Beginning again

She shaved her hair today.  It made her feel free.  She felt free of society's judgment. She felt free of her own judgment.  She felt free to be her SELF. She felt she could finally become the butterfly from out of the person that was judged to be her.  She had been burned, loved, beaten, celebrated, tossed naked to the wind.  Now she can start the metamorphosis that is her.  That is Me.  The one and only snowflake in millions of snowflakes that has the fingerprint -the soul print that belongs to her- to me,alone.

When she was young, she was free and beautiful, but then she got tied into the "nots" that society put on her.  A slave to the beauty she held.  Her own father told her he hid her pictures as "she" was not as beautiful as she  had been.    People did not recognize her.  People should not recognize her. Outwardly she was not the same person.  She was an innocent flower taken by evil and forged into something else.

She was young, naive, innocent and trusting.  She "loved" a man who was none of these things.  He did not love.  He pretended to love.  She spent 14 years being loved- hated to near death by this evil one. She was hit, she was shoved, she was thrown, she was raped, she was pepper sprayed in her bath.  Why did she stay?  She could not leave.  She did not know how.  She was stuck by and into the web he made for her.   The web that kept her hanging by one finger.   The spider was playing with her.  He acted as one who seemed so fragile and so hurt.  The butterfly tried to rescue him.  How does a butterfly rescue a spider? It does not happen.  The butterfly ends up deeper and deeper entangled.  The spider wove his magic mantra and web by  threatening the butterfly with death and worse.  Death to her family.  Death to her friends.  Death to her dreams.

She got herself free from the sticky web with remnants dangling from her wings.  She flew until she burned away the web and then found love.  A love that had been there since she was six.   A love she did not know how to reach for.   Then when he reached for her, their love  lasted ten years four months three days and eleven hours and fifteen minutes.  Oh the love- the light - the joy that helped her heal her heart.  Then he flew too close to the sun and could not come back.  She was left to begin again.  Alone.  To try to go forth and recover her naive, innocence and love.   For him.  For her love.  For the one who saved her. Forever.

WTF Over

My titles were even fucked up. It was supposed to be:
Unsticking the Blue; and
The Crazy Yellow Things We Undo.

Headache in Fuchsia.
Nightmare in Black and Tan

How about- Why I became Jello;
Or How about that Crazy Tin Hat.
Food coloring with God.
These maybe books, blogs, paintings who knows.

Edges

 October 25, 2010

A city of edges

what person names a city after a razor.  a person who likes bare things.  bare legs. bare land. bare trees. is it a good city.   good for cutting up people and throwing them away.  why am i here?  because i must like edges.  this is the edge of the world.

Weeners

Weeners

Weiner dogs are so funny.   Roxie snores and cannot sit on her butt.  Her legs are too short.   Both are sleeping by me as I contemplate the future.   Ruby is curled up on the pillow as she is the Queen Wein.  Pip the non weiner with a weiner is out in the sun room.   Trying to catch flies.  I wish he would catch this last annoying fly. Here. Now. Buzzing.  Damn fly.  GO away.  People are like that.  Buzzing. Annoying.  Idiotic.  Thank the lord there are some that are interesting. Fun. Creative.  Quiet. Loveable.  My friends.  I love my friends.  They know who they are.  Many are animals.  Many have animal totems.  Laura might have a butterfly totem. I have a dragonfly totem.  Lisa might have an angel fish totem.  We have more than one.  Those are what come to me right now.  I also have Elk, Horse and Turkey.  What does that say about me?  I have strong antlers to chase people away.  I can run like the wind and I can act totally ridiculous like a Turkey.  Have you ever seen Wild Turkeys and how they behave.  They dance around, gobble at you and steal food from the kitty.  A white one was on my porch today eating Twit's food.  Poor Twit, she should chase them away.  Cold nose on my arm says come sit with me NOW, the non-weiner begs.

Who the Fuck Cares about Brad and Angelina

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Who the fuck cares about Brad and Angelina

I had to post one more blog. I could give a shit about Brad and Angelina.  Do not people have a life.  I care about the water dripping off the snow on the roof and making beautiful noise while the sun warms my skin.   Brad and Angelina should go off to a cave with the other idiotic celebs.  Except for David Boreanaz and George Clooney and perhaps Hugh Jackman.  But I am so damn sick of Brad the lame and Angelina with the lips which could be moistened and she could stick to glass and let her hang there finally shutting everyone up about their insipid lives, making more people clueless about what is important.  Like pups and bugs and lizards and real people struggling to make it.   Please GO AWAY B and A..

Bankruptcy in 2011

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Saturdays and bankruptcy

It is a Saturday and what is going on.   Bankruptcy.  Lovely thought, lovely time.   Which chapter shall I read, which chapter shall I file? Saturdays should be reserved for love and sunshine, running in the grass; kicking back and loving life.  Not listing debts and assets.  How do you value a book.  How do you value a life?   What value is on a dead fox that your grandmother wore on her first date?   A picture of your mother at 18.  Tears and sunshine.   Life chews you up and spits out your core- do you come out as a watermelon seed or a peach pit.  Depends on the toughness of your soul.  Do you value your dogs, your horses, the one that is the baby of your best mare who finally left this world on a sunny day in July 2009.   What about the graveyard of horses you leave in the land of your home you have to leave.   Who will bless them now.   God damn creditor calling on the phone, reject the call, reject most calls now.  Cannot answer the phone or you get the fucking Indian or recorded voice, Is this __, if this is not ______do not listen to the message.  Blah fucking blah.  Never thought I would be in this position. Oh well going through the fire and coming out clean or some such shit.  I think I will go outside and lay in the sun and play with my goat Rosie.

Picking out an Urn

What a beautiful day for picking out an urn.  First the man tries to sell me a fingerprint ring and a pendant, then a vial to keep ashes of my love, around my neck.  I look at him and say what the fuck are you doing?  I want to cremate my husband, I want to pick out an urn and I want you to have respect for him.  I am not at the mall, please do not ask me about all these useless questions that seem to be necessary for the sales pitch.  Leave me alone.   I may have to strangle you.  Take me to the urns.   Downstairs.  Down a long winding staircase as if straight from Gone with the Wind.  Gorgeous.   I walk to the urns and know exactly which one.  It definitely is not the one with the flowers, or the oriental styling or the pink etching.  It is a brass and gold, strong and masculine urn.   A sturdy one.  One that will withstand the elements longer than he did.  And I will take three miniature ones.  Three so we can take part of his ashes and spread them in Jenny Lake, where he spent so much time. Plus it is illegal and that makes it much easier to think about.   

Grief

Grief comes stealing up the sidewalk beside her, tightly clutching and opening the front door with its icy fingers.  Bumping against her- making her shudder.  It comes in, takes her hand and helps her reach into the hall closet removing a soft well worn shirt from the hanger.  Rubbing the wool of the collar against her cheek, she gets a lingering scent of his skin, his beard, his love.   Clutching the shirt she lays it on the table.  She must find the perfect clothes in which to bury her love, her life.  Levi 517 jeans, new for his Christmas present.  517 any other day just a number.  Today a very special one.  She had told the clerk, she wanted to surprise him with all the 517 Levis they had in stock.  He needed new clothes- as many as the clerk could find.  Christmas.  Socks. Shirts.  All the colors of their love.   She picked up one of  six pairs of Levis.  The final pair he will ever wear.  Warm cozy socks to keep his feet warm while he lies frozen, in the basement, waiting, waiting for all the documents; all the legalities; all the formalities; and all the signatures necessary before he can be turned to ash.  Grief reaches its tendrils into her heart and clamps down as if to never let go.  Grief knocks her to her knees.  Grief is not a friend, though not a stranger either. Grief takes her breath away as if she could never breathe again, but she does.  Now she lays out the clothes perfectly folded ready for delivery to the mortuary, funeral home, or perhaps funeral parlor.   Funeral parlor sounds more like home.  He is going home, while she is standing alone with grief, her constant companion.  Grief becoming more and more familiar and more and more like its cousin, despair.

Unsuper bowl

I was watching the super bowl, but it is too depressing.   Stephen Colbert was right.  It is the Superb Owl.   I am still watching it and wondering, was I not depressed enough?  I think I will go watch the sixth season of Dexter.  Now that is light and uplifting. 

I got my hair cut today

I got my hair cut today.  I wanted to cut it off myself.  I wanted to pull it out.   Or to shave it off.  Maybe clip chunks of it out to show my grief and pain.  Instead, I sat there and had it shampooed and cut as if this life was all normal. I feel I know why ancient people cut their hair off or laid down by their loved ones in a fire to join them.  Because it was an outward showing of the pain and loss.  However, we are civilized.  Civilized is not what I feel. I feel anger, red hot rage and fire.  I want to feel the scissors cut and rip my hair.  I want to shave every hair from my head.  I want to feel the despair-- but no I sit and have her put conditioner on my head, massaging life back into my scalp.    Life. Is there life after grief?  Is there life after death?  No my death, not his death.  He has life.  He is happy and free from pain.  I have no life after death.  I have a need to peel away the skin and hair and get to my bones to get rid of the pain, the grief, the rage, the waste of feeling.  Cry enough tears to fill a cup.  Throw the cup at the wall.  Thank you for cutting my hair.  It looks so nice.

Now I can go shave it off.

God's schedule

Does God have a schedule.  Does she get up at a certain time to eat, clean house, administer to prayers?  What does God think about schedules?  Are we so caught up in schedules that we forget to schedule life and end with death.  Life must be grasped onto and lived with gusto.  Italian, Greek, Norwegian gusto.  American...wimpy gusto. Out melting pot must have boiled our life out of us.
 9 to 5.   8 to 6.  It is time to live, love and emulate our ancestors.  No diamonds, no 20,000 square foot homes.  We need love, angels in the snow, angels in the clouds.  Why so many angels if no one notices.  Earth angels.  People who come to us in times of need.  They are everywhere.  Yet the celebrities get the press.  Not gusto.  A man with a pen who writes words that fly through my mind and land there, helping me.  A man who sends love with his words and the gift to help me, a man who is more an older brother than mine.  A man who has never met me in person but who knows  me, helps me as I grieve.  That is an angel, that is life.  There is no scheduling.  Just living and loving and being real.  God loves this man.  God schedules time for laughing with this man or this woman.  God is here.  On schedule.