There's a perfect sittin' rock in my river. Time and rushing water have smoothed it into a perfect chaise lounge. It scoops low in the front and comes to a perfect back-supporting rise that conforms to shoulders and heads. There's even a butt sized dip right where it needs to be. It affords the user opportunity to lie back and dangle feet in the water, or drape a lazy hand in the current, or both. About mid evening it's got just the right warmth left from the sun.
That's where I was yesterday evening, just as the sun was heading beyond the tree line. Oddly, the normally present horseflies and mosquitoes weren't around to pester. I lay there, watching dragon flies flit and hover over the water, watching the fry leap from the river to catch them, watching the trees sway in the breeze, the blue and apricot sky reflected in the river. I felt all the hurt and worry in me being soaked up by the stone, felt my tears disappear downstream, felt a solid peace with the Universe.
Languid is the word that comes to mind... the languid moments of Summer. Yes. This is what I will look back upon when I am old(er) and gray(er). This is what I will close my eyes to picture when someone makes mention of Summer. This is the dream I will remember when the chill of Winter wraps around my bones. This is the lover whose touch will be unforgotten.
I feel sorry for the too busy people in the world. I want to take those I know down to my rock and say, "Shhh. There now. This is the flavor of Summer. Slow... slow..." And I will whisper the word "languid" until I see them exhale their understanding. maggie and millie and molly and may by e.e. cummings maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and
millie befriended a stranded star
who's rays five languid fingers were;
and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and
may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea.
I'd bet that ol' e.e. knew that a river will do just as well as the sea. A river and a good sittin' rock. Stop by and see what I mean.
Give a moment or two to the angry young man,
With his foot in his mouth and his heart in his hand.
He's been stabbed in the back, he's been misunderstood,
It's a comfort to know his intentions are good.~Angry Young Man, Billy Joel
Late last night I was thinking over events of the past few months and came to a startling realization. I've yet to be angry over any of it. Disappointed, sure. Sad, without question. Frantic at times, you betchya. But angry? It's just not there. So, I tried to conjure up some anger and failed.
I went further back and realized that, although I've been a bit pissed off at times, annoyed with different things, I haven't really been angry since John died. It seems he took all my rage with him... threw it out there into the universal mix for someone else to wear (heavy coat that it is).
Does that mean I'm passive? No. Not at all. I still take the good old Hungarian Attila approach to problems (storm the castle, apologize later... if at all). I can be feisty when needed. But that ol' energy thief, real anger, seems to have gone. I can't say that I miss it. I have far better focus when I'm not consumed by that particular fire. I believe I've passed the age of consciousness and righteous rage
I found that just surviving was a noble fight.
I once believed in causes too,
I had my pointless point of view,
And life went on no matter who was wrong or right.
~Angry Young Man, Billy Joel
Amid turmoil, I'm at peace. When did that happen? How? Why? I don't know.
Listen up... this is some fantastic piano playing. Would the gods that I could play like Billy!
~Billy Joel, Angry Young Man
To steal and turn a phrase from Mr. Ali, "Float like a butterfly. Sting like a B... B for Barb, that is."
Having a plethora of bugs to choose from out here in the wild (especially at this time of year), I've been studying my li'l entomological friends. Studying and trying to learn from them. Flies pester. Mosquitoes search and destroy. Bees work hard. Ants constantly march, march, march. Butterflies though... butterflies seem to have nothing better to do than grace the day. They rise from the various berry bushes with a flutter and then land again, as if to say, "See me? I'm here." It's in that grace that they get my full attention, above and beyond all the others. They're so delicate, yet so persistent... so fragile, yet so full of life.
They leave their mark in imagery. Just now I'm looking out at a crop of rather tall dandelions in my front yard. Flitting in and among the yellow blooms are a dozen or so all white butterflies (maybe they're moths, but I'll give 'em the benefit of the doubt). Long after I've forgotten the nagging itch from the mosquito bite on my ankle, I'll have this beautiful green, yellow and white picture in my mind. I'll draw on that picture in the dead of winter when everything is covered in snow.
The lesson? Leave some kind of beauty hovering around on someone's path. Make it indelible even if it's intangible.
As I mentioned to my dear pal, Haute Bisquette the other day... don't no moss have time to grow on this Gypsy. But thanks to all for your comments and emails on yesterday's post.
Evidenced above, I've finally designed a logo that I'm happy with. It even translates well to business cards. I'm meeting with a new friend of mine today (Beth) - she and her husband own a marketing company and they're going to market my stuff. In the words of Peter Gabriel, "Big time. I'm on my way I'm makin' it. Big time. I'm gonna watch it grow, yeah!" I still need to finish designing an adequate website, etc., but that will happen soon enough.
Supposedly I'm also going to get to visit with my dogs today. Although, given Mr. Sloth's recent unreliability, I'm not holding my breath. Should said meeting happen, I will talk and he will listen. Whether or not my words make any impact I intend to have my say.
In the meantime, we had a wild storm move through here last night and today promises to be sunny and sultry. The air smells beautiful. I'm looking forward to a cool dip in the river later this afternoon. I did that a couple of times last week and let me tell ya... the water is f i n e!
I will keep my river wonderland. I will. I shall not be moved. This is where I belong. I'm channeling my ancestor Atilla for all I'm worth... storm the castle and apologize later, if at all. Machete in hand, I'll hack through the fucking briars blocking my path until my arm won't move any more.
Lesson: Never unwittingly toss a challenge at a Gypsy. We're known to rally. Really.
One of the most difficult things for me to deal with in this life is thinking I can trust someone and then finding out my trust is entirely misplaced. Still, I'm a trusting soul. It's something I've never been able to lose.
I trusted him with my home (he said he'd pay rent and utilities while I was gone), trusted him with my animals, trusted him with my life. He didn't just trample that trust. He shattered it.
My animals are gone. Midnight is dead. She was eaten. Nino and Smoke were neglected to the point that I've been told they can no longer stay here. Nothing was paid and I'm facing homelessness. Hard enough in and of itself, but to lose my little home in the woods? Unthinkable.
I'm trying to swallow the lesson in the madness and finding it fairly bitter. Am I depressed? No. Sad? Absolutely. On so many levels. And utterly horrified that all I care about was treated with such utter disregard by someone whom I thought cared, at least a little, about me. Okay. Okay then. I'm a big girl. I'm an intrepid gypsy. I'll find a way to deal with this. Moving forward is my only option. Here I go.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Okay then. The earth can resume its normal rotation. I'm back at the helm. It's been a long, strange trip since May 26th. Tell you all about it sometime. For now, rest assured that all is as well as it can be (though I'd appreciate it being a bit better than the current state of affairs). I'm fine, I'm home... at long last. I sure have missed my spot in the big woods.
I hardly know where to begin, so for now I'm going to end this post and ponder some more. Life is a tricky thing. Talking about it is trickier still... for me it is, anyway.
*fade to shot of Gypsy sitting on a warm rock, dangling her feet in the river*
There's a perfect sittin' rock in my river. Time and rushing water have smoothed it into a perfect chaise lounge. It scoops low in the front and comes to a perfect back-supporting rise that conforms to shoulders and heads. There's even a butt sized dip right where it needs to be. It affords the user opportunity to lie back and dangle feet in the water, or drape a lazy hand in the current, or both. About mid evening it's got just the right warmth left from the sun.
