In this post, I will bring my memory forward, from the time my Father was alive to the present. Yesterday, or Monday, 30 June 2013, was a day to be slightly ill, and sit in the sun, for the enjoyment of the light. I am slightly sunburned, now. We are not supposed to see any more sun for the rest of the week; it always rains in this valley for the Fourth of July fireworks.
4 July is a national holiday in America, and is celebrated by eating warm potato salad, and something cooked on the grill, usually burned hot dogs and hamburgers...and fireworks. While I love fireworks, I am not driving anywhere to see them this year, but will buy my own small collection of them to set off in front of the house, where my apartment is.
Please remember to bring your animals in for the fireworks, they are so easily startled. I remember closing the horses up in the barn, or they would run themselves sick from fear of the bursts of light and screaming sounds and whistles from overhead.
I am planning to 'pick up' my apartment in a little bit, after this post and a bit more rest in the dark, listening to the radio. My apartment is such an integral part of my being, and I am very influenced by my surroundings. When the apartment is tidy and clean, the dark wood gleaming, and the glass shining, I am most happy. But now laundry dots the chairs, and baskets sit awkwardly in my way. My shoes are out of place and the clothes not sorted. I can find no peace in my surroundings. There are some very few glasses to be cleaned, and the bathroom to be sorted out. I cannot feel clean this way. But I want to write at this moment, the time for motion will be in a bit.
This is the month I see the neurologist about the lumps and pain that come on my head. It's been happening since about January. Ye average CAT scan shows nothing that is tumor-like, but the neurologist will have the final word. And it could be something auto-immune. God knows PTSD works like that, something bizarre coming up every now and then: rashes, nervousness, bad dreams, flashbacks, sores...
This is a morning I feel especially close to my cats. That's not to mention the dog's rear end, which is parked up against my leg. He is perfectly apartment sized, although I wanted a Labrador Retriever or a Border Collie after Eddie's death. Max has terrier in him, corgi, and who knows what else...his behavior is very terrier-like, I am told. Ratty breathes so loud in his sleep, I can hear him, as he lays at the foot of the bed, on the bed, mind you. Of course, not on the floor. He's a cat.
I am out of canned unicorn meat. I get it from Schwann's on sale. They are reduced to dried elk at the moment, until the Schwann's truck makes a delivery in this neighborhood. One cannot get a special delivery of canned unicorn, the cost is prohibitive, as you can imagine. One must simply wait for the truck.
For some reason, I smell lemon, this morning, my most favorite of scents. Perhaps that's part of the head thingy going on, too. But if it is, it is a side effect that I enjoy.
Cleaning has started already, as I pick up on my way to the bathroom, (water closet.) I get sleepier, but the living room is a nightmare of things out of place. I must do something before I sleep again. Maybe this is a touch of mania. I can stand clutter, as long as it's organized...and I want to see the bathroom sink gleam. The third of the unicorn meat eating cats, Georgia, has her little special spot, on top of the washing machine and dryer, in the bathroom, and she gets to her spot by traipsing along the sink. There is always hair on the sink, now that she has joined the household. But I wouldn't have it any other way. She is very vocal, and gray, and peach colored, with some little white on her chin, and her chest. She is as affectionate as Loverboy, without all the greed...
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Here is Georgia:
Coffee time is over now. I can't handle but so much caffeine in the mornings, anymore. Is this a sign of aging? I have too many clothes to deal with, I really need to be more strict with myself. And I am running out of cigarettes...
My legs and arms burn from yesterday's sun. I used to turn brown overnight, but since a bout of sun poisoning, just burn, and then it fades onto white again. There are also the small, night sounds to keep me company: Ratty always snores, as does Max. Minkins eats, and I hear the crunching sounds coming from the next room. When I enter the domain of the bathroom, Georgia loudly calls and runs up for some love. She eats to please me, and so has a belly, although she is not fat. She is my little girl, and we join in some mutual adoration. She eats from china bowls, and the small fruits adorning the sides and bottoms of the bowls suits her in some way. They are simple and yet, festive, just as she is.
The sounds of cats running overhead is also a night sound. A house mate has two large cats upstairs, and the floors and walls of this house are made, as we say, of tissue paper and spit. Although from downstairs, the upstairs cats sound like a herd of elephants. My cats do not mingle with those cats, but sniff each other out from under the door leading to the upstairs.
Soon, it will be time for the never ending painting I undertook when I moved in down here. Plain, white walls sounds boring, but it's a good palate for an underground apartment. I have dark woods furniture, which stand out well against the white walls, as do the splashes of pink and teal from the upholstery. A picture of my Mother at 16 is particularly beautiful, set in a deep mahogany frame. It is a portrait and she wears a formal, light green dress, with tulle underneath to spread the skirt. She has on golden slippers and her black hair and white skin set the whole off wonderfully.
A leaping dolphin, made of ironwood in Mexico, frolics beside the television. And I will mention here that all the woods are antique, all the woods being protected now a days. I have two large pictures in the corner of the bedroom, stacked against the walls. One, a heavy picture of a still life of fruit, waits for sturdier walls to hold it. The other, a study of cats on a windowsill, with flowers, just waits for the painting to be completed in the next room to be hung, with care.
My mind roams this morning, as you already know, over the past, and what is described in "The Quiet Man" by Maureen O'Hara's character, simply as, "My things." My personal possessions that say house and home to me, from my Mother's jewelry box, to the walnut side table. From the pearls that lie in their silver box, to the white lamp shaped like a classical Roman column, that Mom and Dad got for their wedding, 50 years ago. From the dresser given to me by my grandparents, to the green of the dresser Papa gave to me, after Mama died. From the curios of cats bought by myself, to the cats brought to me from far away lands by a friend.
My sight hovers over these familiar objects to stave off the home-sickness that I feel when I think of the Old House. After all, 30 years in the Old House were as nothing to the age of some of my furniture, and I take comfort in their permanence, as many do in the shapes of their children. As I stated before, I have no children that don't have fur. Perhaps it's better that way; my life has been very tumultuous. Perhaps not, no one knows the unknown. It is simply what is.
Due to a fear, I conjecture, of my mental disabilities, and my recurring alcoholism, I have been estranged from my niece since her birth, and a dear, sweet friend told me yesterday, that it was her loss. Whether the truth or not, I do not know, but nothing sweeter could be thought. Indeed, my friends are my family, without all the twisted, dark memories that stain the kinship of my brother and I. There is an ocean of feeling between my brother and I, and the sea is dark, and stormy. Here and there, kestrels can be heard, screaming above the wind. They are gone by in a flash and disappear into the darkness of the clouds. At Christmas and Easter time (the time of our birthdays), the moon appears briefly over this ocean, and reflects the light of the sun and earth back onto the waves. Once in a while, my brother will call me out of the blue, to tell me he loves me, and then the stars appear, and the water is not so choppy.
It is time to rest and clean, both. I will tidy and then close my eyes for a bit before the sky lights up, with the hidden sun.
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