Keep On Rockin' in the Free World*

Sometimes one hits boundaries. I used to be terrible at seeing others, I suppose. I was told that I was by someone who was supposed to know. I don't think that's true, now. But have no way of knowing. That being said, my latest attempt to expand artistically hit quite a few boundaries of innocent people, who will remain nameless here, since I didn't give them that opportunity at my last, manic episode of "performance" Facebook Art.

I will not repeat names who should remain nameless. I have amends to make. I make no excuses, except asking for forgiveness ahead of time. Have mercy. I need so much more sometimes.


Today, I am calmer, and more centered. The dog Max, my little Tater, sleeps on his kennel, that's my new couch to you and me. Georgia is asleep at my head, and Rattie roams the wilds of the apartment that is so sunny.

Scarlett O'Hara once observed that tomorrow is another day, right before her story ended. But I am part of the semicolon project; I have no intention of going anywhere. Here I stand.



*Neil Young

Sandy Hook

I am the destroyer of worlds. Bhagavad Gita.

Sometimes, when I listen to NPR in the morning, it's too much, so I listen to music. I eat, dance in my living room to K92, and enjoy myself. After all that excitement, I am ready to walk Max, the dog. The light filters into the room of the apartment like new leaves in spring.

I always plant flowers where I go. If I can, and I cannot in this apt. I paint the floors a new green.

The problem with me is: I can't listen to music and write at the same time. Too much for this artist brain to handle.

And I think of all this...and what to press in the hand of the father that I love, when he is dressed, in his very best.

.................................................................................................................................................................

Scent of Smoke

stand waist deep.
the grass moves
slow over plains. my
thoughts move with
you. Always.
I turn to see you.
the fire is coming.

We should have listened.

Shema, Shema.

Rainy Tuesday

Is there anything in life better than a rainy Tuesday morning? The dogs roll at the foot of the bed. The cats have disappeared to cuddle a heater. I have baseboard heat at this home, and the cats tend to congregate in the bathroom, where the combination of heat and tile seduces.

I have a roof over my head this morning. I have heat in my apartment, and running water. I have hot water to bathe with. I have 2 dogs and 2 cats who love me. I live in an ethnically diverse neighborhood, and I love it. The man I love, loves me.

I have concluded that, at this stage of my life, I need very little except love.

Whisper of Fields: Every Day But Sunday

Whisper of Fields: Every Day But Sunday: The dogs wait on me to walk them. I have extended their hours of torture, time inside, to adjust to the time change. I did it over the cours...

Every Day But Sunday

The dogs wait on me to walk them. I have extended their hours of torture, time inside, to adjust to the time change. I did it over the course of a month, so the little darlings don't suffer too much. The cats tell me that they are unnerved in long howls from the bathroom at night. I keep the heater on in there, and they console themselves by sitting near it and singing me the long, hot yowl that all unfortunate cat companions know. The, " 'I am lost and lonely and need my pillows fluffed...' " dialogue that all felines engage in at 3 in the morning.

The sun burns off the clouds left over from the misty day, yesterday. I can always tell the weather by Max, the dog. He will not walk in the rain. But yesterday, there was a small break in the cool mist and he got hold of his harness, and down the road he went. I needed the walk.

The trees are losing their leaves, all orange and gold and yellow, and this year, red. They make a shuffling sound as we walk, and Max's nose plows through them, like an arctic ship breaking the ice.  Katie, bred as a companion dog to Chinese concubines, lowers her tiny nose to the ground and follows his lead...

The coffee is fine this morning. Katie, the black foster pug, is a year old, and has never seen a fall before. Max is training her to be a hunting dog. She would be good at agility trials, but this morning she cuddles up to my leg. She is a year old, and her black fur is sleek as silk. She is warm, and smells, faintly, of puppy breath.

Max is my service dog. We are bonded, and he knows how to make me take him for a walk. He knows how to ground me. He is not perfect on the leash. When we go out, he understands that he is "off leash" and it's playtime. He is entirely predictable. He is a good service dog. By breed, he is a mix of farm dog (Corgi) and hunter (Beagle). Max is steady and slow in the harness. Katie is a butterfly on the leash and only my hand on the lime green loop of the handle keeps her on the ground.

Some More Stars

I have moved. Not far, just across the hall to the sunny apartment. It faces south east, and the light comes in like one of Vermeer's paintings. The old, scarred wood floors are scattered with piles of things...clothes, cat beds, and pillows. A random chair faces the wall. The dogs are asleep on the bed. One at the foot, Max, and one on the pillow next to my head. Her name is Katie, and she is a black pug foster, up for adoption.

The unicorn meat eating cats slowly wind from room to room, to find and settle into the sunny spots. They love the new dog bed: memory foam with a bumper all around. The dogs will sit on it, but the cats sleep on it. My possessions are scattered everywhere.

I became badly depressed this year. The death of Barry "Wayne" Reed, the kindly Stepfather, hit me hard. I took him into my home for hospice care, after his house burned down, and then he was diagnosed with cancer. That was January. During his care, I contracted pneumonia with MRSA. That was March, and physically, I am recovering slowly.

The dogs walk me in the sunshine every day, and the cats curl up to me at night. I eat well and often. Some days I wake exhausted, sometimes not.

The man who loves me, still loves me.

Just For Today

I had nightmares last night, about the man I love, but some kitten cuddles, and a dog that increasingly wants to spend more time glued to my hip, helped get me over it. Oh, and I called my friend, Dark Star this morning. She was properly upbeat, despite a sick kitty of her own. Life does go on, doesn't it?

But I don't want to be gloomy. I am much better off alone right now, without painful complications. The morning is still beautiful when I walk the dog, Max. There are lilacs on our walk, and crepe myrtles, maples and holly. The grass is green, and my dog is young...

My Higher Power arranges my days to be pleasant, with many voices in it. And despite Facebook's flaws, I depend on it for company, sometimes.

I am going to Topsail Beach, NC in August with some friends, and I am thinking about going to Florida to visit a friend in September. Amy, you know who you are...

My therapist is on vacation this week, so I will lean on my AA group, and my animals and friends to keep me company.

Just for Today.