March 2005 Archives

Feeling a slow fade toward slumber. Staying up for no reason. I have to roll out of bed early tomorrow, so I probably should sleep. Guess I will, in a while.

But, at the moment...

It was sweet and bright today. I sat on a bench and let the sun heat my bare face. It felt good to be coat-free, to breath Spring air. I feel scrubbed clean and empty now. Don't know why. Maybe it was the vivid light, the blue skies. The greening.

April (and the weekend) are gliding up. Spring ahead time on Sunday. I may go out on Saturday.

It will be the first time in a long time (seemingly).

Ah peeps!

Now there is only one left...

It's shiny outside. The brightness seemingly pouring up from the budding ground to the tall blue. Small birds are a fluttery accent. Rufus Wainwright is singing "California" on my stereo. I need a shave -- and more coffee.

But, after all the stormy weather (and for today at least) my heart is quiet.

Birds, under a wet cotton ball sky. The light is pale, like milk.

An accent of color: a Robin in the bird bath. Warm red breast and bright yellow beak. I've decided to wear a pink shirt today. Seems Springy. Charged my camera, should the image bug tickle me.

I feel tired but am drinking coffee, hoping that will pep me up.

Actually, I don't feel very good at all...

I thought this was pretty...

Here's to Spring...and new blooming.

Happy Easter.

No matter how much you'd like to act like it doesn't, it hurts. It hurts wide desolate landscapes, geographies of memory and thought. Dreams and patterns washed-out and turned yearning and empty. There is the desire to turn actor and play the role of nonchalance. C'est la vie and the abundance of fish in the sea and all that. Nuggets of truth there -- but still a charade.

In the end, you just have to admit that it hurts.

The solar-powered lanterns outside are casting blue ghost-glow, early in the morning. Doesn't feel like a new day to me -- just more of the cold glass night.

Was re-reading Simmons' The Hollow Man on the couch for most of the evening. Seemed fitting. Oddly enough the action in the novel starts out on an "unusually warm Easter weekend". That fit, too. Except for the warmth.

I should be sleeping now, but sleep (like a lot of things in me at the moment) is jumbled and unsettled. I don't feel attached to the world in any real way.

Kind of like a ghost light, myself.

At some point, here, I'm going to get wasted.

I sat on the red bench with my paints and paper. Since I only had watercolor paper to paint on, I used my watercolor paints. Several of the tubes had dried shut. I was able to get two shades of yellow open. I wet the paper and started painting curves and swirls. After a while things started looking like flowers, so I tried to steer them in that direction. It was cold outside. My nose was running. I'd started later than I had planned. Still, those blending yellow sweeps occupied me.

Today, the paper (still attached to the pad) sits on my floor, sideways. The paint has dried much lighter (a behavior I had forgotten about) and now the images look like sunny ghosts.

Things are disheveled around here, bare. Every day I look forward to sleeping. I slump into the futon like snow melting into the ground. When I wake, I wake tired.

The paleness of the paint makes my watercolor experiment seem blank from certain angles. It has been raining all day. I feel weak.

This is temporary.

I wanted to sweep off the ash and show some color. It is Spring, after-all. Eventually I am going to create a totally new look: and not just for The Allurium...

I don't feel good and I am unshaven and grimy. But I dug out my dusty tacklebox full of paints and brushes and I'm going to grab an old canvas to paint over. My thought is to prop it up outside and do some exploring in the afternoon sunlight. Gonna cram my feet into boots, put my "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" cap on my head and see if I can make something pretty.

Why not?

That was quick.

I don't know if it's just passive-aggressive whining, pathetic, or simply talking to myself, but I have to say: I feel well past horrible.

Some of the very first (and most inspiring) science fiction stories that I read were written by Andre Norton. She took me to fantastic places and shaped any ability I have at writing.

She died early Thursday morning, March 17th.

Farewell, with gratitude for all you created.

The Vernal Equinox has passed by hours. Day and night were balanced then. Maybe they spun like dancers: one dressed in lace and snow, the other in raven's wings and ink. Evened-out and circling, blurred by momentumn. Synchronized, and each covering an equal portion of the dance floor.

But now it tips.

Light, like an angel drifting down, is gliding over the leading edge of Spring. And falling longer and longer in the coming span.

The dancers on that dark floor move to the sounds of a clock. The swirls that they make look like flowers -- and the light, extending, gives them wings.

There is much to pray for, in the bloom of these new hours.

How much can you lose before there's nothing left.

And what then?

The sun is bright and blue-skied and I saw a tiny dot of yellow in the yard. The first flower of Spring:

And on St. Patrick's Day, too. Very cool.

I was looking around for something green to have as a treat after dinner. My first thought was lime Jello...alas, there was none to be had. But I did find some vanilla pudding...and a small bottle of green food coloring.

Ooh yeah.

At first the mix had a remarkable resemblance to baby poop...but a heavier hand with the food coloring solved that little difficulty. A sprinkle of green sugar added a festive shimmer, I think.

Behold, John's Irish Puddin'!

It's so special I sang the "Irish Puddin Song" to commemorate it's creation!

Now if I can only find that pot of gold...

These are blue hours -- holding variable minutes, elastic seconds. Moments that float and dissolve like misted breath. Breathing blue: living between the shades. Indigo-to-obsidian. Thirty minutes...or a decade of slow recollection. It feels the same.

Morning, when it is still night. Feeling like yesterday but already into tomorrow, unfixed.

The music is a towering roar -- but heard only by me.

The light is minimal.

I am here. Mostly.

Receive and transmit.

It is cold and quiet outside. Ink with a sprinkling of pale glitter.

I made myself a semi-lame supper, got cleaned up, and stuck a shamrock pin in my shirt. Then wandered around a bit here before brewing a cup of coffee and logging on. There is a subdued murmur of traffic drifting up from the highway. Closer, the roads are black and mostly empty.

I feel mostly empty, too.

This day was as still as a picture: crystal blue and bright -- but I've been in motion. No real thrills, just day-to-day stuff. Now I am hungry, and a bit grubby. The hours seem changeless. Pale. Dreams of my childhood, and of the ocean, have occupied my mind recently. Gently sad, perhaps. Just floating, though. Still.

And then I looked out my window and the ghost-colored air was filled with swirling white.

I feel like a ghost.

The shadows, brushed-out over the snow, are cool lavender: sharp-edged. A cat the color of coal is sitting at the window listening to the birds. Everything else is quiet this Friday morning.

My eyes are tired.

The day has lost its shadows and I am slightly a-jitter from the coffee. Sleepiness is a rumor being whispered about in the background.

I wish I was lying on a blanket on the beach, absorbing warmth like a lizard.

The light doesn't seem exhausted, merely faded thin. Worn by an accumulation of moments, perhaps, to an unchanging state. No focal point.

Just about two hours until sunset and I sort of feel like that, too. Sinking down with the day.

Still no shadows (though the snow is getting whiter as the sky goes dim). Time seems disconnected. Stopped like rush hour traffic.

Usually, I feel relief at Friday's arrival. But today I just feel...motionless.

And tired.

Sunset: 6:15 PM

It is bright and beautiful, outside. Tall blue. Vivid edges sharpened by sunlight. So lovely -- and cold enough to make you cry.

I don't feel right.

It's cold and gray but Spring is closer and the year is soon to open like a lilly in the sunlight.

For you, I wish love, happiness and joy, health and contentment. And good sushi. May this year be better than the last -- with many more to come.

Happy Birthday, Kelli.

:-*