when words fail me, which is often, I paint. When words work for me and are available on time, I am surprised.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


For those of you who do not want to read sappy love letters to my son, here's my en-lightening thought for the day:
Red Drum, Red Drum
(yes, business is very slow today)

Happy Birthday Minnie Me

For nine months I carried you and spoke to you and dreamed with you.
I thought you were a girl
I thought about naming you Mercy
I promised you I'd be there for you, love you, unconditionally forever.
I dreamed about the walks we'd take, the games we'd play, the friends you'd make
On the morning you were born
I awoke feeling stranger than normal, everything was glowing
golden lights danced around the room
I was restless and took a walk, to get things moving
Unsure if this was really the day, after the false labor ten days ago.
We lived in a remote mountain town, three thousand feet up, it was the round valley
Covelo, California
Pristine, idyllic, the long road into town was lined with cattle ranches, fence posts and cows.
Chilly January morning, I walked out into the morning dew, alone, with you
I wore the only dress I owned, the same one I had worn every day for the past several months. (yes I washed it in the evenings)
Running shoes, wool socks.
I smelled the sweetness of the mountain morning, mixed with damp field grasses and anticipation.
As I walked, the cows came to the fence by the road and in muffled snorting sounds they told me it was time, I'd be OK, I was crossing the threshold of motherhood. They were the sacred gatekeepers, they blessed us.
Two and half hours after the labor kicked in, you were born, sparkling blue eyes, and sunny side up.
I held you in my arms and cried.
So perfect, so beautiful, so wise.
I stayed awake the entire night, looking at you in awe.
Never had I met such a wise and pure soul.
But I knew you for eternity and loved you the same. You would look into my eyes, so small, pleading with me to protect you. I promised, but sometimes I have failed to keep my promises. Not because I didn't want to but because I didn't know how.
On the day you were born, I learned the true meaning of love. You are my precious baby boy.
Happy twenty-third birthday. I am so proud of you.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Seen This?

I found this blog this morning on Rayne's Blog.

Plug removed due to feelings of personal insecurity for the day
, Instead I recommend you go here, Thanks to Jerri for the heads up. Patry's Blog

More Voices

As I load the clothes into the top loader
the soundtrack begins to play
The gravelly voice, syllables deep and slow to emphasize the horror and the pain.
". . . and within seconds, which seemed like hours, my arm was ripped from it's socket and torn completely from my body."

Sheezus H Christ!

That laundromat horror story, legal ad is stuck completely and permanently in my head, somebody please stop those voices in my head.

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Voices in my head

I am not really a girly girl. I never learned to wear make up, carry a purse,and any heel over 1/2 inch sends my feet into crippling spasms. I have attended many a Winter event barefoot even though I arrived wearing stylish girly shoes. It's either take them off or limp around like a newly castrated lamb. If you've ever witnessed the lamb neutering thing, you'd know what I mean.
My mom was a big make-up wearer. She had a little make up artist table with a tiny stool to sit on in front of it.The mirror had lights all around like the kind the movie stars have. On the table sat her Styrofoam head;it wore her wigs, falls, and bandeaus when my mothers wasn't wearing them. I liked to stick pins in it's face when my mom wasn't looking.
Mommy Dearest would sit and apply the fake eye lashes, the blue eye shadow, go from brunette to platinum in seconds flat and then the shower of Aqua net while we hid our faces in our tee shirts from the toxic cloud.
Glam or US!
That's the way it was. All gussied up she'd then spend the rest of her day avoiding us (three children), yelling at us,or slapping us into submission. . . Or maybe just into hating her, I don't know.
I learned to stay far away from her whenever possible.
As a teen ager, my glam routine deviated from anything related to being like her. I woke up ten minutes before having to leave the house for school. Spent three minutes in the shower. Tied my hair into a pony tail, put on my jeans and a tee shirt,grabbed my back pack (never a purse), and walked to school.
As an adult, much less concerned about my mothers influence on the Universe, I realize the wearing of make up is an art form and if applied in the right way it can be pretty. Carrying a purse is something I do now out of necessity; I still do not know how to buy one though. What makes a purse good? (Please answer this if you know).
I grew out of the backpack thing when I was nearing thirty. I remember carring my blue backpack into a bar after work one afternoon. I tried to fit in and act like the natives in suburbia. "You spending the night" a fat middle aged male patron asked.
That shifted my perspective.
I still can't wear a heel. I am not into self torture and probably never will be.
In my mid twenties, I decided to try and wear a little makeup. I bought some lipstick, some eye shadow and blush. I could not handle the strangeness of this mask all happening at once so I would wear blush one day, lipstick only the next, and maybe combine two at the same time if I actually was going somewhere.
I'm lying, I never went anywhere in those days that required makeup.
Lipstick is fun, but it rubs off on your teeth. I don't know how often you are supposed to apply it, even now.
In my forties.
It makes my lips feel funny too and sometimes I put it on and see nothing but monkey butt in the mirror.
I remember the first time I wore lipstick to my job in Colonial Williamsburg. I was a server in one of the Taverns. Although we had to wear authentic colonial costumes and were not allowed to wear hair adornments or non-period accessories, we were permitted to wear makeup.
In the locker room, I change out of my jeans and tee shirt. Take off my flip-flops and put my backpack in my locker. I put on the white shift, the wool knee socks (even in August in Virginia), the skirt, pocket, apron and mob-cap.
I walk to the mirror and apply blood passion red lipstick to my lips and go up three flights of stairs to the dinner line up. All evening servers on hand, two managers and two chefs.
Managers talk rules. Chefs talk specials. Comments anyone?
Pam, our very Southern shaped hostess and my friend, has one she'd like to share:
"Ummn Hmn, everybody look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss."
Nearly twenty years have passed from that day. Just this morning I applied a bit of colored shimmery gloss to my lips when I got into work. And in my head I hear her voice, again, "Look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss"

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Forty Miles

Last night I was in a large modern hotel. Avi (my newly relocated to cosmopolitan city, serving dinners to Tatum O Neil, youngest son)was with me, he was maybe seven years old. There was a sense of tedium, boredom and excitement all at once and it was morning. The breakfast buffet was being prepared and hundreds of people began to line up in multiple balcony levels to receive their break-fast. The food was very slow to come out. People began to get impatient.We looked to one side and saw a harried European chef storming around a kitchen followed by his Sous chef who was more like a court jester than a chef. The image made us laugh. The food was finally served, I scooted Avi along into the buffet line then went to find a plate for myself, but there were no more plates. In order to cut to the chase, I ended up walking. In search of a plate which turned into a cake circle. I came into contact with some people who were trying to help me on my epic journey (yes kidding) who informed me I had walked forty miles in search of the plate.

Forty, forty, 4-0! a damn significant number. Kabbalistically and spiritually speaking, it takes forty somethings to create something.This is the answer to the biggest mystery question of all creativity: How does something come from nowhere. No where, now here (love that). This is the Virgin birth,creation from no-thing. Jesus wandered in the desert for 40 days and nights (feel free to correct me if I have this wrong, I am a bad scholar), he received forty lashes before he was crucified. A baby is born after ten lunar cycles, 280 days or-40 weeks gestation. I think there is a Noah significance which would make sense as Noah's Arc is a water creation (waters breaking-birth) myth.It was a forty day flood, that's right. So forty is a significant spiritual journey marking, and I travel 40 miles from my seven year old son (40-7 day weeks gestation-the son)in order to get my own plate.
My own plate or the object that holds or is the foundation of the bounty, sustenance, variety that I have prodded my son to receive. I sacrifice my needs and continue on in order to see he is provided for ahead of me.
Are dreams really that boring for others to read?
My writing teacher said it was true. he might be right.
Then again, the other son was in there later and he was asking me to cosign a loan for him.
Now, that's a real nightmare if I ever had one.

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Water Buffalo

Last night I dreamed Kramer (our little puppy) was in the water and attacked by a Water Buffalo. It didn't kill him but his back leg femur was sticking out and he had a bunch of holes in him. I took him to the Vet. I don't remember the rest of it too clearly because I did not have time to record it in my journal this morning.
I don't know what it means
But now, when I tell the dream to people
I cannot stop laughing
What is so funny about a Water buffalo?

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Not Slappin the Monkey

Back to work this morning, been gone for two weeks.

I know it was a vacation and I shouldn't complain, so I won't

For the better part of the past two weeks, Tate has been spoiling me rotten

The beach house, the food, OMG the food: The crabmeat and rockfish and shrimp and the sushi, then the wine and bloody mary's

never mind

Oh the walks on the sand, barefoot in the ocean edge

The tower, the fourth floor of the enormous house on stilts with the 180 degree ocean view

I finished my novel, the same one I have been attempting to finish reading since October

Reading about Anne Boleyn in the tower; in the tower
I did have a fever the majority of the time, but it was one of those low grade things that just made me wish I felt 100 percent, and would spike up as I slept

And I slept, and I slept, and I slept

This morning, back to the old routine: Up early, coffee,make bed, laundry, dishes, dress,Bowflex,bathe, tarot reading, record the dream, animal rotation, prepare mail for mailing, practice fiddle, get to work LATE
but not too late this morning, only a minute or so...

I open the door to the 100 sq. foot shop with exposed beams in the ceiling and hardwood floors and twinkly retail jewelry and the Christmas Poinsettia Tate brought me before we went away.

"Hi Shoppy" I shout out in my best falsetto sing song voice as I walk through the door.
and then I even made fun of myself and called me PeeWee Herman
who wouldn't?