Giant Horned Horse Ass Faced WORM

This is a collage of my family in animal form. I am in the middle. If you know my family you know which son is on each top side and exactly who the giant horned horse ass face worm is I am jumping off from.

Everyone should laugh, everyday

From a hotel room in a galaxy far away from here, our alter ego family sends pictures. Aren't they adorable?
Wait!!! I do not know what happened to my original post but

KetchUPPP!!

Truth be told, ever since my grade school girlfriend, whom I had not seen in thirty plus years, found my blog; ever since she told me there were threads on facebook with numerous old grade school friends asking "what ever happened to Stacy Sheer" last October, I have been remiss- in writing- and blogging.
I've been working on pre reqs for grad school which meant lots of art and painting and my writing about the unfolding of my so called life has been reduced to simple one liners on facebook.
It's kind of a shame- because-
Here are some of the amazing events which I have failed to write about:
1)In April, Avi(my favorite son) came in from NYC and ran the Charlottesville Marathon- 26 miles in good stride. I cried. (There is a UTUBE video of the cville marathon if you want to see- me cry that is).
2) In May I finished the last pre-req for the art therapy master of arts art therapy program at Saint Mary of the Woods College- Indiana.
3) In May one of my paintings was hung in a juried show where for every one artist submissions accepted, 5 were not.
4) In May- I received the Chica Tenney scholarship for the arts at our local community college- which I love- so I can take one more class there this fall.
5)IN MAY- WILEY (my other favorite son) GRADUATED COLLEGE AT VCU IN RICHMOND!!!!!!!
Could there be anything else I failed to write about? seriously. . .(I cried at this too and there's a Utube of Wiley doing the walk on my utube page)

-In June I received the phone call I have been accepted to grad school,I begin the end of July.(I cry when I think about how much money this is going to cost and the thought of APA research papers and thesis writing- yeah just kidding who would cry over that)?
-I recently completed the Hospice volunteer training and am awaiting my first assignment.
-I've had drama with hair salon/barber employees which is not worth writing about, but it hurt my soul.
-I've assisted at one birth in the past year and have given up midwifing for the current epoch.
The Universe which seems to be my dream has been teaching me some kick ass lessons lately and I am opening my ears to listen.
so.. . that's enough of some of the stuff you missed.
Now, I have 2 stories to tell today and about an hour to tell them in. So
I better hurry, and don't you worry, they are- all about me.
Feels good to come back.

Man Eating Sushi; has a funny shaped head

The Man Eating Sushi has a funny shaped head (2010). Acrylic on wood, 18"x 24". $250.00

Daren Court

I know it's long, I wrote it almost 5 years ago on my birthday. I wanted to get it archived here after I realized it had never been posted. Or has it? Forgive me.
Note: this is 8200 daren Ct. The large black numbers would later be added by my father and uncle to the front gable peak facade and Doc the dwarf statue carrying a lamp and doctor's bag still stands atop the entrance concrete steps on the hill, center left.He was purchased a few years after this photo.

 

DAREN COURT

Doc stands watching over the cul de sac. His once red dwarf cap is severely faded, along with the rest of him. The lamp he holds in his right hand is broken in half, yet he continues to hold his outstretched arm in such a way to let me know, he is looking out for me. He is still here, so are the exaggerated house numbers, 8200.

On a summer day, my uncle who always arrived when there was work to be done, real work, the kind you didn't learn to do in school, was there. He painted the numbers a glossy black, while my father stood atop a tall ladder, hanging them straight. I played in the grass under a huge maple tree, front and center on the hill. The tree that is no longer there, only a rough grassy round indentation marks it's place. From my vantage point I could see everything in my world. I could see in both directions every house on the street perpendicular to our court. Being on the corner, I could also see each house on the cul de sac. The place where I watched the big kids ride bikes without training wheels and walked my baby, Karen, a piece of plasticized beauty with curly dark hair and cerulean blue eyes, in a real pram. The neighbor ladies would wait for me to push her past their driveways, and bend over to see my baby. "Wasn't I lucky, wasn't I a proud mamma. How nicely I wrapped her in that soft yellow blanket."

It is three days before my fortieth birthday. A few of my friends, upon reaching this landmark, plan trips to the islands, or have surprise parties thrown for them, where they drink shots of tequila to prove they still can. I have driven four and half hours in the oppressive summer heat to visit my childhood home. Thirty five years have passed since I have been to this place.

It's fairly early in the day, just like I remember humidity 100%, temperature hot. I am traveling with my eighteen year old son. I have brought him for courage, sanity, and purpose. He obliges me by coming along, but the significance to him is lost probably in his own experience of thirty two homes in eighteen years; a symbol for which he could never find in one place.

We have just been to visit my Grandmother (his great) who, two days ago celebrated her eighty fifth year speaking of significant. The mahjongg maiden and her friends sat four around a card table. "Crack" "Bam" "Three dot". "This is serious business, you children be quiet, we have to concentrate now." The old lady whose apartment this is, is unhappy about our visit. Her face tells all as she greets us at the door with a come in then growl. It's not really us, or maybe it is. She is hunched over her tiles with a magnifying glass in hand. We notice after a while that she has changed position around the table, switched seats with the grandma closer to the spotlight pointed at the table, she's nearly blind. The other women, my grandmother included, are bristling with impatience. If we listened really close we noticed the clicking wasn't just from the ivory tiles on the table, but from tongues, and my diva grandmas coral pink fingernails, tap, click, tap, click. To break the tension my grandmother tells me to get a little present out of the blue bag sitting on a chair. Mondel bread. Cinnamon, chocolate chips and almond paste, Jewish biscotti. Our family fights over this stuff. We eat it, kiss her on the cheek and wish her luck on her game before we head to the early childhood museum. The stakes are high; four dollars a day, three times a week, sixty years, someone else can do the math.

Mature trees stand along the driveway where there used to be none. The big trees I remember, the Pyrocantha that sent clusters of orange berries up to the roof, the Mimosa, with pink cotton candy blooms that matched my hair ribbons, are missing.

Large trees loom over the roofline from the backyard that also used to be bare. I can't bring myself to walk to the back yard, not yet. I walk three steps and steady myself by Doc's faded side. The heat or the memories that attack the inside of my head like a boiling whirlpool, make me dizzy.

'You're still here!"

"Where else would I be?"

"I remember when you were bright, beautiful and new, you could use some colorful paint"

"Yes my darling, I guess the same could be said of you."

"Good to see you Doc, I'm going in."

"Time changes us all in some ways. I'll be here when you come out."

"Okay Doc." I pat him on his pointy hat, reaching down instead of up like I used to. Already I am gulping back tears, but I can't really pin point what disturbs and saddens me more, the fact that doc is still here under the giant numbers, or the fact the he isn't gone, like the other landmarks, the trees, my neighbors, my childhood and it's friends. Different should be different, no lingering remnants of who we used to be should still stand.

I remember when we found Doc in a roadside concrete statuary during one of our weekend family excursions. My father liked to get away from his long hours at the hospital. He started his second residency the day before I was born. He would drive the green and brown station wagon to nearby getaways. State parks, the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, the beach. He wore thick black glasses on his prominent nose, and his hair was black, cut in a classic crew. He wears contact lenses now, his nose is still huge, and he's bald as a coot. He had a huge laugh. He had the kind of laugh that when he started there was a sound that made you laugh too, even when you didn't want to. He wasn't nearly as funny as he said he was. Then it turned into one of those silent, face dissolving into an open mouth, head tilted back kind of laughs. Little "auck" gasps would escape the back of his throat. One hand would have to hold his chest I guessed to keep it from exploding. "Daddy, how come she gets to sit up front and I don't?"

"Because I like her better than I like you"- Big laugh for him, even though I knew he was joking, I wouldn't laugh.

"That's not funny." I would claim.

"Yes it is, it's funny." He usually replied.

My sister Bari was less than two years older than me, but I considered her one of the big kids. Big sister, ally and arch nemesis. Mean, mean, mean. By the time I was less than five years old; I know because it happened here in this house, I also felt sorry for her. Not because she had a lazy eye, and had to wear a patch over the lens of her blue cat eye glasses. Not because my Mother cut her hair into a pixie cut which was all the rage. Of course not the hair cut, I got one too. We were lucky like that. We had the matching outfits meant for twins, same pattern, different color scheme. Looking back now it is quite possible that our Mother could not tell us apart, even though we looked completely different, even though my sister was almost a head taller than me. No, I felt sorry for her because to her our mother was mean. Meaner than she was to me or our little brother, and he was her favorite. Time didn't change their meanness, which must be one of the things that Doc didn't realize when he said time changes us. . . Oh yeah, I was talking about finding Doc. We had stopped to get some air in our lungs, a respite from my mother's cigarette smoke, hairspray, and incessant complaining about us. Those stops were the highlight of mini trips for my Mom (which in the future, luckily for us, she would excuse herself from completely). She could stop trying to pretend to like her station in life as a wife and mother and she could spend money.

    Doc didn't come home with us; he would never fit in the station wagon with the five of us. He must have been delivered. I realized he would be joining us the same way I learned of most events in our family, through my mother's never ending telephone conversations with her friends.

"He's adorable . . . long white beard . . . dwarfs cap… has a black doctor's bag (one just like my father's). Oh yes . . . a lantern in his hand. . . set him by the steps on the walkway. I know, he's absolutely perfect . . . can't wait for you to see him. . ."

Endless.

I walk a few more feet to the front stoop. Standing before the front door of the late fifties brick ranch home, my ears began to ring. "P.F flyers, P.F. flyers . . ." A continuous loop being chanted by the group of big girls standing outside. They are led by my sister. I loved my new red sneakers yesterday, now I hate them. I stand looking down at my shoes, tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat. I hate them as much as I hate the girls on the other side of the front door, out on the stoop, mocking me. Why does she lead them in this chorus, why is she so mean? I didn't get it then. I still can't figure out what was so mockable about my P.F.flyers, but the front door is different. Different now from the pane over pane glass I stood behind then, it's heavier and covered with ornate golden colored metalwork. I ring the doorbell. A middle aged dark skinned woman in traditional African dress and headscarf appears where I once stood, while the mean girls mocked me. Where I stood every morning looking out to see if anyone had answered my prayers and left a baby in a basket for me.

I spoke fast, a tap dance on my head. "Hi, my name is. . . I am sorry to interrupt you. . lived in this house for the first five years of my life. . . I know it's an assisted living home now, a business, my sister told me. . . many years since I've seen. . ., my fortieth , yes driven four hours, could I possibly see inside?"

She hesitated, then, "Okay".

I was inside

An aging black man sat on sofa, in the living room where our black and white heavy brocade sofa used to sit. The material matched the long drapes which hung from the front window. Gone is our sofa, the drapes and the crimson red carpet. White walls, curtains and thin Oak floors have taken their place. Tan couch, brown aging man, staring at the blank white wall across from him. His gaze misses the large television screen by several yards. A few feet to his left is the dining room. Two geriatric women sit in wheelchairs. I am directed to explain myself to them by the African lady who seems to be in charge.

"Hi. This was my house when I was a little girl. Ms. Marie has allowed me to come inside; I just wanted to see it again." I told the two women who look at me as if I were a three headed alien from Mars.

They look at each other, then shift their steady stares past me.
"What? one old lady said to the other. I didn't hear a word she said".
"Me neither" said the other one shaking her head.
I shrug and walk back towards Ms. Marie.

The foyer I stand on in awe is covered in white linoleum. It follows around an impossibly short empty walkway, around a corner, to our bedrooms.

I am walking over real slate, gray-blue tiles, past the heavy wooden credenza draped in ivy. It is taller than me. I pause at the corner. There's a small empty nook, where a concrete cherub statue used to stand on a sea-shell bowl refusing to pump water from a stone decanter. I would stir the tiny dry multi-colored pebbles at his feet with my hands. The bowl was level with my chest. I realize it must have stood somewhere below where my knees are now. The kitchen stands door-less, before us. We skip the kitchen and round the corner toward the bedrooms. Standing at the end of the hallway, the doors to each of the three bedrooms are all within arms reach, one in front, and one on each side. Actually the real doors have been removed from the hinges and have been replaced by see through louver doors, the kind you hang on closets. They are hanging at odd angles giving the entire space the feeling of Van Gogh's "Room at Arles". My little brother's room, the first I peek in, is smaller than some closets I've seen. There is a single bed, a dresser, night stand, and a table lamp. Pale, cheap hotel chic. The walls again are white. The house is completely void of color and carpet, yet when I cross the threshold, I see orange- brown carpet, mustard cream colored walls, his crib, his changing table. Then I see his single bed, the one we found his half eaten dog biscuits under. The bed he would cry himself to sleep in, "It's not fair! I don't wanna go to bed! I want a dwink o wawor!" We would laugh for a while, my sister and I trying to sleep in the next room, then we'd get tired of his screaming, and we'd yell at him to go to sleep too. In the morning I would crawl into bed next to my brother, somehow being my mother's favorite made everything around him feel safe and comforting. Brian's room: (definition) a safe zone suspended between the bedrooms of mother and daughters.

One step to the right and I was in my parents bedroom. A portal through time and space back to the days where my parents acknowledged they were married to each other. A place where they shared the same bed, where they had children, a house, a station wagon and an aging French Poodle named Pierre. Once again, vivid colors were replaced by white walls and pale fabrics. I am making small talk with my tour guide, I have drifted so far away in my memories, it is difficult to speak. She yanks me back to the present with one statement. "It used to be green carpet here."

Now it's Oak, like the other rooms.

"Yes, but, how do you know?"

She points to the floor underneath the hinge pin of the closet door. A tiny piece of emerald green carpet is holding tight. It begins to spread out and the room grows back to its original grandeur. A sea of regal green rushes out and sweeps away from the wall length closet. The closet is full of fine clothes and shoes. Shoes that sparkle when you hold them in the sun beams pouring through the window over the bed. The bed was the biggest I had ever seen, with a fat green coverlet, and paisley sheets. There was a long cardboard tube that held pillows in perfect form across the padded headboard during the daytime. On the other side of the green ocean, way across the room: two golden velvet bucket chairs, a round wooden table, and a television set. I would curl up in those swivel chairs, watching my favorites: Green Acres, A Family Affair and The Partridge Family. In the evening after dinner (Dinner: another intangible memory for my family) I would watch Laugh In. Scantily clad, blond airheads with painted on psychedelic tattoos, huge breasts, go-go boots, laughing and dancing; I couldn't wait to grow up and be just like them.

Across from the sitting area, my mother's make up table. Tiny parlor chair, enormous light bulb framed mirror. Hair pieces, wigs and falls, sat on styrofoam heads. Light blue eye shadow, Dippity Do, Aqua-Net, "Okay ready, hold your breath. Hsssssst."

I opened the door to my first bed room. The once princess pink walls were covered in peeling, off white textured wall paper. The frame of the window, above our white lace covered trundle bed, hung across the panes loosing a battle with gravity. A little girl with a pixie haircut stood on the bed, swollen red welts on her thigh, sobbing. She'd stare out the window through puffy red eyes, at the grassy hill behind the fence. The fence that's now rusted and bent. She imagines she's leaving, for good this time. She's never coming back.

Father and Daughter Act to die for

Snow Angels and Goddesses, and Spontaneous Sculpture

We've had a bit of snow. more than 20 inches actually. I know it is a common occurrence for you northerners, but not us. I don't even own a pair of snow boots.

 

Tate is not the goddess I speak of, I made her out of snow (she's up there). 

Tate made a snow angel, he was naked as a jaybird when he made it, maybe a little tipsy as well. 

 

Neither of us had anything to do with the rock sculpture sporting a penis, hanging mighty low though- mighty low. The muses entertain, no?

Praying Mantis Boy at the Beach

I know he may be furious with me about the title but I could not help myself. This acrylic on canvas painting of my most skinny adorable son at the beach is 16"x20"on canvas. NFS

Lottery Gods

The voice came to me as Tate brought me my coffee in bed. It wasn't my birthday or anything he just knows bringing me coffee is the only way to get me to wake up. I am known to sleep through house fires.
As I rose to wakefulness a dream announcer in an authoritarian male voice said "If you were born on July second, today is your day to win the Lottery."
I was born that day!
I told Tate.
"Good, I'm getting tired" he said.
Later that afternoon I drove into town to get the air conditioning fixed in my car. It had not been working for two of the hottest weeks of the Summer. While the mechanics examined my fairly new vehicle I walked to the store to purchase the winning lottery ticket.
At the check out I checked my numbers for the 150 million dollar powerball which played two days before.
I hit it! The powerball, yes number 43 was the winning powerball number and I had chosen it on the correct day. I also hit one other number out of the 5 in the sequence. I won
Three dollars.
Funny Lottery Gods, funny dream announcer.
Oh, the air conditioner in the car, they fixed it. The nice mechanic showed me where the ON button was. "Ms. Sheer,the air conditioner runs nice and cold, ...After you turn it on"
Who knew?

Birthday Calls

It's my 44th birthday, Tate and me are driving seven hours to Pennsylvania for his family reunion. Usually our road trips begin before the crack of dawn but not this one. Tate had a quick business meeting early and we were in the neighborhood of the baby whose birth I recently attended so we stopped in to (wake them up) say hello, and. After a few hours on the road Tate's phone rings. “Don't answer if you don't know who it is” he orders. I look.
Ring- ring- Oh, its Wiley I realize out loud.
Hey Mongo- happy birthday he says, I bet I am the first to call.
Right you are , you always were my favorite son I assure him.
I know , I am sure Avi will call, he's probably still asleep.
I agree with him and we chat a bit and love you too. . . bye.
Further up the road nearly an hour passes and now my phone is ringing. Hi Avi.
Happy birthday he sing songs in a falsetto voice. I'm the first to call aren't I ?
Actually no,your brother already called me.
What? Wiley? Uggh, mom I thought of it first I just woke up and besides I took the day off from work in commemoration of your birthday.
Wow, really? You must love me more. You always were my favorite son.
I know.


At least they remembered the day, after all they are males. Speaking of males and birthdays and remembering dates and other oxymorons of the sort, I realized T had no idea today is my birthday somewhere into our first few hours of our day. I told myself I was not going to enlighten him. I would wait until his baby sister mentions my birthday (she-always remembers) in front of him later tonight when we get to the reunion. Its kind of like keeping a secret which although I can , it is hard for me. Really hard.
I make this inner promise to myself as he is putting gas in the truck and I am sitting in the cab waiting. Boredom strikes and a bit of early morning carsickness I decide to take a quick look inside the store for something to eat or drink.
We are back on our way out of town and only 30 minutes from my secret when I catch a glimpse of some odd object in the console drink holders.
Hey, I say- where'd he come from?
A solitary kneeling plastic green army man, one hand on his telephone which is attached to the field pack on his back and the other hand is missing. His handless arm is outstretched in front of him as he makes a call on his field phone.
I hold him up, coveting.
You can't have it, Tate shouts, it's for your happy birthday. I found it while I was working on so and sos farm last week.
-Today IS MY Happy Birthday! I blurt out.
It is?
Yyeah.
OK, I guess you can have him then.
Thank you, he's my favorite. You notice he is on the phone?
Yes.
Did you notice he lost his hand in the battle?
Yes, that too.
Know what he's saying?
Tell me.
He says- “Hey Mac, I need a hand here, Now!”
Yeah, we're funny I know. I am noticing a theme here that some of you may not have even considered, it's the green birthday present theme. Last year you see T gave me a 13 pound cabbage for my birthday. It's what I wanted, a cabbage anyway, and yes, I reminded him my birthday was coming up for a week in order to help him be prepared. I guess that proves it, some men do not have trouble remembering birthdays and special dates after all. I sure am blessed.

It Worked; sort of

I spent way too much time trying to post the video clip of my blooming irises.Cut and paste and it works, sigh- I am so technologically challenged.
The Antique Road Show is on and it is still cool and raining outside. Gotta go- maybe I will write on the plane next weekend. I am graduating college this weekend, gonna be a riot.Love- just that.

My Muse

I'd never lie to you, never.

Share

For Christmas, Tate gave me a special picture... of his pole.
What? I have everything I need and I didn't want him to spend any money- you know, times are hard (guffaw!)
I really enjoy it,
it's my favorite
picture ever.
If you were here, I'd give you a chocolate kiss or something sweet, a hug, a merry, merry to you- but you're not even close
So, I will share my special glimpse of Tate's spectacular pole with you,
just this one time
Happy holy days my friends, with all my heart and Tate's pole!





Tate's Pole

Gray Days call for This; Part II

Avalanche of too funny
A visit to geniusMr. Tom's blog brought this fabulous piece of performance art to my attention; Mr. Tom rocks too. Thanks Mr. Tom.

Post script: my sons tell me this is way old news and mock me for being so out of synch- whatever, its funny!

Shoes, Ships and Sealing Wax

Although I often create posts and poetry in my head, I rarely seem to have time to get these ramblings out of my head. I am currently less than 20 credits away from my B.S. Psychology degree and have been working towards this degree for more than 20 years. I left high school at the age of 16 and went to college out of state. Leaving was simply my choice of escape route, escape from my family which was re-creating poor Usher's nightmare. Yes, even the house- once grand was Falling!
After one year of college I entered the school of hard knocks and then dedicated the next 20 plus years to surviving and raising my two little boys- by myself.
(Do I hear violins playin somewhere?)
Online college classes are accelerated; every 5 weeks a new course begins and ends. Textbook, writing, tests, discussions, and 15 pages of academic research papers. One course ends on Monday, next one begins on Tuesday, little time for writing out of a creative urge within.
When I was in the first grade I was a bit of a loner. Although I attended preschool for 3 years (my mother's way of getting rid of me for the day), I felt absolutely clueless as to what to do in this school place. I did not know anyone in my class, my teacher was mean. I didn't know how to count by fives and had NO IDEA how to get lunch when the time came.
In the morning the teacher would take a tally, who was having the "hot lunch", a hamburger, a hot dog.
What's a hot lunch?
She would ask the question and I would begin to break out into a sweat- all out panic actually.
I would wait for my classmates to respond and when I saw other kids raise their hands in response to the teacher's order request, I would raise my hand too.
Stacy- you can't order more than one lunch! My teacher would shout. The kids giggled and I squirmed and said NOTHING.
(I don't even like hot dogs)
Somehow she would make a notation about which lunch I would have and somehow again, I ended up in the cafeteria with some meal waiting for me.
I usually had to get a ticket for my lunch and who knows where the money came from to pay for it. (My family surely could afford to pay for my lunch at the time, it was simply my mother's failure to give a darn about whether or not I was cared for while out of her blessed sight.)
Sitting at the long table, old overcooked broccoli smells and greasy fish sticks. The muffled sounds of kids laughing and talking while the industrial fans roared and wheels squeaked and hairnet ladies shouted- keep moving! and hamburger or hot dog!
Confusing.
I usually sat alone until one day a new boy came along, I think his name was Manuel. He was an outsider in our suburban mostly white neighborhood too.
Manuel was my friend; he taught me to tie my shoes.
Manuel giggled alot and made me laugh too. When I first asked his name he told me it was Mickey Mouse. Oh boy was that funny- really funny and we giggled forever over that.
Mickey always drank his milk, the kind that comes in the small wax paper box, with a straw.
One day I asked him- How come you always drink your milk with a straw?
-Because, he said- my father told me to because he says the ceiling wax gets in the milk from the opening and it can make me sick.See, its brown there.
Oh, this sounds very serious. I look up at the ceiling to ponder. Industrial-I beams painted white and fluorescent light fixtures, a little rust and water marks, and I wonder how did that ceiling wax, way up there, get into the milk cartons? HOW?
Throughout my entire school career, through high school and even into the years of my own son's schooling,Even Now, the sight of a small milk or juice carton sends me into the realm of questioning- what is ceiling wax and why did my first grade friend's father warn him of the dangers of it?
I have heard of many food scares in my lifetime, the lye on pretzels, the worms in McDonald's burgers, spider eggs in bubblegum, but never did the ceiling wax scandal make headlines that I recall.
Last week while conducting research for yet another term paper, I came across this title in the online collegiate resource library;
"Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax: The faulty and specious assumptions of sexual reorientation therapies"
And the light bulb finally came on-

Don't Leave Me!

Yes, things or times have been beyond distressing lately.
The Dominican Horror Show
The parasites
The allergic reaction to the herbal remedy- too horrific to discuss
Mr. Monk- the Rhodesian Ridgeback- who had just seemed to be adjusting to his life as a dog- not a suburbanite toddler- DISAPPEARED
I suspect Billy Bob- the alpha mutt- a Hansel and Gretel type of walk into the woods- sans bread crumbs.
Mentally unstable(worse than me I swear) women- 2 days in a row- acting very badly in my shop
Which has been quite slow in August
and I have not been here enough, I know
The drought, the DROUGHT!
Trees dying- shrubs- struggle- brown grass where it should still be green
I let my flowers go, long ago, the smell of dead things.
School papers due, dishes, laundry, vacuum, dishes, laundry, vacuum
Books- bills, books, bills- Pay
And THEN:
T comes home from another arduous, drought stinkin hot day, exhausted
I am writing a paper and not paying attention to the fact that he hasn't had a bite to eat all day and has tipped the Vodka bottle too heavily
and then- he bottoms out
He says he is ready to leave. . . and he isn't talking about a vacation
or walking away either
he means- this lifetime
he's tired, and he's had enough-
(he's drunk and exhausted)
I humor him and get him to bed-
Sure, I say, let's go- pick a place.
I can hang a world map- we can throw darts at it, destination here we come
He sleeps
Next day- yesterday-
Paper finished, bookwork done, vacuumed, dished, laundried, RAIN IN THE FORECAST!!!!
Paint- smile- rain falls- relax
yes I paint like a talented fourth grader- I know- but it makes me happy
Happy Yes.

I CAN Fly

A few nights ago. . .
I am sitting at a table with my oldest son, at the age of 16 maybe, before me. I take out a pen and sketch pad and begin to draw a figure of the bad guy. One eye this way, the other upside down strokes. Son is impatient. I tell him I must draw this picture to rid ourselves of him once and forever; be patient.
In the morning I awake and record the image. I then pull a tiny sketch pad from the bath side table, and a fine point Sharpie. I draw him in the same fashion as the dream instructed. Then I begin to aim projectiles at his face, and sketch his Lilly liver, and shrunken head and tears, because he is a very sad and wounded soul, and yes, I hate him. I am tired of him entering my psyche and tormenting me in my nightmares.
But this time it was different. I was in charge, I was creating the drama, not fighting or running or surviving his madness, I was exorcising him, the demon that he is.
After the bath, I doused the little sketch in alcohol and watched his face swell and bloat, and struck a match.... and said a few choice words. . .

Last night, in order to get to my love (who in the physical world sleeps next to me)
I fly
Above fields and people and buildings and hills
I wave my arms as if swimming the breast stroke.
I am in an upright position and I lift up high into the air
free
saying to myself out loud
I can fly.

Sounds of Now

We have a new dog, he's a rescue.
We have named him Polio, short for Napolean Dynamite. Polio is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, 90 pounds of solid muscle. He was a suburbanite purgatory rescue and he is currently 5 years old. He's used to being on a lead and being locked indoors during the day. A Rhodesian Ridgeback is bred to hunt Lions! The real kind. A regal beast with teeth 2 inches long, he's ferocious looking. But he's an enormous spoiled suburbanite wimp. We brought him here to save him from the county dogwatchers. They threatened to have him put to death for escaping from his chain and chasing the neighbor's un-neutered male dog.

Free, seven acres on a hilltop, surrounded by thousands of acres of woods. No neighbors, neigbor dogs or cats, plain frredom.
Polio cries all day on the doorstep
"I want to come inside! Pleeease! it's hot out here (he's an African breed mind you)
There's big trees out here, and bugs, I want to go to PetSmart -puppy playtime you know, with carpet and toys. . . whaaaa"

Enough, my head can take no more
Still recovering from my concussion. My hematoma somehow became infected. I had to take antibiotics and missed the family reunion. I just got out of bed to work on the books and write my term paper due tonight by midnight.
Shut up Polio, and I mean that in the nicest way.

The shoes should come with a warning

If a girl has a painful back issue and she works on her feet many hours without a break during a day, she might wear MBT -zero balance shoes. They help her enormously during the work day. These shoes cost as much as an ounce of gold during a high phase. They come with a DVD, an instructional DVD. Although I know how to put them on and how to walk, I watched the DVD anyway. There was no warning, no disclaimer, but I wish there had been.
The warning might say: If you are going to drink 2 Bloody Mary's and one glass of Pinot (ok, maybe 2)after a long, very long, stressful week; REMOVE YOUR MBT's before imbibing!"
The simple disclosure may have saved me from the unfortunate headlong dive into the far edge of the cast iron bath tub. The resulting hematoma on my skull and the Gumby like shape of my head the following morning. Did I mention the sensation of a fly buzzing on the opposite side of my head? There is nothing there. And no, no one pushed me, no one in a body that is.
I am back, missed you all, going to see what you've been up to. . .
If my unevenly dilated pupils will allow.
Sheeze it really hurts!

Change

The toothbrush swap was the first clue, the failure to add a comma and a zero to the total for my Tate's company customer invoice (still waiting to recover, he hasnt received a paycheck in weeks thanks to me)was the second. Toothbrush trick you say? It's when you go to brush your teeth in the morning and you reach for the toothbrush in your tooth brush holder and you look at it and say out loud- This is not my toothbrush! My tooth brush is a different toothbrush altogether, I think. What color is my toothbrush? And you get really nervous because you have no idea, even though you used that toothbrush everyday for the past few weeks, maybe months, what your toothbrush looks like. But you have to brush your teeth because you have to go to work and you can't stand the glue and dust bunny flavor in your mouth so- even though you might begin to gag at the thought of where this toothbrush might have been before sneaking into your toothbrush holder-You use it anyway.
That's a big clue right there that it is time for a change.
Change of place, mind, wardrobe, empty closets toss out clutter, simplify and slow down.
The Empress runs naked through the garden, laughing at Adam's apple. What a joke.
She feigns fearlessness, laughing at the sound of lightning crashing through the far side of the moon
It's all fun and games until she sees the snakes
Slithering on door jambs
rising up bare walls every surface lined with Set, and his friends
They have a message, will she listen or is it true
She's just crazy in her head? So he says.

Maybe a little. It was just getting too crowded in there. Dump the head, clean the clutter, revamp your Blog and go for a walk.