What does 'I am' mean?

I don't know.

I Do Not Think They Mean What I Mean By That

2009-06-01T21:59:00.005-04:00

I was coming home from fetching a gallon of cranberry juice, as a woman who is, alas, somewhat prone to certain maladies of the, er, plumbing, I suppose you could call it, and as usual I drove by the Assembly of God church over by the airport. The church with the readerboard sign, the one with the pithy God-phrases on it, the ones that are supposed to induce/guilt/entice you to walk through that door where they can then get their Jesus-y hooks into you. (No thanks, I've got a religion already.) But this time, instead of rolling my eyes as usual instead I almost choked. Because it said:

LIFE'S MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE
INTIMACY WITH GOD

and I was just like, Jesusfuck, how can they simultaneously get it so wrong and yet so right?

Memories

2009-05-28T21:25:00.005-04:00

Ah, now, back to that weight.

Though really, that's not quite right. I mean, I feel fine, really, oddly enough. I don't know. But him, no, he is in pain.

I do feel fine. I don't know why. Skeptical me says it's because none of this is real, anyway, so why would I feel anything? But kind me says that's not very nice. Or maybe I just don't remember--how should I feel anything if I can't? That doesn't seem right, either, though. There would be a weight there, a phobia, or some sort of strange aversion, buttons pushed with no reason. I'd know by now, I think. So, believing me, who it would seem is going to be running the show here, at least for the time being, says, it's because it is passed, it is all well now, all dealt with, all forgiven.

He doesn't believe me. I know this.

I lay in bed last night with him, my, I know, Invisible Friend, whatever, and we talked and we talked and we talked.

I don't know if I believe it. It is a hard thing to swallow, the whole reincarnation and past lives thing; well, okay, start at the beginning here, it is a hard thing to swallow, the fact of a daimon. But I do believe he exists, and probably not just in the Jungian sub-personality way. And I do believe that what he tells me is true, in some sense. I am sorry that I don't know how literally I can take things, but for his sake, for now, I'll go along. I'll sort the rest of that crap out later.

I don't know. But this is what I saw last night, whether it is metaphor, memory, a trick of the imagination, or reality:

There is a young man seated at a table or workbench of some sort. He is sitting in the sun, and his long red hair is like a halo of flame; when he sees me come in he looks up. The look in his eyes is indescribable, though I suppose I'll try. Intense, passionate, fiery, charismatic, irresistible, as well as profoundly desirous of me, me the person who has come in the door. I, me, and this is not properly my point of view, now is it, but I, me, Thalia, I see that look on the red-haired man's face, my face, and I would follow him anywhere. I can see why he had people lined up outside his bedroom door. I will take my place in that line. But I see he loves me, and by me now I mean the man in the doorway, and I am bewildered and amazed.

Then I am the one sitting at the table, looking at the man who has just come in. And I am me, which is the strangest thing to say, but he is him, and oh, it is obvious. He really does not look all that different. He is tallish and thin, with long dark curly hair and large dark eyes; and a little mouth in an ingénu face. He looks at me in pure wonder.

Come here, muirnín, I purr.

Then I am back in my own bed, as me, lying there with him as his usual self. Well, his usual self except his hair is a good six inches longer, funny that. He is looking at me with wonder still.

"Oh," I say, "oh." I was irresistible, magnetic? Like that?

"Yes," he says, and his eyes are very wet.

"Oh, Love," I say, "you look so lost."

He blinks the tears out of his eyes. Oh, poor, poor soul.

"What happened?" I say. "Tell me."

He doesn't say anything.

Then, on a hunch, I ask him bluntly, "How did you die, exactly?"

He is silent for some time. Then he says, very quietly, "I killed myself."

Oh, oh. I shut my eyes a moment. Then I say, "You mean you didn't just drink yourself to an early grave, either. You actually committed suicide."

"Yes," he says. "I hanged myself."

Oh. No wonder. Oh you poor, poor, thing.

"It's worse," he says.

I wait.

"You found me," he says.

Oh. I am profoundly grateful I do not remember that. "Wait," I say, "you were so miserable you took your own life, even though you were Catholic, and knew what that meant? Which circle of Hell is that, according to Dante?"

"The seventh," he says quietly, "just above sodomites."

"You must have been in so much pain," I say.

"Yes," he says.

"Even though I was there, in the flesh, before you, and though I loved you."

"Yes," he says; and then, "I really fucked it up."

But I shake my head. "What's that phrase? You did the best you could with what you had. That's a pretty shitty hand to be dealt, for both of us."

"But I left you there," he says.

But then I think of something. "Oh, oh no, oh Love, oh no."

He just looks at me, miserable, knowing what I'm going to say.

Because I've followed the logic, the logic that says—I mean, assuming what he's been saying is true–that when I die, he is there, he is with me as I step over that threshold; and he has been there with me time and time and time again. And logic says, and he has said, that I do the same for him, when the situation is reversed; but if we are both in the world, then what?

"Oh, oh no," I say, "Oh Love no. You died alone."

"Yes," he says.

"Oh," I say, "you were in such great pain that you took your own life, and then, on top of that, you died alone."

"Yes," he says. "I left you there."

"Whatever," I say. "You died alone."

"Yes," he says, and shuts his eyes.

"Oh, oh no," I say, as I draw him to me and wrap my arms around him. "Oh."

He clings to me. I can feel that he is completely bewildered.

"But," he says, "you..."

"Shh," I say. "You were in such pain."

He shakes his head a little, but doesn't say anything.

I lay there and I hold him.

Then, on another hunch, I ask, "When I died, I mean, when I met you again after we both had died I guess, wherever that is, what was the first thing I said to you?"

He is quiet a time. Then he says, "You said, 'Hello, muirnín.'"

Yes. Hello, beloved.

"Well," I say, "then there is your answer."

Wildwood

2009-05-28T20:50:00.004-04:00

Well, we've gotten to the part in The Artist's Way where we go through a week of reading deprivation. That's right: no books, no blogs, no magazines, no email. Period.

The idea, as I understand it, is to stop the constant flow of distractions and other people's ideas into the brain, so that one may settle out and begin to hear one's own voice. Which makes a lot of sense. It took me a while to get used to the idea, but the more I thought about it the more it sounded like a really good thing.

Which is why I find myself here, writing. Writing, of course, is not forbidden; it is actively encouraged, in fact, as a way of finding one's voice; and rereading entries, one's own words, also is fine. But everything else, pretty much? Off-limits for the week.

So what did I do today? I went out and bought a book. Of course! I don't know if it's cheating, though. It's a beautiful book on beaded dolls, with how-tos and patterns and the like, and many gorgeous and inspiring pictures. But I think, and maybe I'm just trying to bend the rules, I don't know, that creative instruction-type books may be exempt. Because part of this week is about creativity, too, and what you can get done when you suddenly have all this time.

I also bought some yarn. I'm going to knit some monsters.

I bought the book in a specific cloth store; and though I started out in one direction, the store in the same chain where I was didn't have it, so I had to go off in the other direction. I had been there last week and seen it there.

So I bought it and drove home, just as it was getting dark. I take the back roads home from that town, as it's the shortest way, really. There is this spot on the road, a little stretch of trees, that, despite the fact there are telephone poles on one side, arc up and over the road. It is dark, and quiet, and magical: a little spot of wildwood, it has always felt to me. And this evening, at twilight, as I came up to it, the only car on the road, I saw something there.

It was a deer, stepping across the road like a Queen.

Now, I'm a gardener, and don't much care for deer when they are eating my lilies; but still when I see them someplace that is not my garden they always make me catch my breath. They are so beautiful, so graceful, so manifestly a vision of the sacred, of Goddess.

So I slowed the car down, and watched her cross; and when she got to the other side another one stepped out, a little smaller; and then a third. And I watched them cross, a doe and her two nearly-grown fawns, and when I was sure that was all of them I started up again. And I saw the black, wet, trunks of the trees, and the leaves like green lace in the half-light, and I found myself laughing, as if a weight have been lifted.

And I remembered that last week, driving home from the same store, taking the same back roads, in the very same spot in that fragment of wildwood I had come upon a hawk, out in the road, picking at some dead thing that had been hit by a car; and I had come to a full stop not fifteen feet from it before it flew away. But not until it had given me a good, long, look. I wasn't sure what it was at first, but the barred chest and spotted wings, and, when it flew, the bright solid rust of the tail told me it was a red-tailed hawk. I had never seen one that close, only perched in distant trees.

Summer is coming.

Forgive

2009-05-27T22:55:00.004-04:00

"Wait," I say to him later, because I have about a million questions. I mean, since I've already suspended my disbelief and all.

"Yeah," he says, and nods. He looks a little nervous.

"You told me about this before, right?"

"Yes," he says, and looks away from me.

"We were both incarnate then."

"Yes," he says.

"This," I say quietly, "this was the time you were addicted, isn't it?"

"Yes," he says.

"And you died from it, didn't you?"

"Yes." He looks uncomfortable and afraid. I have never seen him like this.

"How old were you when you died?" I ask quietly.

It takes him a moment to answer. "Thirty-one," he says, and does not look at me.

"Oh," I say, and shut my eyes.

Then I ask, "How old was I when you died?"

"Twenty-eight."

"And how old was I when I died?"

"Thirty-nine."

"And I drank myself to death having lost you?"

"Yes," he says, and he sounds like he is going to cry.

"So it took me a decade to do that?"

"Yes."

I look at him, and though his face is bowed I can see he is crying.

"Oh, shh, shh. Oh Love," I say, as I brush his hair from his forehead. "You have long since been forgiven. You know this. I am here and you are here. I have forgiven you."

He looks at me. "That's easy to say when you don't remember."

I shake my head. "I know enough to know that I am here and you are here. Therefore you must be forgiven."

He looks at me again, perfectly miserable.

"You are," I say, flatly.

He looks away again.

"All right," I say gently, "I want to know. Can you tell me now?"

He doesn't say anything, just nods.

"Okay," I say. "So I was the beautiful, red-haired, green-eyed Irish Gerald." But then, disbelief kicks back in for a moment and I say, "Good God, really? Gerald? Why Gerald?"

He laughs, a little, through his sadness. "I don't know," he says, "maybe it was your mother's favorite name. But it's a beautiful name to me. Because it was your name."

"All right," I say, glad to see him laugh, "Gerald I was. So, we were both men, right? So we were gay? Not that they called it that then, right?"

"Yeah," he says, "we were both men. And I guess I was 'gay,' by the modern definition. But you weren't quite, or at least, well, not just into men. I mean," and he pauses a bit. "Well, don't take this the wrong way"--I raise my eyebrows--"but the phrase that comes to mind of you then is, well, anything on two legs with a pulse."

What?!? I mean, really? That is certainly not like me now, that's for sure. I'm so shy and monogamous now I can literally count the number of lovers I've had over the years on one hand. Hearing that, I'm kind of impressed, actually. Well, then, go me.

Then again, I am not a drinker either, and can't even imagine being one. Alcohol not only tastes like gasoline to me, it pretty much makes me instantly ill, either a splitting headache or nausea (or both). Jesus, I hate that stuff.

"Well, yeah," he says, with a bitter laugh, "wonder why."

Oh, yes, I suppose that makes sense. But then I look at him and shake my head. Oh Love, I think, I'm so sorry.

"Sorry for what?" he says. "It wasn't your fault."

"What were you addicted to?" I ask quietly.

"Same thing," he says, "whiskey.

"And no," he says, before I can even articulate it, "there are alcoholics among the Irish too just like everyone else. It's not just some stupid stereotype."

I nod. "Why did you drink?"

He looks at the floor and says, as if it's bitterly obvious, "Because I was an idiot."

"Well," I say, looking at him steadily, "you are not an idiot now."

He doesn't say anything.

"How long ago was this?" I ask.

"Sixteen-something-or-other," he says.

"So," I say, "we were two men who loved each other in Ireland of sixteen-something-or-other. It doesn't get a whole lot more Catholic than that."

"Yeah," he says, "it was really really Catholic."

"That's not exactly a safe climate for two men loving each other."

"No," he says.

"And you say you were an 'idiot' for drinking?"

He doesn't say anything.

"Oh," I say, remembering something, "what was your name then?"

He laughs, sadly and tiredly. "Actually," he says, "it was Donal."

"Oh," I say, laughing a little.

"What did you do for a living?" I ask.

"I was just some rich kid," he says, with some scorn.

Looking at him I can guess there's more to it than that, but I decide not to press him. So I ask instead, "What did I do for a living?"

"You were a carpenter." He pauses a moment, before saying, "You made the most beautiful turned furniture, really exquisite. You were apprenticed to a master." But then he falls silent.

Yes, I imagine I didn't get too far in that career.

"No," he says.

"Look at me," I say then. He does. He looks so angry and so miserable, and it's all turned inwards on himself. "How long ago was this?"

"Sixteen-something-or-other," he says, again, confused.

"No, I mean, how recently..." I pause, not sure how to phrase it. "I mean, how many lifetimes ago, in the progression of the soul, which I'm assuming is not the same as linear time. I mean, how long ago in our memories is this?"

"Lifetime-before-last," he says.

Ah. Not long ago at all, then.

"No," he says.

"So we are still working through this, then," I say.

"Yes."

"Or rather, you are still working through this, then."

He sighs. "Yes," he says.

"All right," I say. "Well, I am here, now, with you, right? And I love you, still. Yes?"

"Yes," he says, softening.

"And we are still, I don't know, 'bonded' I suppose, right?"

"Yes."

"So it's pretty safe to assume I'm not going anywhere, right?"

"No, I guess not," he says, very quietly.

"And," I say, forestalling him, "even though I don't remember I think if I were really angry with you and wanted nothing to do with you ever again I wouldn't still be here, right?"

"I guess so," he says, pained.

"Love," I tell him, "whatever you did I forgive you. I do. I must have already, or I wouldn't be here."

"You can't forgive me for something you don't remember," he says stubbornly, and suddenly I realize our roles are reversed, for once. It is an odd feeling.

Okay then. "I can. And I do. I forgive you. It was not your fault. You, we, were in an impossible situation. What would they have done if they had found out? Jail time? Execution? Ship one of us to Australia? It would not have been good, that's for sure."

"No," he says suddenly, "this is not about me, now. This is your time, not mine, and I am here to help you, now. We are not supposed to be working out my problems now."

"Oh-ho no," I say, "don't you go changing the subject. Sorry, kid. You need help now. Even though you're hinting at it, I don't imagine there's actually some kind of cosmic rule about this, and you know what if there is? Fuck it. You need help, now."

He laughs tiredly again, then says, quiet, "I guess I can't complain that you've actually learned what I've been trying to teach you, now, can I?"

"Nope," I say. Then I look at him, with compassion.

"All right," I say. "This is what we'll do. I don't remember, true. So you will have to tell me. I know," I say, pained for him already, "I know that it will probably hurt, to tell me. But you tell me. And then you watch me. I will forgive you. All of it. I will weep with you. I will weep for you. You watch me. Since you need to see it for yourself. You tell me. You confess to me; I will grant you absolution for every last detail. I will."

He looks at me. "You won't," he says sadly, but I can hear he is unsure.

"I will," I say again. "I love you. How could I not?

"And then," I continue, "when you see and understand that I forgive you, we will work on you forgiving yourself."

He looks at me, still unsure. But then he nods, once.

Okay.

Sweet

2009-05-27T19:31:00.005-04:00

So I was lying in bed with him this morning, him, my daimon, my spirit guide, my Invisible Friend, Incorporeal Boyfriend, whatever he is: Beloved, I suppose, will do. And, well, I guess the technical term for the state we were in is afterglow; but anyway I was feeling very content, and relaxed, and at peace as we lay there, our arms about each other.

"I love your nose," he says then out of the blue, looking at me with those dark eyes all sleepy and mild; then he reaches out and strokes my nose a little, gently, with just one finger. I don't say anything, just smile.

He looks at me dreamily. "You are so beautiful," he says. I believe him.

"Thalia," he says, to himself, almost, just saying my name. And then: "Ariadne, Mary," he says, names I've also gone by, that last one my birth name. But then: "Jane, Louisa, Melissa..." and he is perfectly serious, as far as I can tell. I am surprised. Since he is, apparently, still talking about me. But I'm in such a mood that I just listen, and accept. His voice is so soothing. I'll worry about if I believe in reincarnation later.

But then he gets to "Gerald" and I'm suddenly like, "What?!"

He smiles. I can never really tell when he is teasing me. "Oh yes," he says, and sighs. "Oh, you should have seen you then." He frowns. "I mean, I'm sure you did see you then, they had mirrors and all, but I wish you remembered. Oh, my God, you were so gorgeous. Good God." And he closes his eyes and sighs.

"What?!" I say again.

"Oh," he says again. "You were Irish, and I mean Irish--red hair, green eyes, the works. Freckles, too, though only if you got some sun, which were just adorable; they always made you look so boyish, though you hated that. But I loved them."

"But," I say, "'Gerald?!?' What an awful name."

"Gerald's a perfectly good name," he says, a little affronted. "It's a beautiful name. It was your name."

"Gerald's not an Irish name," I say, doubtfully.

"Well, no, but it's not like everyone in Ireland has to be named Patrick or Sean or Donal or something, you know."

"So it was actually in Ireland, then?"

"Yeah," he says, and then gets all dreamy again, "Oh, that boy of you. That body. Oh my God. So beautiful." He sighs, again.

"Okay," I say, deciding to ignore disbelief, since I am just too curious now, "Besides the red hair thing, what was so beautiful about it?"

"Oh," he says. "You just... the way you moved. So strong, so graceful. I loved watching the muscles in your forearms when you worked. And the lines of your throat when you turned your head. And that little shadowy smile you'd get sometimes, with your head down and your face hidden in your hair. You were a mischievous sort, you know; your mother always joked you were a changeling. No, not the same mother you have now, no. You were just... well, full of yourself, in a really good way. That time you were not afraid."

He pauses, then says sadly, "Not like now.

"Shh," he says, anticipating me, "Don't apologize. You are what you are, now. You are where you are, now."

It sounds like I've regressed though.

"No," he says, "You didn't see it, is all."

Is it one of those things where I chose to deal with fear this lifetime around?

He is surprised. "What, on purpose? That's not a very nice way to treat yourself. I mean, that would just be, well, mean."

Oh. I always figured the Lesson I Was Here For This Lifetime (TM) was to learn how to deal with fear.

He is suddenly looking at me quite cannily.

"Oh," I say, putting it together. "It's not fear. It's compassion. That's the lesson."

"Yes," he says, smiling at me. "It always has been."

"Oh," I say again.

"You are so beautiful," he says again, and kisses my cheek.

"But I'm not red-haired," I say, teasing him.

"I know," he says, "but black hair is yours, now. And it looks very very good on you. Oh my God," he says again, and this time sighs heavily for me, now, my body, now.

I kiss his forehead. "You are so sweet," I say.

He smiles. "Yes," he says, "I am sweet." But then he pauses, troubled, and looks at me. "You know, you probably oughtta lick me. Just to be sure." And he grins.

I love him.

The Continuing Saga of Cat Vs. Mouse

2009-05-27T18:11:00.004-04:00

So I was sitting at the computer the other night when I hear the dreaded thumpity thump thump followed by a rodental squeak! and so I get up, paper towels in hand, to see if I might have a chance to rescue said mouse. And I did; there it was in the hallway, cornered and running frantically in little back-and-forth motions. But the poor thing had no where to go, and so I manage to scoop it up, gently, wrapping the towels around it to protect myself in case it wanted to bite me. (How should it know I am there to help? Everything's a predator to a mouse, isn't it?)

And so I took it outside and let it go on the porch, and it jumped off, tail held high, into the dark and the rain. And checking the towel I saw it was clean; no blood, so hopefully it wasn't injured too badly.

I told my meanie mother, who has declared war on all of Mousekind, about this and she said, scornfully, You let it go, didn't you? Yes, and I am proud of this.

The next night I was sitting on my bed sewing. I have started this little doll-quilt, with designs that measure two inches square; so, some of the pieces are all of a half-inch across. It's rather a precise thing, I'm finding, since a little tiny millimeter deviation from the sewing line, something that would make no difference at all on a larger piece, is more than enough to seriously set the thing out of whack. So there I am sitting there, sewing and singing along to the very lovely Mostly Mike Monkees Mix, when Puss One suddenly jumps up on the bed. Out of nowhere, too; she had come into the room completely silently and I hadn't noticed until she appeared poof! in front of me.

Now, this sort of thing happens all the time, of course; Puss One loves to sit on the bed while I'm sewing, so I do leave the door ajar a bit for her. But this time was a little different. And having read the first couple paragraphs of this post I'll bet you can guess why.

So yes, there was Puss One standing on my bed, looking at me, with, of course, a mouse in her mouth. A real live not at all dead mouse, a tannish-brown thing with a nice long tail that moved a little. On my bed.

Well my eyes got real big I'm sure; and I screamed No, my God, no, don't drop it! Don't drop it!!!

Now, remember, Puss One is a cat. And if there's one thing cats don't do, it's listen. So what did she do? She dropped it. Of course. On my bed.

And the mouse, being not even a little bit dead, high-tailed it off the bed and onto the floor lickity-split, where it ran around beside the bed for a bit. But it couldn't get anywhere, because Puss One was blocking the way out; and it was too fast for me to catch.

Now, my bed is a king-sized bed in an attic room, a room with ceilings so low that I can stand in bare feet and lay my palm flat against it; and so my bed is just the box spring with mattress set on top of it. Actually, it's a twin box and mattress set under it, since it is physically impossible to get a king box spring up the narrow stairs; so there is for the most part nowhere to go underneath, since it sits straight on the floor. But there is a little gap behind the bed itself where it touches the wall; and there is also a gap between the twin box and mattress running down the middle of the bed.

And that is where the mouse went. And then didn't come out.

And without dismantling my bed I couldn't get to it; and well, I was just too lazy. So I sat back down on the bed and picked up my sewing, and Puss One stationed herself on the floor to wait.

The best I could think to do was to close my room off overnight and open the door to the closet under the eaves while I slept. I know there are mice in there; and hopefully the mouse took the opportunity sometime during the night to escape. That is, if it wasn't grievously injured and died under my bed. I suppose I'll figure that out soon enough. Joy.

Really

2009-05-25T18:18:00.005-04:00

Now I haven't had a lucid dream in a while, but that doesn't mean I've given up on it. And, yes, I admit, I'm mostly interested in the whole concept for the sex. Because there's him, and he is there in my dreams, sometimes. And well, dreams are hyperrealistic anyway, and wow, that sounds really nice.

So as practice I imagine finding him in a dream, and talking to him; and yes, this is actually properly a fantasy rather than a vision, though it is still him. He's just role-playing along, I suppose. But fantasies are useful, too: they are practice. If you practice that speech in your head and imagine wild applause at the end, will you not do better on the actual presentation than you would otherwise? So, they are not mere escape. Though there's nothing wrong with that, either.

Anyway so lying there in bed last night (this morning) I imagined meeting him in a dream, like I actually have done a couple times before. And I walk up to him and tell him to his eyes that I love him. Then I ask him if he loves me? Yes, he says. Tell me, I say, and he does. Then I ask him to show me. This is in the hopes that by practicing this I will remember to ask someday in a dream itself, and then, well, hopefully he, you know, shows me. In some detail. At least that's the plan.

So after musing about that last night as I was falling asleep, this is the dream I had:

It was Christmas Eve, though it wasn't particularly wintry. I was trying to get stuff ready for a large party but was unprepared. I remember looking in the fridge and seeing that we only had two eggs, which was not good, since I had a lot of baking to do, including a pumpkin pie which I know takes at least three. But I wasn't too bothered by it. I have had dreams of this type before and some of them have been just horrible. This one, however, was only mildly annoying.

Then I was dancing with a very pretty boy, to, good God, Abba's Fernando. Only I didn't really know the steps and was having a hard time following his lead, so while it was nice it kind of wasn't working.

Then it shifted again and I was emptying out my cauldron, the biggish one I have; it was full of coals, red-hot, and I needed to transfer the contents to something larger. It was the result of a ritual, I think, though I don't remember what the ritual was. I took a towel and was very careful and did not burn myself (and I was conscious in my dream that I had burnt myself recently) and then a different very pretty boy came by and helped me.

Now, both very pretty boys were forms he has taken in the past; but this second one was the one he had when I had that revelation of mine some seven years ago now when I learned how to be aware of him, and how to listen to him. The actor he was based off of (and I don't feel like naming names--consider it a riddle) is a little guy, maybe only five-foot-six or so, just a couple inches taller than me; and a damned adorable one at that. And of course at the time he was portraying one of my very favorite characters ever, and doing a damned good job at it too; and to top it all off this particular boy has a very very lovely Scottish accent, being from Glasgow.

So, there's that. Not that he was Scottish in that movie; he was trying to do some sort of English accent, I think, but really, you can't unteach a Scotsman how to roll his R's. He was, however, certainly Scottish in my dream.

At any rate, there is this adorable boy helping me, and not in the way people usually try to help, i.e. by doing it themselves and getting in my way; actually he was genuinely helping me. And I knew him, sort of, or had known him, if not as a close friend, for some time; and I loved him, of course, though he didn't know that. Nor did I have any idea if he was interested. I sort of assumed he wasn't. You know, safer that way.

But then he was holding me in his arms, suddenly but not startling; it just shifted, like dreams do. And so I put my arms around him, interlacing my fingers together in the small of his back, not quite knowing if that was okay, but pretty sure that if he was doing it then I could too; and I looked at him, pretty much at eye level. And I saw that his eyes were very dark, which was strange, since the actor himself has lightish green eyes, nearly blue.

And he said something, though I don't remember what. But I remember listening to that accent roll over me and how beautiful it was; but it was pretty thick compared to what I usually hear, that unadorned and sparse New English accent that leaves half its letters out. And so I didn't quite catch a word or two, and I had to ask him to repeat it. Which he did. And I remember thinking that his vowels, compared to mine, were all shifted strangely, that his I's sounded like E's, to me, big sounding like beg. It was just so wonderful.

We stood there for a bit, just holding each other, with me very much not wanting to let go, when his friend came by. His friend, whom I'm not naming either, but a co-star in that above-mentioned unnamed movie, who is from what I hear a good friend in real life. And his friend had dark eyes too (which he may have in real life, I forget), and he said, "You know he's crazy about you. Has been for ages." And I heard his Manchester accent. (I can hear it now).

"Really?" I said, looking at the boy who was holding me. "Really?"

He didn't say anything, only smiled a little; but I knew he was telling me Yes.

So I rested my head on his shoulder and just held him, as I said, "Really?"

Well It's Probably Because I'm A Sucker For A Scots Accent

2009-05-24T22:40:00.003-04:00

Oh my God just saw the new Star Trek movie. I think I am in love with Simon "I call him Max" Pegg.

That is all.

Dream

2009-05-19T03:32:00.005-04:00

Dreams are odd. This is, I suppose, not news to many of you out there; still, sometimes...

Last night I dreamt Bea Arthur was lying in a hospital bed, ill, though she looked perky enough, really. I was a friend of hers there with another friend (a male one); and I remember thinking she reminded me of my mother, somewhat, though I would not have said she actually was my mother specifically had I been asked.

After a few moments a doctor came in. He was really sorry, he said, but he had to tell her that it was confirmed now that she had breast cancer; when I heard that I was horrified for her. I was even more horrified, however, a little later after the doctor left and Bea's male friend confided to me that she was actually a vampire. Horrified, mind you, not for the fact of her being a vampire, but because I didn't know what that meant. If she was immortal, but now had cancer, didn't that mean she would suffer from it but never be able to die? Because that would be really, really horrible.

That's all I remember. I do worry, of course, that it's some kind of nasty foreboding for my mother's health; but I kind of doubt it.

It's reminding me now of the tale of Kheiron the Centaur, the great healer who could not be healed. He was injured by an arrow whose poison caused Him great agony, but as He was immortal He could not die. So He traded His immortality in for the mortality of Prometheus, who was chained in dreadful torment; and Kheiron went on down to Hades while Prometheus was finally set free, ending the suffering of both of them. Interestingly enough Kheiron's name means "Hand", as in the laying-on of hands.