Carving out a corner to post random crap.
Question what is easily seen. Seize the unseen and slip through the fluid space in-between. Truth and falsehood are interchangeable as the river swells, as the bridge is swept away, as the only road out gets bent in on itself. Float along without purpose. Remain lost in a plan yet to unfold. Rudderless and twisted has this undertaking become. All signs point upstream as we learn to paddle for the sake of appearances.
My skin tingles. My appeal to the Warden of the Wood hangs in the air, caught on a current of despair. I enter this place in good faith. My heart is open to reveal desire and longing, pride and shame. I utter an oath of loyalty. The words catch in my throat. I have no more secrets to protect. My journey into the sacred is weighed against every selfless act I have ever carried out. I await the judgment of one who sees in me what I shall never know.
Phyllida kept a watchful eye on her charge. Not only was Reginald's boy a singular talent at the morning crossword, he spared her the horror of dandelions growing between her toes. Phyllida's star pupil made daily rounds with a spray bottle filled with dish soap and vinegar which burned the yellow tufted heads of the spreading menace. Her young man was very good at following orders, like making sure Reginald drank his mugwort every night before bed. Phyllida thought Reginald purposefully forgot the messages she sent. It took a few lessons, but she taught his son to brew a proper pot of tea. In the garden, Phyllida controlled what thrived and what faded into memory. But in the world of men, she needed more than sun and rain for her wisdom to take root.
Too big to fit through the door
Had to go the long way around to find a place to sit
Hot and hard to breathe all boxed up like this
People whisper and stare and shake their heads
I am not faceless data on a pie chart
Daily struggle to ignore
The wagging fingers
The worthlessness
The weight
Thick stacks of onionskin were stashed throughout the ranch-style home and detached garage. The lines of 12 point type that bounced back and forth between the margins were 100-word sentences of varying degrees of grammatical correctness. Lorelei thought the accuracy was damn good for writing under the influence. Under the influence of a celestial spirit and not the 100 proof variety. ALODINA was the entity called forth after a scrying session with grandma Bertha's full-length mirror. Lorelei relaxed her shoulders, turned down the volume in her head, and gazed into the reflective surface with eyes slightly crossed. She observed her likeness until it turned pale pink and ruffled, like a carnation, and her limbs rhythmically undulated in the heavy air of the bedroom. A typewriter on the walnut finished vanity next to the mirror would begin click-clacking. The sound of struck keys was always loud, and Lorelei never knew how long ALODINA had its way with her. Bruises often bloomed on Lorelei's pale skin once 50 or 60 pages had fallen to the floor and writing time was over. Lorelei did her best to edit ALODINA's work, but most of the output was packed away in bulging and musty bankers boxes. As soon as Lorelei's schedule permitted, she'd need to leave ALODINA waiting at the junction between worlds while she hired an assistant with fresh eyes, an open mind, and a red pen to put all those words in order.
family antics poolside new toenail varnish clubbing all night brought the bag full of beer KitKat red bull niece wants pennies pitched into the pool DIVE DIVE DIVE maintenance men weld the gate shut in and out they come stretched out in a new suit bottom damp hair messy always looks good shade of live oak sizzle sun eyes close open to find cloud folk approve a nap at this time DRIFT DRIFT DRIFT lunch smells fill the parking lot my own flesh kept under the grill too long turn off mind and dreams float in from half a world away where you sit and spin a tale for each star in the sky
Temples aren't impressed with my insistence they look nicer in a rich truffle brown. No amount of color can penetrate the tenacious grays that scream: Here comes a woman of a certain age. Mature! Seasoned! Older! All well and good. Tell it to my failing sight and arthritic knees. The bunions are lovely, too. Scowly, frowny lines inch their way across my face to eventually connect and intersect. Oh, the dreaded 11's right between the eyes! And these damn designers keep messing with my dress size.
I'm not giving in. Not going down without regular peels and injections. Vanity fights the good fight at my side. She is the best secret keeper I could ever want. Corroborates my stories and looks the other way when I trim back the years in the spirit of long-lived youthfulness.
Identity carefully crafted. Persona manufactured from pure wish fulfillment. My armor does not peel off easily. Every lie I recite sounds sweet and appealing compared to the bleating of fitting in.
It took a few trips around the outskirts until the right signpost appeared. I wound down the window and smelled juniper, baby's breath, and diesel. Hallmarks of a happy home. The engine slowed to a crawl, stalled, and my conveyance nosed its way into the only open space that mattered. Looking forward, reaching back, the landscape was a reflection of ancient ways and places yet to be built. On this acre, the past would be laid to rest.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 