I have seen beauty

I have seen beauty
and it is a small boy
all saltwater hair
sunlit eyes
and sandy feet

20 pages

I haven't been working on my story. I've been planting and weeding, going to nurseries, and looking at roses online, and having fits that what I want is no longer available because I waited too long (one day the sites said till end of May, then when I went to order, one said no longer taking orders, the other waiting till I gave order and info, then said it was too late). But while I do these things, I have kept my eyes and heart, and ears open to my characters and their story, and to details of my life that might over-lap with theirs, I have looked more closely at what I am doing, and seeing, and hearing, to find if I could see into them, through it. And I have. I sat down this evening to type up my notebook notes, bits and pieces of story, and was surprised to find 20 pages to type. Which is pretty darn good for not working on it.

( :) of course having discovered that after typing up two pages, I came here to blog it, rather than finishing typing it up first)

I think, Bob thinks, he gave me a pep talk today. It totally sucked. We were in car, going to get Cheese from school. I was talking to him about something I found while digging a hole in his evergreen bed, to plant my broom ( scotch broom, not floor), and how this item had spun itself into a story while I dug, it involved our neighbors, and another country, and I wasn't trying to think about it, but it just went on anyway (had to stop a few times to write stuff down). And I asked him, if he thought that happened to most people, or if it meant, maybe there was, is, something inherently writer-ish in me? Bob got mad. Bob went off with tone, saying I knew the answer to the question. "Would your sister-in-law, be thinking about that after finding such an item in her planting bed? Would your Mom? " (then he did funny imitations of both of them finding this item) " No, they wouldn't. You are a writer. Alright!? Just write already. Stop being so scared of everything. What is there to be scared of, but pushing up daisies one day?! What are you afraid of? Do you think these people are better than you? Have something you don't? That guy in that truck, you think he is better than you?". Me- "Are you trying to be encouraging? Because you aren't. This doesn't motivate me, acting like I am an idiot, yelling at me, it makes me want to turtle". Bob- "All you do is turtle, I want to give you a swift kick in the butt, so you get some courage and do it". Me- "Giving me a kick in the pants doesn't give me courage". It really doesn't. If he could have answered softly and sincerely, I could have believed him, at least believed that he believed, and I could have taken courage, and reassurance in that. But all I felt was anger, and frustration with me, and my lacking. I already have those items in my tool belt.

by the bye

I am not so much enjoying my cold. Bob and I, have a new activity, synchronized sniffling (his is seasonal).

Bob and Cheese would not hear of taking the cake anywhere. Che- "What! Share my cake, my chocolate cake?!". B-"Do you really think there is enough for everyone? We can't take it unless there is enough for everyone". So we have each had several pieces, and now it is gone. Upside, cake is gone, can haunt and taunt me, no more.

play me

I haven't heard the hills singing,
not like before,
now it is just a short burst, a glimmer, washes over me, and then disappears.

When the leaves, first came out, on the trees, that struck me. I was shocked to find some tears in my eyes, to feel such joy, at the sight. I didn't realize I had missed them so. And I couldn't take it all in, looking everywhere, with eyes and heart, trying to take the whole, in.

Last week, a black crow, on a sunlit roof, of a red barn, blue sky, greenery. That struck me. Not imagery that is usually among my favorites, but something about it, the exact placement, the angle of the light, it was more than it was, there was a visual harmony, that contained, conveyed, some meaning. There was a perfection in it. I felt it humming.
Earlier this week,these two old people walking across a parking lot, using their shopping carts as walkers, a couple, they struck me, not with the visual harmony and beauty of the crow scene, but with emotional content.

When I see it-the colors-, the barn roof, the crow, or that old couple (he went on ahead, but turned back to make sure she was coming.) They seem to hold more, than their mere image would suggest, they seem to be filled with something.
The surface sparkles, it relfects light, but you feel the depth within, the deepness of the ocean. The interplay of being.
When I see this way
It is like certain chords are pressed inside me- strung-
and the vibrating hum, creates a feeling within me.
all around me are the notes
and they play me- or through me
they write the songs (are the writers of the songs)
They are playing, singing, being the songs they are
but what I see, what I notice
effects its sound (to me)
which chords are pressed (within)
like I am an instrument, the world/God, plays.
and that I play, by what I tune myself to (attune myself with)
I love the mere beauty that things possess
but I hold it dearer when I see and feel even more
whatever this other is
when I hear it, feel it sing
vibrating
and my soul pitches to echo

Don't let me eat, anymore of this cake

We each had a big slice for Cheese's Birthday yesterday.
It was really good, but then I felt sooo sick, so nauseous.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with a sore throat; I'm hoping it isn't the start of a cold. Still hurts today, even eating watermelon was unpleasant , and it caused my stomach to hurt too. So chocolate cake, would be a really really really bad idea.
It is like a little tape in my mind, that is stuck on repeat-
chocolate cake, chocolate cake, chocolate cake.
We have chocolate cake.
chocolate cake, chocolate cake, chocolate cake.
We have chocolate cake.
There is cake in the house, why aren't you eating cake?
chocolate cake, chocolate cake, chocolate cake.
we have chocolate cake.
STOP!
It made me feel sick yesterday, I already feel sick today, it would ("not make any difference?"). No no no, it could, and would get much worse, bad idea, bad idea, forget the stupid cake. Forget it is there.
You hear that Taffy, don't eat any of the damn cake!!!
chocolat cake, chocolate cake,...

We will probably go to my mom's later, boys are noncommittal; if we go, I will take the cake, boys will not be happy about this, but I am too weak minded not to eat more of it, and I feel unwell enough already.

by the bye,
those bits of crumb, and icing, on the thing, that the cake is on, really visually bother me, but taking more pics, would involve interacting with cake, which is something I must avoid.

echo

I couldn't fall asleep the other night, Wednesday night I think. Wasn't day dreaming (probably why I wasn't dreaming), I was thinking, randomly, jumping about from thought to thought, with whatever idea presented itself. I started thinking about my favorite line(s) in my story, that scene, and suddenly it dawned on me, that those lines, are echoed, played out, later in the story. Those lines came to me, about, hmm, 5 years ago, and I have known the general story plotline for almost 10 years, so it is a little late for me, to be realizing this. It would make sense, if I had thought up the lines, used them as foreshadowing, created them as that, knowing, the main character would be playing out the words later. But to have both there, for years now, and not see it at all. To actually be surprised when I finally do see it. On the one hand, I find this validating for the story, it seems to know itself, and what it is doing, where it is going, it makes sense, and has an inherent cohesion. On the other hand, it isn't at all validating to my abilites, skills, insights; I am not planning and creating, deciding. The story has all these circles, and patterns, built in echoes, and not only am I not creating them, but it takes me a long time to even see them, years to, even as I jump from one to the next, a while to see the symmetry even as I stand on the key pieces, looking from one to the next. It makes me feel stupid, really stupid, ur-duh-der, but it does give me faith in the story. I do become more concerned by the lack in my abilites, but I do gain faith, that this story can be greater than my abilities, it can circumvent, what I lack, and create itself, fully.

I didn't create my favorite lines in the story anyway, they floated by one spring day, I kept ignoring them, so they kept repeating themselves over and over, for several days, like a butterfly following me around, crossing in front of me, alighting on nearby flowers, as I walked about the apartment complex (we lived in at the time), though pretty, after a bit, I started to feel pestered, as the words were ever present, and didn't let my mind wander off on its own musings, so I decided to write them down, in the hopes, that they would stop floating about, and hovering around me (like netting, and sticking a pin in them I suppose). And when I wrote them down I started wondering what the words actually meant, and whether or not I believed them. And as my mind was occupied over them in that way, the lines stopped repeating themselves.

Most parts repeat, but there is one that didn't. There was a scene, added on to a sequence, that I forgot about, found it in a notebook last summer, dated from before 2000, (98 probably). I was bothered at first, didn't want to add it back in, because I had forgotten it, I felt it wasn't valid, most parts of the story repeat themselves over and over to me, I couldn't forget them if I tried. But this part, was completely forgotten. Must not be important. Only when I added it back in, in my mind, and then tried to take it out again, I realized it solved a rather serious problem I was having, explaining a transition. No point to my mentioning this, just surprised that I could forget something, that turned out to be very important.

Part of me is upset, that I am moving on so slowly, I should be done with the first draft by now, but I am spending time working on my flower beds, and planting, and I am taking notes, and my current notebook, just for this story, (rather than the hodgpodge of everything that fills my old notebooks), keeps gaining pages, I keep finding new stuff out, seeing a bit more, knowing something today, I didn't yesterday, and feeling calmer for the areas it fills. For knowing my characters, and feeling them, that much more. Summer vacation is almost here, for my son, I will have to write with him home. There is the pool, there is the shore, there is Harry Potter, there will still be the flowers, and weeding to do. I will have to make sure I keep touching on the different points, so the story keeps unfolding, I will have to think of holding the pages in my hands, still a work in progress, but all laid out in order, a story; I will think of how I will feel then, to be able to hold onto it, as a something, tangible, the soul in print. (parts of mine anyway. The parts I like best).

This is my song
written in my bones
the wind blown through my soul
rounding the jagged edged stones

this is the song of my soul
written in my bones
the wind blown through
rounding the jagged edged stones

Opening up

What I like about writing. I think I know part of it, a scene, and I'm just going in to touch on one little thing, and it opens up, expands before me, revealing things, I didn't know were there. I like that, the unfolding, and the becoming larger.

And a moment later (seconds) it is like, it was always there, the story always went that way, this was always a part of it, not something new. Not something I just thought of, and added, but the way it always was. I just hadn't taken in the whole picture, my eyes focused on only one area, just part ( I hadn't looked right there before, or hadn't looked closely or carefully enough). And suddenly having noticed this one thing, and touched on it, so it expanded, I will see more, and notice other things, and touch on them, and more will open up, unfolding, and unfolding, opening, and opening. A whole picture. revealed, complete.

Did I say like? I love when that happens.

ok, not a big deal for most people

But (I am happy about it. Finally!) earlier this week, I snapped my fingers for the first time. I mean, sure I have been doing the motion for years, but the sound just wasn't there. Now at the age of 37, my left hand can snap, and make a real "snap" sound. Right hand still can't do it. But hey, I have only been trying for 30 years, so maybe in another 30, the right hand, will be able to do it too. (A goal for my 67th birthday) You don't want to rush these things.

Yes, I can whistle.

unclear (on them, but clearly creeped)

been searching the web for info.

The caterpillars launched a counter-attack today, or so it seemed. About 100 on our deck and climbing up the sides of the house. They came, in what seemd like, never ending waves, (surely soon, they would run out; there could be no more) (How many of them did God make?). I did kill them. Didn't like doing it, but considered it necessary.
Was it?
Is it?

I think they are Eastern Tent Caterpillars. They like my cherry trees, just as the internet said ( I cut their nests out of the two cherries I have. Yesterday). Most stuff I read (tonight), says the majority of their damage is visual, and unless it is year after year, doesn't hurt the trees. The reason I started killing them was, they hang out on my rose plants, and some of my other flowering plants, and I was, I am, afraid, they will eat the leaves and flowers off of those plants. If they are just going to be in their nests, and eat some cherry leaves, but not harm my trees, then I can let them be. But if they are going to eat the leaves, and flowers, off of many plants, and I risk losing those plants, then they need to go. (there were sites that listed rose, along with trees possibly infested. All sites said, they do eat leaves and flowers. And I didn't know if they meant, only on their host trees, or wherever they find leaves, and flowers)
Which one is it?

I feel all itchy, and creeped out. It was disgusting killing them, very visual, and very violent. I mean yes, I do kill, big hairy spiders, if they are in my house, because I am extremely afraid of them (actually it is best, if I can get someone else to kill them for me). Yes I have learned to kill the J. beetles, as they are very destructive. Oh and flies, and mosquitos. But as a general rule, I don't like to kill things. Except for the J. Beetles, I never kill insects outside. And many an insect is left be in my house (they die soon enough anyway. Which is good, each little body is packed with an emotional dilemma for me)

(right now) I feel uncomfortable on several levels.
I don't want to do that again tomorrow. Instead of going for a walk, my son and I played I-spy, as in I spy a caterpillar (he would) and then I would kill it. Then we would hose their bodies off the outside of our home. He was shocked (but also somewhat entertained in his horror), as I have always tried to instill in him a respect for life. I've never let him kill an outside insect (they belong there, their territory). And we often relocate insects we find in the house, to the outdoors.
And now I go and do this, and it's like a game no less.
ugh
creepy.
Them in mass, creepy
me killing them, creepy

Can you see the baby bunny?

How about now?



Either way, I am sure you can see, that we need mulch.

can you see all three?

me watching you, watching me

yeah, you can, turned out clearer then I thought. Using video camera, and creating stills from it. No, digital camera here, as of yet.

Isn't

it nice, how I match the trash can, in my new me picture. :) I mean anyone can coordinate their outfit with their handbag and jewelry, but match the trash, now that's a gift.

by the bye,
that is my book purse, from last summer. I need a new one for this year. Bob makes fun of me whenever we go anywhere, I always take at least two books, and a notebook, "we aren't going to be gone for days, we're just going to the grocery store and the bank.". Yeah, but I know how that goes.

The face of evil

Ruthless, clear minded in my hatred. Surprised by my actions, as I think of myself, a being of gentler kind.
They must die, and die they do, by my own hand. Should I feel bad? I stop to consider it for a moment. Remembering the japanese beetles, and how I tried not to kill them last year ( visually I like them), and how they devoured the roses, leaving just shredded bits, massed a top them, fornicating. (each stem, held at its tip, not delicate blooms, but a hard ball of beetle backs.) Such a scene of gluttony. How it fueled my fury. And die they did. Smashing them with rocks at first, but it was too difficult, and time consuming, they would fly away or fall into the safety of dirt. I captured 10 in a plastic grocery bag, tied it closed, and jumped up in down on it, like a toddler in tantrum (and I was indeed having a tantrum). Finally we bought the lure bags, that you hang, they are lured into them, can't get out, and die in the sun, you tie it off when full, and throw them away. I preferred this. I didn't have to think about it. I didn't have to see them. And my pretty roses came back. So, no, there is no feeling bad, there is only defending the plants from voracious monsters.

But what about the voles? I don't want to kill them. I want them to just go away. I just nicked (about 30) morning glory seeds, and placed them in water, I shall plant them tomorrow, and the voles will eat all the seedlings before I even get to see one bloom, just like last year. I consider it a sacrficial offering, they can have this, as long as they leave my other plants alone. They make long winding trenches through the grass (both kind of cool, and rather irritating). Bob wants them to go away too, he talks of buying stuff to kill them, but he doesn't actually do it. Part of me wishes he would kill them, and just not tell me. I would wake up one day, and they would be gone, and I would just assume they found a place they liked better to live. I let the cat out one day last year (as he was watching the vole, and crying at the window), to get some good cat scent about, the vole kept darting about, the cat didn't however chase it, and when the (not too smart) vole would dart toward the cat, not realizing it was there, the cat would meow loudly (the way he always does, very chatty he is), and then the vole would go hide for a moment. Neither one seemed to grasp the whole, prey and predator thing, the way I had hoped. The cat was supposed to chase, the vole get away, but realize, this was not a good yard to live in. But each one had the attention span of about 5 seconds, so I stopped my experiment.

hurling through space

Had that horrible dream last night, being pulled out into space, (like someone being pulled out to sea, by a really strong current). I kept trying not to go, and then to fight my way back, but I was being dragged upward. I was above the tree tops, moving quickly toward starry black sky. Terrified. "No, no, no, it is my dream, and I'm not going" I said. At this point I stopped and hovered. Then swam, through thick air, back to earth (to ground). (it wasn't easy. You would think gravity, and falling, would be the big issues, but no). Whew! (safe at last). And do you know what happened? A white bed pegasus, flew down, and offered me a ride to go see my best friend. I was very apprehensive, but it isn't every day, that a bed, with a horse head at one end, and the other end at the other, and wings on both sides, comes up and offers you a ride. So I got into the bed; it went a heck of a lot faster and a lot higher then I would have liked (and then I would have thought possible for a bed, you know, not being very aerodynamic, with its bed frame, and headboard and all.) The dream went on, but it is all a weird blur now.

I am surprised that I got on. I wonder why the dream had the agenda, of getting me off the ground. I like the ground, it's good.

People who like roller-coasters, and people who like, whatever that evil contraption is called, that ball that flings people straight up into the air, would enjoy these dreams. My idea of hell.

I'd be hurling while I was hurling

not sleeping very well. Can't settle down at night, and keep waking up hour and half earlier than time alarm is set for.

Is this a standard dream, like going to work or school in the buff? I've never had that one. Going to school unprepared, getting lost on the way, arriving late, not ready for surprise test, or didn't do report that is due, now that one I have had plenty.

I have journey dreams regularly, and that makes sense, dreams usually in a car, or sometimes walking, trying to find my way to somewhere, which road to take, directions, traffic, et cetera, that seems a no brainer psychologically, pretty obvious why I have them. I don't have insight into the pulled out in to space thing. Not grounded enough? Too grounded? Need to let go? Just seems a manifestation of my fear of not being in control of a situation. Nothing to hold onto, no way to orientate oneself. Not floating, but falling, falling up, on and on forever. I mean at least if you are falling down, it will eventually stop, I mean sure, it will hurt like a _____, when you splat on the ground, but eventually you will, and the sensation will stop, that is whay I hate, the sensation of falling, going on and on forever. If it was flying or floating, if I was in control of the action, then it could be fun, to explore, but....

and there is all that darkness. I have always been afraid of the dark. The only difference, as I have gotten older is, now I am better at perceiving what light is there, within the darkness. When the lights are first turned off, I wait, knowing my eyes will adjust, and see more, where right now all I see are masses of dark, they will turn back into things that I know. So now it is only complete darkness, that I am afraid of, when no light is there at all, my own hand, can't be known by my eye.

each one

Eating blackberries
each one a surprise
filled with sour or sweetness

Eating blackberries
each one a surprise
filled with sour
or sweet

I love the sound of the wind in the trees

It goes back a thousand, spring, and summer days within, playing across time, not as specific memory, but a feeling, touching all the other times I have felt this. And I can't even say what this feeling is. But I stand still, and listen, leaning in to it.

Koji

(from 5/9/07)- writing thoughts

Usually it is Mikiyoshi who comes to me, takes my hand, and asks me to continue, like he is a song, and he wants me to sing him. He is in winter, and he doesn't want to endure it forever, he wants me to take him farther in, and through.

Today was different, it was Koji who came to me, on soft paws, and asked, "Why don't you let me go home?". It is all he wants, all he has ever wanted. He is tired of waiting, of standing in the garden (which is so close, yet also far away from where he wants to be), full of longing. It is all concentric cirlces, in the garden he is in the first one, the house is the second, in open arms that close around him is the third, and inside the heart is the fourth, the center of the center. Home. Connecting with Koji makes me sad, usually I sense him easier, like one on an adventure, but lately I feel him as unrequited, ever hopeful, ever waiting. He has decided that however it turns out he will stay (I watched him, sitting in the garden, his back to the house). If I write on, he wont be forever waiting, he will either be pulled inside the center circle, or just be, living his own life, close by, but knowing he will never dwell within, choosing to live his life in the outer circle, because it is the closest he can get. So that will be his home, though the feeling is much different than of living in someone's heart. Either way, Koji's heart does not change, it was set from the first, this is where he belongs. I feel him there, waiting to see, which way his life will be. I've known his thoughts for a long time, but now, I feel his emotions, not just know them.

So, it is he, that I will feel, to help guide me on. It seems I can make Mikiyoshi wait forever, twin to my soul. (it is a shame as the snow falls upon you, I feel bad, but I do not hurt, for I know you feel safe in not feeling). But little Koji, his sweet voice, chiming, like a little bell, carried on the wind, asking me, begging, pleading "I want to go home, please, let me go home. Take me home". (Koji, I must deliver to shelter).

watering the flowers

I love watering the flowers, the plants. I think that I don't, I don't want to, such a bother, while I am in the middle of doing something else, especially if I am inside. But once I start, I enjoy it. I love the sound of the water hitting the top leaves, then dropping down to the next, a little waterfall, as it cascades down from leaf to leaf, till the flow becomes a drop from one leaf to the next, before taking the big leap, off the last one, down to earth. The sunlight seen through the spray of water, for a moment, in midair, together. The birds chirping and singing, and calling to each other. Light layers of sound, the water, the birds, wind in chimes. Everything seems peaceful, beautiful and right while I am watering the flowers. (I should say plants for few have bloomed. My spirit waits on tip toe, eagerly, peering into the little faces, of each green bed. When will you be ready? When will you bloom? Will it be today? Tomorrow? The next day? When, when, when? Is not winter gone yet, is it not far away enough, for you to be safe, to uncurl, and unfurl yourself, open, to let the sunlight, and rain, and wind touch you? To let the bees know you, and eyes see you? When will you be ready? When will it be time? How deep into spring, and how close to summer, before our faces shall greet? For we can't see each other properly when your eyes are closed.)

P.S.

Carpenter bees- do visit flowers/pollinate.

Worms can grow a new tail if it is cut off, but not a new head (front).

the story already told

Sometimes I get so excited when I see things or hear things that remind me of my story. It feels validating that there is something in it, to it, others see these images, feel these things too. Othertimes, I feel robbed, like all I have to offer, is being given by someone else. Then, what is there in me, to bring? It surprises me that I can feel this way, this sort of jealousy, over a story that I hide from, that I procrastinate doing. Basically, over the fact, that others have done, what I leave undone. I can't justify it, but this is sometimes how I feel. It has already been told. And also, someone will tell it, not all, but swaths of it, before I do. Someone who can write, someone with talent, someone better than me.

My ideas, mine, I can't claim other things, not abilities, I have ideas, if others have the same ideas, what do I have?

What is the point? Why should I struggle with myself, with these ideas, with words, when the same idea has already been told? Why bother? (I don't feel relief in the notion of giving up the struggle. It makes me really sad). There are only so many stories (plots), and the same ones are told over and over again. (I remember learning this in school. I, of course, don't remember what they are). So, I am not to try and tell a new story, a story untold, in any way, in any parts, that is not the value of it, that isn't the purpose in telling a story. The same stories, sorts of stories, ideas, are told over and over again, through the years, poured into and out of different people, carrying different voices. Because not only do we like to hear them again and again, but we need to. And no single writer, no matter how gifted, could tell everyone, every story they need to be told. (need is a bit strong of a word here, but I'm not tracking down a different word to use. I don't feel like it). We need many voices (okay bible, just came to mind, but even that, considered of one voice in origin, had different writers, and also different ways of saying the same thing.) Because what you might not take in when being presented it one way, you may in another, and each way builds on the other, creating it (giving it more solidness of form), and pulling it deeper within you. Making it more a part.

What I have to bring is my version of the story, and I am the only one who will see it, just the way that I do, use those exact words, (imagery, scenes, characters) to bring it to life. And maybe the way that I will write it, will be the way someone needs to read it, in order to take in the meaning. (and I am sure that is true, for at the very least, if there aren't any others, that person is me). The meaning will not be new, but my way of telling it, showing it, would be.

random?

perhaps just a bit of debris floating downstream caught up in the current, one has because of being.
Or is there some sort of meaning to it?

I keep hearing. "Not waving, but drowning". Or sometimes just, "Not waving, drowning". (the opposite comes sometimes too, "Not drowning, waving", I prefer it that way). I can be washing the dishes, or digging in the yard, anything really, just going about my day, not thinking about anything that has anything to do with these words. I haven't heard the poem in about 15 years. I don't know the rest, just that one line. It has been coming to visit me for at least two weeks. A couple days go by, and then there it is again. What does it want? Am I missing something, not seeing something I need to notice? (I am in calm waters right now, thank God; I struggle a bit with myself, but I do so while playing about near the shoreline. So ). I'm not drowning. Is someone around me? Or is it just nothing, like lyrics to songs, that just come and go, an odd shuffling of papers, in my minds filing cabinet, out of sync with time.

Other lines have come, over the years, they often replay for months at a time. "First, do no harm", that visited for years, years ago, I have no idea why. For the past two years, it has been "Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments." It would just start with not...(since I don't know the phrasing). I don't know these poems or ideas well, I don't know the rest of the words. Does it mean anything that they come? Am I trying to tell myself something? Or is it just a little glitch. (my brain hamsters again)

Last night in bed, half asleep, I heard my Nana call me. Tif-fa-ny. (oh lovely I just started to cry). It was so clear, it was her voice. I didn't realize she said my name a certain way (her tone, how she broke apart the sounds). She was calling me, loud, not mad, but the way she did when trying to get my attention, something important; or if I wasn't really far away, but far enough that she had to make sure her voice would carry. It startled me, completely awake. Part of this goes back to the dream post, I didn't know that somewhere within me, I carried the exact sound of her voice, the exact phrasing. I can't recreate it now. I would like to. I would like to hear it again (If I try and try, I can almost, a hint of it, but it fades so fast). But somewhere within me, it is all held. So, why did I hear her call me? Why with that tone? I wasn't thinking about her. I was daydreaming, a bit of romantic nonsense. I have to daydream nonsense in order to fall asleep, I've always had to, as far back as I have memory, otherwise I have insomnia and stare at the walls all night long. Daydreaming, and suddenly, my name just broke across it. She died in 2000, this has never happened before. Why would I do this? How could I? I want to say "what is it, what do you want????? What are you trying to call my attention to?". I am sitting here now, asking myself this, what am I trying to tell me, am I missing something, not seeing something? Or just, more mildly, being an idiot. (and was reprimanding myself for the content of the daydream)

Is there this stream that always flows within us, an undercurrent that carries things along, and through us, a dialogue vibrating at a different frequency then the one we are actively engaged in, bits of time, of past times, moving along, mostly unseen, and unheard. So we are usually unaware of it, but then every once in a while, a little fragment (slips through and ) can be heard.
If so, does that mean anything, the bit that you just happen to hear? Is there a reason that particular piece slipped through?
(and that it slipped through when it did, in that space in time in your active life)
or is it just random?
Like bits of words, dialogue, music, you overhear coming from your neighbors houses, now that it is spring, and everyone is out and about, and has their windows open. What you hear may at times be interesting or amusing, but mostly it is just meaningless to you, and has no impact on your life.
or,
is this not about debris flow (whether it does or does not exist), but is me actively trying to tell myself something?
If so,
what?

missing pieces

I figured out how to do that first prargraph so it wont bother me, the metaphor-ish parts; I will add more details of place, bringing its tone down into setting location. More will be seen, thus the words will carry differently.

Yesterday morning while brushing my teeth, bits of story floated by. I wish I had just stopped what I was doing and written it down, but there wasn't time, Cheese would have been late for school. So I just jotted down some bits on the nearest thing I found. Later, I was annoyed at my inability to read it. scribble scribble (it is always hard for me to read my hand writing, even in my notebooks, words, ideas, get lost). I only meant to write down things, that would bring the ideas back to me when I looked at it later, but still, part was lost. The feeling of the moment did not get set down. After I dropped my son off, I sat in the parking lot, got my notes (clothing tag) out and wrote down more of it. But I longed to be able to read, a few words here and there, words that carried meaning and feeling, that cued more, words that can't be read, can't be known, can't be understood, so now carry nothing, but ink, a squiggle of color on a bit of garbage.

I wonder why I only write when I am supposed to be doing other things. I am sitting here right now, no breeze flows over me, carrying words and images. Brushing against my check, with its own, so I will turn toward it, kissing fully on the mouth. (yes, I know, that is wrong, I totally changed my imagery there. from wind, to lover. so? maybe the wind and I have a special relationship). No, I am alone. I must not be open. Though I think this is the thing that I want to do, I must actually be on my guard against it. While else would I work on it only when there isn't time, would I, only hear it then.

I do like the pieces that have come lately, they have filled some areas in, told me stuff, reassured me. That even if I don't feel I know all of it, it knows all of itself. And I do believe that if I take the time, and give it my attention, it will reveal itself to me.

I wonder if I will do that, take the time, give it my attention? I know eventually it will happen, sneak in around my other life, but I wonder if I will choose soon, to walk into that room, and sit down, and feel it all, and face it all, and not get up, not walk out, till I am done. Till we are fully a part of one another, this story and me. Today, both of us are untold, unfinished.

The treadmill calls.

Kamatanishiki

I've been in a sad mood over a tree peony. Stupid, pathetic, shake it off, already. I was in a very cheery mood, singing, and humming softly, soaking up sunshine, visiting the nurseries, searching, through petals, and scents, textures, and colors. Touching everything, especially this one soft leafed plant (not lambs ear), so much so, that if they could, they might join together and get a restraining order against me. But the poor dears, have no such option. All was good. But then, alas, the purple tree peony was gone. There were 4 or 5 of them, just last week. I have coveted this peony since last year. Too expensive, I think it was about $50, for something that only blooms for a short period. I should put my money (for) now into things that bloom longer. But then I remembered Mother's Day, true I am not my husband's mother, as he is forever telling me, when I ask him to buy me something for Mother's day, but it isn't like Cheese is going to buy me anything, and it isn't even as if, Bob will make Cheese, make me a card, so I want Bob to buy me a plant from Cheese. Last year I got wisteria (and it is really considering blooming, teasing me with the beginings of little green leaves, tucked tightly against the vine). The people at the gardening store told me, someone came in yesterday and bought them all (the purple tree peony). Paeonia. AGH!!!!! No one else has them (around here), I checked, went to 5 different places. Who would buy 4 or 5 of them? Evil landscapers. It will be near impossible to get Bob to agree to order one online.

after 3pm

I am perked up now. My mom left me a singing message on my answering machine, "hello my honey, hello my..." she promised free compost. I do enjoy driving in my car listening to the radio. Today singing along to "silly love songs". Why can't they put that on itunes? Who cares about the apple logo thing, and that is the Beatles any way. Doesn't Paul need the money for his divorce (is that a harsh thing to say?). "How can I tell, you about, my loved one" or is it love one? No matter.

May. I love May. I knew my stomach troubles were over last Friday ( I think it was), when I was walking around Wegmans, trying very hard not to sing "there was something in the air last night, the stars were bright, Fernando...They were shining there for you..." outloud. It was very hard. I did a mix of singing very softly and of humming. The inclination to sing songs while out and about, doesn't surprise me, it has always been a problem. I remember back in elementary school, coming home one day, and getting yelled out by my older brother. My offense? A friend of his (and probably other kids too) had heard me singing some comercial jingle while walking down the halls. (Oh the embarrassment of it all). I did feel bad for him, really I did (hey I remember that it happened.), I tried not to, but it was/is just so hard. And I recall that in high school, while humming my way into class, a boy said, "it is so good that you don't do drugs, you're so weird already, I couldn't even imagine." (He wasn't being mean though, just observant. His tone was wonder, with a hint of horror, and even a bit of the resignation my brother was forced to develop). In college, on a day trip to New York (art museums), I hear my best friend say "she is just like that", the other girl "all the time", BF "pretty much so". It was in reference to my singing, which I wasn't really even aware I was doing, certainly not at all loudly, very very very softly, quietly. The thing is, I have always felt invisible, I didn't really think people could see me, so it only makes sense that I didn't think they could hear me either. I came across a book several years ago, about Italy, and it said that Italians have a penchant for singing while they are walking down the street. I am part Italian, so I freely blame this, and claim my excuse. If only I had a pleasant sounding voice, I doubt I would bother with trying not to sing. (so maybe it is for the best, that I can't sing.) -oh yeah, the part that did surprise me about singing was, that I was singing that song, I mean I haven't even heard it in the past year or so. So, why was it buzzing around in my head? "there was something in the air last night, the stars were bright...."

It is kind of cool, how you can have a habit (perhaps odd) and then realize it is a family trait. Like eating all the way around a sandwhich (on a bun) before eating the center, then finding out that my mom and aunt do the same thing. I also have this habit, when I hear a phrase, that reminds me of any song that has those words in it, I start to sing it. ( I can't think of any right now, let's say someone says "how can I tell you about.." and then you would just burst in with "my loved one". or you are doing yard work and someone comes up and says "Oh, you've got mud on your face" you say "big disgrace") Then one day, I'm out with my mom and son, and she does this. I had no idea, I got this from her. I have just started hanging out more (besides just holidays) with my mom and her side of the family, so I am now tracking some quirks, and probably picking up new ones.

Strange strange dreams as of late. Last night the helicopter crash, right near me (very vivid), and then hallucinating that it was halloween. I mean in the dream I was seeing trick or treaters and pumpkins, and witches hats, and I realized it was May, and that I was hallucinating, superimposing these images that weren't there onto my actual surroundings (it freaked me out, but was also like a game). And there was that dream that I was in some mountainside home (some sort of self sufficient compound, I was visiting. why??), like near the alps or something, and I was having visions of the future, I wasn't sure of when that future was going to be, but was sure it would be (yeah I Know, clearly watching too much, Medium, Ghost Whisperer, and Heroes), I was looking out the windows (panoramic view) and I could see all these creatures, monsters, and people. (grey skies, snow) They were coming from all over (different directions), joining together (walking on the crest, of a path), mounting the summit (what the heck were they going to do when they got there?). It was in black and white, well sort of, but also like a Bev Dolittle painting (is that her name?). Then the vision was gone, I looked out the window again, and it was spring, or maybe even summer, the grass was green, there were families hiking the mountainside, flowers, a picnic type of atmosphere, kites. The thing about it though ( I can't at all describe it) is that it was visually stunning. (even though I didn't like what I was seeing, I was scared, still, I loved looking at it, taking it all in). Hundreds of creatures, walking in the snow, and creatures flying over head. Dragons, horses, men, monsters, hybrids/manbeasts/manonsters (mansters, sounds too much like hamsters), things I have never seen. The dragons, or whatever the heck they were, I could see them in such detail, and then they faded off into the distant sky. I can't draw things without looking at them, my mind doesn't work that way, it's too fuzzy. My visual recall is swiss cheese. I think I know what something looks like, but I don't. So dreams surprise me, showing me, such detail, anatomy, form, perspective. Light, how light hits things. How things move. How beautifully they flew. How can you know stuff, you don't know? How can part of you, see clearly, and retain information, and be able to conjure up perfect pictures of things you haven't even seen, clearly, with vivid detail, and another part of you, not have access to it? I try to draw the simpliest thing, that I see everyday, and realize I can't, not from memory, it isn't there. Only it is there. But where?

If I draw something over and over, sure, a short hand version of it, does make its way into my memory.

Oh it is late already, and it is seems I have spent the better part of a day feeling up foliage. I don't even know if I have enough time to plop some plants in dirt, before Bob gets home and realizes I charged a few. I only hope he eats the dinner I made, as Cheese refused to.

No, that isn't my current weight

(hence the one foot) that is the thinnest I ever weighed as an adult. It was a couple of years ago, and only for several months.

My scale did play a joke on me earlier this week though, it read 105 when I got on it, for a moment I was confused, I couldn't figure out what the numbers meant. "Does it say 125? That doesn't seem right. 115? Oh, it says 105!!" And I burst into laughter knowing my scale was playing with me. " Bad scale!". It was sad to have to get off it, and get back on and deal with the real numbers.

I miss being thin, truly thin. Knowing I was a thin person. I know that sounds petty and stupid, but I am never going to be pretty ( I keep hoping, but realistically my face will look the same tomorrow), so at least I could be thin. It actually bothers me when heavy people complain about others saying to them "it is such a shame when you have such a pretty face" because it doesn't matter what I weigh, I wont be pretty (I know the point is supposed to be, that it is a devaluing comment. But instead I think, well at least you are pretty). ( I am not proud of myself for such low thoughts, I am just admiting I have them).

I would like to go back to my ideal range, what I have weighed for most of the past 5 years. My clothes are for that size person (I am at least one size bigger than they are. I hope not two sizes). Someone else my height and weight could look fantastic and not be at all overweight, but I don't look good, and I am overweight. (maybe if some of it was in my breasts it would be different. But it so isn't). Maybe if more of it was muscle, but it is mushy gushy. I am exercising. And I haven't been having a fabulous time with food as of late, so I am frustrated. My stomach did finally reset though (from whatever it was that was wrong with it), so now I am no longer afraid of food, which I am really happy about, weight issues aside.

It was so hard to get dressed to leave the house today. Everything looks so bad on me. My clothes are for a thinner person. Muffin top, muffin top, what are they feeding you?
Bigger clothes would have to be better. Bob, for the past year, has been telling me, I look fine, "don't worry about your weight". Then I say, "Well I need bigger clothes" and he says "you aren't buying more clothes". If I liked the way I looked in sizes bigger, I would buy some, but though they aren't tight, nothing is flattering. Bob could not hide his glee, when I announced I could buy nothing, as everything looks horrible on me (best news he heard all week. That was last month).

Bob earned good husband points yesterday. I was being verbally childish, boldly saying out-loud thoughts I usually would have kept to myself (because such thoughts should be kept to oneself). A thin woman in form fitting Levi jeans was walking by. "Ugh, I am so sick of all these women who are thinner than me, all walking around eveywhere" I whined. Bob said "her? You mean her? She isn't thinner than you". I rolled my eyes "yes she is". Bob "You're nuts, do you see how big her shoulders are? She is a lot bigger than you". (I'm thinking who the heck cares about her shoulders?) "Yes, she is taller than me, but she is thinner" I say. Bob "No she isn't, her body size is all bigger, her hips, everything". (Now, I admit at this part, my ears/and spirit perked up a bit, hips bigger than mine? That would be good.) I didn't say anything else. About an hour later, Bob says to me "I can't believe you really thought that woman was smaller than you". Me "Taller, but thinner". Bob "You have no concept of spatial relationships, she is at least a size ___, probably even an___". That may be so, but she is still thinner than me, in better shape, has a flatter stomach, better tone. She may have a bigger frame, but she has tauter stuff on it. But the point is, not whether or not I am bigger than this woman, the point is that my husband insisted that I was smaller. Which wins him huge points. And he responded without insinuating in any way that only one with smallness of character would concern herself with such things. He gets major points for that too.

I know I can weigh 110, it is possible, I have done it before, but I also know what that takes, it becomes my life, exercising, and counting calories, I live by numbers, and if I eat more than 1,500 calories I am back on the treadmill. I used to jog 5 to six miles, do floor work, (I would lift weights several times a week), shower, eat, and then sometimes have to get back on the treadmill, or go roller blading, or biking. I don't want my life to be all about numbers and exercise, I want there to be time in it, for other things. I want to write, I want to paint, I want to garden, I want to play with my son. I want to read books and watch television. I want to go for walks and enjoy the view, not track the miles. I want to eat good food and enjoy it, not measure it out by the half cup, and tablespoon.

But I don't know how to do it. How to balance it out. How to be healthy physically and emotionally. How to live in a more balanced way. I can either focus my time and energy on size and like my size, or focus my time and attention elsewhere, and feel uncomfortable in my body.

I don't jog anymore, body protested, hips, knees, and the toes. The black and blue and funny shaped toes. (there was that month when I couldn't bend any of the toes on my right foot). The feet look a lot better now, the thighs? Not so much. I walked on the mill 5 1/2 miles today, but it takes so much time to walk, much longer than running.

The weather is so pleasant, I want to wear light little things, but I can't. (well I can, I can shove myself into them, and spill out and over, and feel gross).

I'm having trouble finding the time for everything, the work-out, the garden, the writing, on top of the day to day stuff. What is my priority? Should I just focus on the writing, and let the other stuff fall and land wherever? The flower beds, are saying, "now now now! Don't wait, you are always behind, always late, do us now. Pull the weeds before they get any bigger, plant the seeds, so they can begin". I feel sort of scattered, and I start and stop different things, and feel like whatever thing I am doing, I should be doing one of the others. And the house is always dirty, a never ending battle against countless insurgents. A battle that feels unwinable, as everytime I turn around, they swarm where I have just left. As I go off to other things thinking it safe, thinking it is done. But it never is, except for in that very moment, that moment while I am walking out of the room.

Soon TV time will mostly be over, I read a lot more at night in the summer. I want to promise I wont watch Anderson everynight, that is too much time. I hope I wont. I should tape it, and just watch bits and pieces. I know I waste time, but I like the feeling of expansiveness, with time, of going slow, and always having enough, I hate to rush. When I hurry, I get flustered and drop things, and forget what I am doing. While I was weeding the front flower bed, I stopped to watch a bee visit the forget-me-nots. It was huge, a carpenter, I suppose, it was just looking. And I was just watching it look. A great fuzzy body, floating about, then looping fast round the bed. Later as I dug out some darn shrub that insists on coming back no matter how many times I think I have taken it out, earth worms burst from the ground and dove toward the upturned soil. I would have thought they would feel the pounding and tearing, and retreat, but instead they seemed to move toward it (I don't think this is usually what happens. I've never seen it before). So, I stopped and watched them. I picked one up and let it wiggle around in my hand, searching. I thought of the time I chased Cheese, around the yard, with one, and how after I placed it in his hand, he tossed it wildly up into the air, screaming, and ran off behind the swingset. "Fred!" I said "What have you done to poor Fred?". And I searched in the grass until I found him and put him back in the soil "honestly, you could have hurt him. Don't you care?" I said to my boy. "No." he said darkly shaking his head, clearly thinking that if anyone was cruel in this scenario it was me.

I was weeding and doing, but I was also just being. I was thinking about how you can't grow something without killing. You try not to, you want to nurture and create, but you slice worms (unseen) as you dig, and you weed things out, and you thin your plantings, and you battle voles, and beetles. Do you kill them, or let them kill your plants? I know I will kill the beetles. But I will do it with those lovely bags they collect themselves in, and really not have to think about it, at all.

I seem to have gone off topic, but not really. I am upset with my body shape, and I am struggling to decide who I want to be, and how that person spends her time.

(it is 12:37 pm Sat. my mom called and I took the phone outside and was talking to her, and looking at my plants. Then I sat down on the warm driveway just enjoying the day, then I remembered that I left my computer on, in the middle of doing this post. So I will finish up and go back outside, the only thing is Cheese has a friend over, and they seem to be up to something, much whispering and sneaking down the hall. I wanted to go to Lowes with Bob, but Cheese acted like such an errand would kill him)

(by the bye,
I think only one of the rose plants is dead. If only I hadn't moved the new ones about so much last year, I might know which one it is. But soon enough blossoms will tell.)

Dandelions

(oh great, now I feel I should have a picture ).

It seems there are usually only two ways to look at dandelions,
through a child's eyes, when they make lovely chain necklaces, and later turn all fluffy with seed, and carry your wishes off on the wind,= with joy.
or through an adults, the bane of one's existence, bringing feelings of petulence over the yard, as one attempts to eradicate, such a prolific foe. Our neighbors tell us, you need to prevent them before they start, a preemptive strike, that is how they all do it.= a plague

Driving today (had to get my car worked on), I couldn't help but notice, dandelions have sprung up everywhere (well okay, not EVERYWHERE, not on the roadway, or sidewalks, or in the supermarkets, but in all the grassy areas). It has been a gray day, the sun would try to peek through, but the clouds wanted to cover the entire sky (greedy). And the dandelions looked so happy. Where-ever they were looked like a joyful spot, like it was happier for having the intense yellow shimmering through its greenery. It decorated so merrily, all the green fields. I found myself quite suprised, to feel mirth at seeing them.

I wonder if this feeling will extend to my own yard?
Time will tell,
but for now, I feel they are too harshly maligned.

which I guess means there is a third way to view them, as one who enjoys very much seeing them, as long as they aren't in one's own yard.

finally, I got it to work again

You would assume because I did it twice, that I knew how to do it, but hours were wasted over several days, so for months I gave up, but now, today I tried again, and here is a photo. I wonder if I will remember next time, how I did it this time?

the photo is of part of my studio. Part of my Japan research section.
( there are more books scattered about the house, the ones I am currently using)

The rabbit and boxes, are cues to help me think of the story.
Representing-
the moon bunny (which signifies Mikiyoshi's childhood),
and Botan's boxes, that Mikiyo finds.

I have read parts of all of the books, but I've only read all of a few of them.