Another Blog from Home Alone

A song is playing that I have always loved: “Walking In The Air.” I used to hear this on WXPN, the University of Pennsylvania Radio in Philadelphia. It was my late-late night listening & rare, therefore. A syndicated show called “ECHOES,” a stream of just-ahead-of-the-curve music. This song is a classic now, but then it was fresh with all the qualities that evolved the genre.

I feel really good – at balance somehow. It is amazing to keep up with everything in real-time. Spritz the plants, keep dishes done, walk outside, keep food carefully prepared & appreciatively consumed. This is what I think is Mindfulness. I feel more aware of EVERYTHING & am surprised to see the same scenery when I look out the windows. That’s how powerful the feeling of moving forward is for me.

Feels like so much change is gathering speed just behind me …

 If I were fanciful, I’d say the dragons were awakening.

So I noticed this morning that I have replaced scarves all around since redoing the rooms & I now have about 4 inverted pyramids, kind of one in each room. I looked up from my breakfast taco (eggs, cheese, pesto, tortilla) at the whiteboard & realized it needs a star above it -a pentagram. So these shapes are taking place in the house are stargates opening in Sacred Geometry. (I think I’ll make a star on the computer & color it. And tape it up like I’m five years old. Making stuff for Future Self is fun!)

I am still impacted to walk around the house & note all that has changed. I am restless to change up the kitchen – get another table w/chairs & barter this bistro & the huge stools off. As soon as all hell gets fastened up again, I’ll find a way. Stuff’s easier to acquire these days with faster manifestation all the time.

I signed onto Netflix in these days of library privation. I watched a couple of period pieces for several shows before realizing the more complicated the clothes, the  simpler the plot. But I did summon up “Groundhog Day” just to watch this inadvertent masterpiece at this time in my history.

The clock’s the only thing making time around here. I am becoming mindful: I style my hair with appreciation, make up a bit of color on my face, I moisturize & don my clothes carefully, matching up & very comfortable to wear. I put on great walk-shoes. I come downstairs to wash the dishes & pick up the computer. What or whom am I readying myself for? I am seeing each of my rooms as a kind of diorama. I have rearranged the living room by putting the couch under the window. What fabulous reading light & how it has totally opened up the room!

I waited a couple of days to see what else might happen, & then rearranged the bedroom, also putting the bed under the window, opening up the room. I have lived here three years last January & am just now finding how to put together my apartment. The kitchen is next, but that waits for supply to accommodate my demand.

Patterns appear more; stripes change; plants shift & get comfortable; I am actually surprised the views are still the same from the windows all around!

The outside wind scours, preparing the land for spring. The clouds insist on puff status, so we here on the ground realize this is not all ours, but we’re at the tail spot of the universe’s Crack the Whip.

And we bought the tickets a long time ago. Never forget these were the Terms & Conditions of the ride back then.

Actually, since the lifetimes were tied off from each other like breakfast sausages, I won’t say I remember much. Some stuff just doesn’t stick to me & I can still be surprised by what does. Music does.

[Now playing Cristofori’s Dream, to which I wrote a poem once & which, months later someone said when I read that poem: “That sounds just like a song I know.”]

I keep having to learn the anticipation is usually far worse than the application.

I feel like the whole world is holding onto itself – but something’s changing about the grip.

Times of Change are rarely peaceful when humans are involved; yet we keep trying it on, checking to see how it fits. For the better part, humans have leaned into the wind of violence & had it surge around them. For the most part, people genuinely want the best for their neighbors on Earth. I can see where over the years the changes have taken less time to occur & lasted longer each time. This one will make it to the Finish Line – will breathe yet on the other side of that yellow ribbon set to break at our breath.

Let us onward & awa`

If we’ve wished others the wind at their backs, this is the wind to get started on for all of us. Come on, Eternity! What are you waiting around for on the sidelines?

We’re rolling out your parade, flags, batons, big horns & all. We’re warming up right here to either side of you, &

if you don’t show, we get to go ourselves.

We know the way back. It’s boring. Even though all the futures might look alike, there’s one just for me & mine, for me to bring forward all those characteristics, friends, pets, ideas, writings, montages of life I choose to keep & on-go with. And one for you! and you! and you!, a future for you!

(On a particularly downpouring  Nashville day, I could feel the rain pooling up overhead, starting from a disheartened sky. I entered “beaches” on the search engine & angled the screen into my cubicle. I found a beach cam! So I tuned in & watched the waves sigh & spend themselves on an Australian beach. Upon glancing at the time stamp, I checked my calendar, it was a tomorrow there, today here… I was enormously comforted by this: the idea of there being a tomorrow…there.)

Cedar Chests

There is a word for loneliness tho I can’t think of it now. I am the last of my kind: the last of an odd-lot family that never quite matched up. We didn’t nest like Matryoshka dolls. We barely rotated around each other.

Mother watched over the place where we lived. I know nothing of what happened before I got there – obviously, yeh? I know little of what followed since I lived in my own skin with barely a thought for what was outside of me. I lived in books, in other people’s stories, with dogs & horses. The Black Stallion whinnied in my dreams, nuzzled me awake on dark mornings when all there was to anticipate was sitting in rooms with tall windows, in front of dark nuns & recite catechism. There was the beach to ride my bike on, the boardwalk to cruise. There were bushes to pick leaves from to fold & fold to green specks & toss like verdant spitballs.

There was homework & religion & church on Sundays, choir singing, being pulled from class to attend a funeral for a song. There was jump rope in the schoolyard but no invitations to join. There were kids making out in the coat closet, but I pushed back my glasses & walked by. There were sisters of St. Joseph, white-wimpled & less than charming, more like to rattle their beads at you like snakes, dull gold crucifixes hanging heavily at their knees. There were problems & penmanship & geography & “JMJ” on the papers for Jesus, Mary Joseph.

There were lunch bags to open although I couldn’t tell you now what was packed for a sandwich…but I remember loving the chocolate cupcakes far more than the Tastycake Junior cakes. And milk.

There were saddle shoes to tie, clothes to warm on the radiator before wearing. There were teeth to brush & that one sinking soul morning when I saw pinholes in every tooth since I never did.

My mom didn’t mean to be a non-Mom, I’m sure, now that I’ve been a lost-cause mom myself. A generation untaught in the ways of caring for children; a generation to whom a child was an inconvenience & expensive, an appetite needing feeding, a blouse needing ironing at the end of the day when all that should have been left was sleep. There was a child of me who wanted nothing more than to slip into a book & become invisible for to be noticed was to be yelled at for something.

There was a brother in the house, but no love lost or found between. There were absent sisters so much older I only knew their names & their husbands’. There was Everly Brothers music to memorize & act out…”Bye Bye Love”, “Wake Up Little Susie” – these delicious situations for which I would not be accused yet could happen in a song I could sing.

Once someone asked me about my family & I blurted: “The ocean was my mother.” How fortunate the child growing up by the sea! How unbelievably lucky to have Eternity always east of me, China securely buried underneath  – all’s you had to do was dig deeply enough. There was fog to hide in on the beach until the trash trucks rolled near & I realized how foolish this could be. There were seashells to glue fake pearls into & sell for fifty cents outside from the stoop.

There was sand to sweep, figs to ignore, clothespins in a ragged bag on a low-belly rope. There were nor’easters crying over the land, slashing an innocent sidewalk with rain making that short hop from bay to beach. There were fall-down times & climb-tree times & this is all I remember of any of it. My thoughts were filled with guilt – I was most assuredly a big sinner tho trips to confession never took more than a couple of minutes, there were hail marys to count for penance & a Pater Noster to say for stealing Hershey bars.

I had no father to speak of save the one who thought child support unnecessary so Mom would yell about that. But I could do nothing except add it to the shadow bag; somehow it was my fault he did not pay.

I don’t remember much. A Barbie taken from me, so I’d not spoil her wedding dress given by an aunt who first noticed when I needed a bra. There were too-big clothes delivered by the Sears truck. There were always glasses on my face, cat’s frame eyeglasses slipping down my nose.

I wear glasses still. I live in the desert. My mother died alone in her bed, happy not to be in hospital where she thought the Filipino nurses were talking about her in Tagalog. There was a wailing phone call from my  sister in-law when Joe died in Germany. But I already knew he had crossed over as my husband channeled him before the call. My sister Rita died after telling me not to write to her anymore. Sixteen years older than I, we had nothing in common except letters & I cannot recall what I said, but I was rather a melancholic. Teri just died 1/26 but I have heard nothing at all except that she is gone & not a word of closure. Perhaps more guilt attends that.

I sleep well & if I wake for nature, I have a coffee & return, warmed, to bed. I drive a nice car which I may yet pay off in this lifetime but may not. I know nothing still. I know everything always.

My heart hurts at times with all I want to say. I can move heaven & earth with words, but I can make no one listen. I can ask for understanding, but who will tell me they do?

Time contained an endless blue joy of life & a hollow gray empty just on the other side of that.

At the end of my life, I have possessions & nothing else. I have friends but they are spun into their own cocoons. I have stories few have time to hear.

I have words for wings so I fly.

Dividing The Light

So, you can’t be sure whether to take yourself seriously in the current political, personal, emotional & polarized tidal press. Just when we thought there was enough island left for our feet, we find ourselves walking on water … or treading it.

For me, it always returns to water tho I am an Air Sign by birth. There are births to ride out, contractions to control, pangs to deliver Truth which has not been an issue for some time. I am a proud Conspiracy Theorist & have never denied this – usually debunking those who tried to present me as being reasonable.

I don’t operate there much of the time, at least not so much as I pretend. When you start your blog with green comic sans font 14…can much be expected to follow? Yet here it is, greenly growing, one word emerging from another…that birth thing. We’ve paid a great deal to do this at speed now. it takes no years-long process to deliver any longer. What have we given up getting to here? Experience. Time.

I love using power words, like, “I never!” when, in fact, I’ve been slapped with “never” like a wet fish across my salty face any number of times. Vow has fewer letters than “love” but seemingly a more powerful forcefield around it that carries forward slicing into & through that which is love in life. And I’ve got this forming idea I made that vow to me.

How many people contribute to a life & claim it, then, adopting it & modifying around theirs for that – like the old oriental mandate that saving a life is thereafter ever-helping it to live?

How many minds can you change when you realize to fixate upon one mind-set is a limitation of itself? In the sudden snapping-free from the past, I am propelled into the future I didn’t really plan out. But I feel like I’ve written enough of these out to catch up quickly. This mind is familiar: it’s one I go into when Great Change occurs. My upper lip grows cold. Your hands have become ice pops. Indicators of change falling into step with us to later walk with us off the path; this li’l bit of being together & being beige.

This time I have no intended Intent to change. I’m not fixated on much except a Now that requires a differing phase ray of awareness. This “the 6 a.m. wall when only a street light shines in the window & the air is the freshest you’ve breathed in ever your life.” This Right Now.

This.

Right.

Now.

Somewhere there is a strain of Elvis singing “Walk on, walk on with your life.” My dreams have never walked alone, no matter how isolated I felt in them.

Even with no obvious physical change, I change. Here is where I live today:

I turned my living room entirely around. I faced it inward, closing out the world while enjoying its beautiful light & benefit more. Now the light pours over me instead of my facing into it. I did not know the room could look as it does & indeed, it was strange enough to me a manifestation that I could only sit outside of it & gaze at it after making the changes. I still sit on the edges of it, rather than settling into it. (It doesn’t matter what I think if the room has actually become animate & demands to turn around – which I now strongly suspect.)

Many changes are now replacing in my life. The energy itself is chasing a tail out the door to whirl in the general mayhem of a world which most of us here will honk about being separated from. Let’s see, a Libra Air Sign in a time of wind-driven Change, in a movable landscape filled with incense bowls – my house smells of ashes at times.

I monitor my own conversations. I listen to what I say to people or write stuff down. But the only real conversation is the one going on in my head. The song of balance … the computer next to the dowsing crystal, the phone next to the cards. Full court press, indeed.