~
It’s imperative
when diving for pearls
to keep ones eyes open
say nothing of ones ears.
The glean is subtle,
one must be prepared to go;
deep into the salty darkness,
let tears wash away the debris
thoughtlessly tossed into the ocean womb
where my psyche is developing.
~
Moving through and toward new things. Don’t give up on my blog. I WILL RETURN. I feel the words coming, images sparking in my imagination like a match being struck in a dark room.
Winters beginning to nip at my fingers and nose. The Sun’s fire soon to be extinguished by late afternoon and the Moon will raise her quartz face to the night before the Sun sleeps. On clear evenings pinhole stars glisten like diamonds on black velvet. I’m inspired by the weight of the dark. In a few days it will settle in around me like a cool cave. A womb where Creative Intelligence inspires my work. Authoring an overwhelming urge to push forward, and wondrous Words will once again Rule.
My beloved
I hand you my heart
Nimbus cloud pregnant;
Stormy potentiality
Giving birth to a Universe
With each heavenly tear.
Electric Love
voluminous blossom
opens her face to the Sun;
swallows fire,
dares to dazzle,
has no fear.
When the rain comes
melting her pretty petals
fall: worthy remains
feed the garden of her blessed beginning.
Tammy Wynette was one of my mother’s favorites when I was a young child. She played this song many times. It opened my heart to fire of God burning in my belly every time I heard it. So, here’s to you mom.
~
Firefly seduction
Amorous light
Ushers summertime in.
~
I recently read The Hidden Messages in Water by Masaru Emoto. This is the second book of his I’ve absorbed into my heartmind. Believing water to be sentient, he and other researchers have spent over a decade studying waters ‘reaction’ to its environment. He collects water samples from all over the world and from many different environmental circumstances. The tap, a river, a puddle, a pond, public water systems, rain, etc. He freezes the water then photographs the crystals in an attempt to capture its ‘condition.’ The results were stunning in regards to water that had been treated with or exposed to chlorine and other chemicals. Also water collected from war zones and natural disaster areas. The most fascinating thing to me was what happened when he exposed water to people’s names, music, and words in an attempt to capture the waters ‘response’ to intention. They even went so far as to utter words that were normally very negative in a loving or gentle way; which helped them to discover that the water was in fact ‘responding’ to intent.
When water freezes particles link together to form a nucleus that grows into a perfect hexagonal shape; if the environment of said water is not in any conflict that is. In every case water that’d been exposed to anything negative; chemicals, bombs, [even if they fell 100 miles away], or negative emotional energy, the crystals were disfigured or didn’t form at all.
Emoto believes that water ‘copies,’ everything it ‘hears.’ If this is true, water carries that information, that wisdom or poison along in rivers, oceans, and down through the soil where trees, through capillaire action, pump it back up, forming clouds that rain all that intelligence and ignorance down again.
And what about the body and brain? The average brain is made up of 78% water. Our bodies are 90% water at birth. By middle age we are about 70%. If we are lucky enough to live to be very old we are then around 50% H2O. So if this is true, if the water in our bodies and brains is copying the intent, the emotional energy, or vibrational frequency of every thing it ‘hears,’ wouldn’t that have a tremendous effect on us water balloon buffoons?
PS: The brain is electric. Water in the brain creates the conduction that keeps everything up and running. Keeps our body and brain power grid from having any outages. So if we think of our Minds as a light bulb, and if we assume our brain powers our Mind, would that mean a disfigured water feed would cause us to not be as bright as we could be? Reduce our 200 watt potential to say 60 watts.
I wanted you to find me worthy. Knew
the night of conception that you were a son.
I waited, not patiently, for your arrival.
I did not like being pregnant. There was no glow.
My belly grew stripes, hips spread, to make room for you
my perky breasts tore through my seventeen year old skin.
Not for years after your perfect birth, would I be
able to look in a mirror without revulsion.
Two weeks before your delivery I was done with you
but I didn’t know that. I tried bumpy rides, gulped cod liver oil
determined I was, to free myself of the blossoming burden
of motherhood.
The day you were born my blood pressure spiked
your blood and my blood too much for my
parched heart to bear. They broke my water
or was it yours? Reached inside me with a hook, tore
a hole. Ready or not, here you come.
You turned sideways, perhaps, looking in another direction
you changed your mind too. They say babies know
in-utero if they are wanted. Oh how that sad truth
breaks my heart open to the joy of feeling today.
Moments before they planned to cut you from inside me
you turned back. Looked down at how far you would have
to fall to meet me and agreed. Out you swam in a river
of blood, wet and wrinkled, already an old man.
The doctor was surprised when I asked to see the cord.
My legs still strapped in stirrups, he lifted the
the purple snake vein, I touched it gently.
The warm line between your life and mine, severed
thousands of years before that day.
Scrunched eyes squinting against the light
you cried out! I could not answer you.
I knew when the nurse placed you in the cradle
of my arms that I was dead. Some time long before
you were born I died.
You were four months old the first time I really saw you.
I took a pill for pain. Something lifted. A heavy presence
stepped aside and there you were.
A bundle, cradled in my arms, I rocked
back and forth, I stared. Brown eyes wide
looked out of a face so sweet it made me cry.
Hello, I whispered, I am here.
Then the magic pill wore off. The weight
of the world returned heavier than before. I tried,
I searched and stole and sold myself, wanting desperately
to live the way I was supposed to. I stayed for you.
Never to have you again.
Six years ago my husband and I decided to act on our dream of building our own home. We mocked up various floor plans, all of which kept getting larger and larger, including stained glass windows in our hand carved mahogany front door, and terracotta tiles imported from Italy. Oh yes our dream kept getting more and more extravagant with every new sketch. Then we came to our senses and re-membered our dream. To live in a cozy cabin on a nice piece of land.
First step shopping log cabin kit manufacturers. My husband wanted to buy a forest, cut down the trees, drag them out of the woods; debark each one and use a chainsaw to cut and fit the randomly sized, shaped, logs together. Come up with some way to connect them so the house didn’t topple over, and finally chink between each one to seal it all up nice and tight. Although the idea sounded wildly western [I'm from the west originally] and kinda romantic, I nixed it straight away. We picked a plan and kit that suited our long-term goals. I agreed on just purchasing the logs and windows and doing everything else ourselves.
Then we set about finding a piece of land. We live in the country and wanted to have at least a couple of acres so we could spread out a bit. We walked several swathes of wild woods in our quest to find the perfect place to root. I had one stipulation. Well two, I wanted a stream, and if after walking the boundary lines I had a tick on me, then it wasn’t the right piece of land. Needless to say it took a while before we made it out of the puckerbrush, bug free. Finally after far too much de-ticking, my son sent us searching in an area that he thought might suit our fancy.
We got up early, climbed on our Harley’s and rode off into the sunrise to check it out. Three acres that had never been lived on. As we weaved our way back and forth across the land, checking the condition of the soil, the trees, reading our way through the understory, we stumbled upon several old trillium bursting with blossoms red as Merlot. Found three different areas bounteous with Lady Slippers just starting to lift their heads; open their voluptuous pink faces to the dappled sunlight of the wood. When all was said and done, not one tick. This was the place.
Next came a loan. Gulp. My husband was never married before he married me [twelve years ago]. At forty-three he had managed to avoid all ties that bind; including a regular job where you report all your income and things like that. I had managed to ruin my credit, mostly because I honestly had no idea there was such a thing. I was so caught up in my pay check to pay check, robbing Peter to pay part of what I owed Paul, I never thought about such things. Needless to say we were behind the eight ball. Fortunately the ‘getting banged around alot’ position, didn’t dissuade me from going after what I wanted in life so we forged ahead. As luck would have it our neighbor put us in touch with his cousin, who called a friend, who knew a guy, who set us up with very charismatic crook. We qualified for the dough by getting a no doc loan and we were off and building!
Two diesel trucks piled high with logs pulled onto ‘our land’ late that summer and my heart sank. I couldn’t imagine how we were ever gunna get it done in six months. The time alloted for our construction loan. After that the interest rate goes up exponentially. But my husband, who is a builder, and an eternal optimist assured me that he had everything under control. Did I mention that he is also fiercely, stubbornly, independent. Which means he wanted to do the whole thing himself.
Meanwhile back at the loan sharks office Mr.Fox packed everything up and disappeared. We got a call from the Texas mafia, aka, the mortgage company who was funding our construction account. He informed us in a godfather, you will find a horses head in your bed if you don’t do as I say, tone of voice, that we had four weeks to finish before all funds dried up. We were not even close to being able to pull that off. Destiny on our side the appraiser was a local guy who had it in for the Texas gang. He helped us stage a closing which allowed us to avoid having to replace our mattress. Since that time our mortgage has been passed around like a cheap hooker at a bachelor party. Once a year without fail we get a letter instructing us where we are to drop off the loot. A clever way to keep from being followed I suppose.
Recently I decided to be done with the riffraff and refinance our loan. Get a legitimate FHA approved mortgage. Leave the laundered money family. Going back to the part of the story where my husband assured me that he had it all covered. That he could get the house done in six months no problem; has been a problem. We are six years in and finally doing the detailed finish work. It has been an adventure to say the least.
At times, I have wanted to hire someone from the family that gave us the original mortgage to take my husband for a little ride. Shake him up, inspire him, but don’t break his fingers, he needs them to get the damn house done! I have to confess though, this house is built like a work of art. All the wiring run and stapled, neat, colorful threads of electricity bringing things to life. The plumbing is like a plastic sculpture. In a log house you have to be very creative as you don’t have many walls to bury things in. We have a central vacuum system and a heat recovery ventilation system. Which makes up for the dust and ash from the wood-stove that we both enjoy immensely. The counters are tiled with beautiful amazon rain-forest marble. In the master bedroom the vanity and shower are tiled with authentic river rock sliced flat. All the trim is douglas-fir stained in mahogany and the cabinets are wild-looking hickory. The logs are a natural golden pine and the whole building was built with green materials. It’s a healthy house. We tiled the hearth with slate and then inlaid hand painted ceramic leaf tiles. Each tile took over two hours to set. My husband using a tiny diamond dremel to cut the shape of each leaf into the twelve-inch slate base tiles. Everything is custom. Most of which we could never have afforded had he not been able and willing to do it himself.
Getting this new loan has been a bit more challenging than the first one. Anyone who has borrowed money legitimately knows what I am talking about. There was only one thing that had the potential to interfere with our forward movement and that was the appraisal. We are almost there but not quite. To get a FHA approved mortgage is tough these days. We worried like a guy who knows he has betrayed the kingpin. But once again luck was on our side. When the appraiser came to do an inspection he was a local guy who was also in the same process. We got the call today. Our new loan has been approved.
I am the only child of five to have brown eyes, brunette hair. Like my father. Like my father’s mother. My brothers and sisters are blonde and blue-eyed. I should clarify that they were all blonde when we were children. My younger sisters thick mane turned light brown as she got older. I was also the only girl of three who liked playing with dolls. I don’t remember being disappointed because dolls were always blond and blue-eyed. Nor do I remember asking for a doll that had brown eyes. I doubt I even considered that there was such a thing. I was awed when my mother gave me my brown-eyed brunette Madame Alexander baby doll for Christmas. An extravagant gift for our family. Although I didn’t know that at the time.
It was supposed to have come from Santa, but I knew it was a gift, a message from my mother to me. I was not an easy child to please. I didn’t pretend I was excited about or liked something I didn’t. My brothers and sisters were acutely aware of what mom wanted them to feel. They became adept at pretending they were thrilled by whatever they received. That way mom didn’t have to give it another thought. Her duty performed, she could move on. I made things much more difficult for my mom. She couldn’t tolerate what she considered my unreasonable selfish demands.
My refuge from the chaos and fighting in our home was playing house. My dolls were my children. I made sure I kept them safe and always meticulously met their needs. Feeding, changing, and rocking them to sleep. Tucking them into my dresser drawers, their cribs. I muttered reassuring promises as I scurried around my bedroom house, “I will never let anyone hurt you.”
I made my brothers and sisters knock at the door before they could enter my home. Before I let them in they had to promise to be careful and quiet while they were visiting. Which wasn’t often. They thought I was a kook. I spent hours held up alone in my room with my babies. Singing them to sleep, then cleaning and organizing ‘our’ home. To me, my dolls were as alive as I was.
I don’t remember how old I was the Christmas my brown-eyed baby was born. I was strong enough to pick up and swing a five gallon bucket half full of coal at my father’s head. It was Christmas Eve. My parents were drunk and fighting. Somehow the battle ended up outside in the driveway. Dad pounced on top of my moms back. His hand, a claw gripping the back of her scalp; he was grinding her face into sharp shards of stone that covered the driveway.
When the bucket hit the side of his face he barely flinched. Not sure what hit him he searched madly for the culprit. Springing to his feet he spun around, locking his wild eyes on me. I launched the coal bucket into the trees and took off for the house! To this day I have no idea how I managed it. I squeezed myself into the space between the wall and the hot water heater which was only about four inches wide. Stuffed into the crack like wood putty, I held my breath. He stormed through the door! The moon shining through window gave everything an eerie blue glow. He raged through the room. To look under the bed he flipped the mattress and box spring upside down. He tore the closet apart, tearing clothes from hangers, ripping the rod right out of the wall. I could hear his snorting breath. Smell beer, his musk, my fear, as he frantically searched for me. He saw me go into the my room and knew there was no way for me to escape. It was an old house and all the windows were painted shut. When he couldn’t find me he flipped on the light. Stood silent as death, listening for my breathing, he sniffed the air like a wolf. Finally, the light went out and he was gone. After he passed out my sister and I tried to squeeze ourselves into my hiding spot. No matter how much we sucked in our breath we couldn’t make our heads small enough to fit.
The next morning we all piled out of bed and headed for the tree. My parents sat mute with their coffee and cigarettes. My brothers and sisters pretended they were surprised and happy about what Santa had left under the tree. No one said anything about mom’s black and blue face. Little frowns cut into her left cheek. Dad sat slumped over his coffee. Mom bruised, indignant. Both seemed stunned. Trying to make it ok us kids erupted into neurotic yips and chatter. Christmas morning cheerleaders. Hey, did you see this? Wow! I can’t believe Santa remembered, I wanted this so much! Big sad smiles plastered on our bewildered faces.
When I peeled back the wrapping paper, saw her, my brown-eyed baby, I was stunned. I don’t know why but I looked directly at my mother. She was studying my reaction, staring at me hard, as if to say, Is that good enough for you miss prissy? And indeed it was. I was delighted! She was the most beautiful doll I’d ever seen. The front of the box a clear plastic window. Carefully posed she was wired into place. It made me smile when I looked at her chubby beautiful face. Her tiny arms reaching for me. “She has brown eyes,” I squealed!
Dad gently cut her out of the box and carefully handed her to me. “Here ya go honey.” Her dress, the most beautiful dress I ever saw, a delicate butter colored chiffon. I was dazzled by her matching silk booties and the beautiful bow that adorned her coffee-colored hair. Her wrinkled feet and hands curled like someone was tickling her and I felt loved.
It starts when I tell my sister hard truth.
Bitterly, she red button reacts, launches
an email missile and I shoot back.
Full on cyber strike aimed directly
at the heart of the matter. We are manufacturing
passion from pain. The way we learned love.
Point blank hit, she doesn’t sign; With love,
I beat her down to nothing with the truth,
elusive, when you spend life manufacturing
stories to cover the story. We launch
identities back and forth, never directly
state what we feel. They’ll get you back
by using it against you. We always turn back
to yesterday. Can’t let go for fear love
be lost in forgiveness, never given. Directly
transmitted between fragmented hearts,
intuitive as Google searching, we launch,
pursuing the perfect weapon. Manufacturing
ravenous rage. All feeling manufactured.
Nothing was authentic. We keep going back
trying to move on, we hope this fight will launch
the relationship forward. We long to be loved.
There are three sides, yours, mine, and the truth
rarely told way back then. Demands stated directly.
We learned well the art of war. How to direct
attention away from the facts, manufacture
life from experience devoid of personal truth.
We stopped dreaming of a future, back
there things are alive with fire! We believed in love
that lifted us right off our feet. Launched
us across the living room. So today we launch
love like projectile weapons. Circumvent direct
connections to soften the resolve to never love
again. This is how you manufacture
war. Stories live on in hearts always looking back
for something that feels like truth.
Love launched missiles destroy lives. Manufactured
truth assumed. No direct answers. Watch your back.
Passion is painful. Love is no match for the hard truth.
