Said a grey-haired man: "grab all you can" and now I've successfully completed the task. What now, you ask? I must save my ass. From what? Doom! Ruin! Gloom! All a matter of perspective, really. I've taken stock of my sorrow and I've a neat Badge of Participation to show for all that past hand-wringing. See? I can be a creature of nature and still build computers out of spare hearts and resuscitated parts.
You can count on me to understand the unknowable.
Darkness has fallen over a small town, and only the barn owl out for a moonlight snack can view the 360° from its perch in a Doug fir. With a half revolution of its snowy head, that old hooter sees a boy hunch his shoulders; sees a boy crouch. The boy stands up straight, then bends at the waist, twists his torso, stomps his feet. A boy holds a big stick with both fists and brings it down hard toward the ground. The forest floor writhes as the quiet night screams a name over and over and over again.
We're like feral children coming up in here. Raised by wolves. Literally. Now all this stimuli and rush of new experiences and feelings about what is really happening (which #1: WHAT is really happening? And #2: Feelings are things we can't even describe let alone understand because before we were, like, on all fours foraging for food and keeping tails tightly tucked between legs) is so foreign that we're standing here in all this light with our lips forming little puckered "O" shapes and maybe a squeak-type sound coming out of us and knowing, just "Knowing" this is a whole new world entirely than the shady boughs from whence we came.
The Man came to visit last month. You remember; he lives next to that N. Cali beach you loved to run up and down and scamper over to other dogs doing the same crazy runnin'. Well, this time The Man brought a Lady and two little Mermaid Princesses. They'd have been pleased to meet surly, curly you. I showed the grown-ups where you now sit (Lily's taken over your basket, by the way.) You are still part of the family, after all.
You know, I've caught you out of the corner of my eye recently as I folded laundry. I can pick up on your unique musty puppy fragrance from time to time. You visit, too, during these hot summer days. We sure could use your help with the rabbits and voles, though. Lily does a fine job chasing those critters around the backyard, but the two of you had the Velociraptor act down like nobody's business. And I certainly cannot forget to mention the sweet potatoes! Your Pa dehydrated a bunch and they turned into tasty chewing chips and strips. Lily likes them. Chloe and Toby? Not so much. I know you'd gnaw at 'em for a while, and then go outside to bury some bits for later.
You have always been, and always will be, My Best Naughty Girl. Though there are plenty of doggie memories to get lost in throughout the year, today is my special letter writing day to you. So happy you were a part of this incredible journey. Never far from our hearts, you are.
If someone uses the phrase "safe as houses," think twice before you accept their invitation to come around for tea. Houses are portals to places we've never been, and would do well to traverse with care. Is it hospitality or the promise of the unknown that propels us to cross the threshold as we stand on the stoop examining the door? It is power all the same. This old house is charming and a curse. A house needs good bones to support dark corners and hidden rooms. Buyers, cellars; agents of forces too great to contain. And gardens are camouflage for that which must be kept covered.
Upside down cups, a potted plant and coins rattle-rub against a paperback at the bottom of my gunny sack. How's a girl supposed to ignore omens like that? -- The Poet S.
Three Weisenheimers got a message for us:
Something can never come from nothing.
I looked for the entrance. Paths would have been left to weed and ruin had I not learned to cut things out. One step led to plans trampled. Underfoot was found the lock with no key. I had no clue that I knew this detour would lead you to me.
Contentment comes to call when the forecast promises lead in the sky and teardrop-shaped puddles. The air is heavy with excitement and a return to a true idea is expected. Greys and Greens equate calm and peace of mind. Wetness is a reminder of where creativity is hidden (ties in with that "lock with no key" concept.)
Please don't turn into the furniture and become lost to the world
8 is my favorite number and you've been sitting too long
I must believe what you believe will not destroy you, because where you're headed ...
We return to Stardust whether this gig works out or not.
Maybe this peace isn't completely soulless
To pick up a pencil and scratch on a pad
is au courant
I favor keys clacking and mispelled words
makin' music without even tryin'
I like your voice better in the Meditative Hour
each breath
A Flower
No tension
No tightrope
No walker
Over turbulent water
This journey has found its feet
Yea, for the unreasonable season be upon us, and emotions are squishy and raw. Deal with the feels if you must. But for the sake of propriety (sobriety, piety) please don't go losing your everloving mind during this Neptunian grope fest.
Dudes are getting in trouble for being dudes. The rest of us are scrambling to fill the positions from which said dudes (Tastemakers!) get ousted. What will the world look like when power is shifted? We are still humans, after all.
Can I raise my hemline and my vibration at the same time without inciting a sense of ill ease? Live & Let Live doesn't come naturally when fleshy needs scream to be soothed. Our little lizard brains will keep us chasing tail until the day we die.
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