Time Passages Present

It's been awhile since I ranted on here. The hacker has been caught and life is returning to a dull rumble once again. That is really nice.

I've been looking at connections to things. I've been thinking of how connected I am to the outdoors and how good I feel after a day of digging for rocks or just walking in the desert. It is a resting place for me; a refuge. I can dig for rocks until I am sunburned and not care how much time I'm out there or that the find might be small. It's better than a day at the office and much more fulfilling.

Getting the sand and clay under my nails and smearing it accidentally across my face, I realize how close I am to the sand and the stone and rocks. I sometimes lay down on the ground I've been mining and feel the cool moisture seep up into my jeans. Looking this close, I see things I would miss from even a foot or two away. So many patterns and re-creations of just bigger patterns....or is it that they begin small and expand out? Bits of rust and glass from a previous ghost town stare up at me trying to tell me their stories. What happened right here in this spot a hundred years ago? Was there a stable here or a saloon? Maybe it was a brothal and I am lying on my back looking up into the blue skies in a much beter situation that the girl before me.

Nevada is a cruel, harsh place to live. In this economy it is even more difficult than before. It takes a certain type of person to want to live far enough away from everyone else that you'd have to fart through a bull horn to get heard. There is no Macy's near my house. My town has a vet, a grocery store, a 7-11 and, oddly, 2 Chinese restaurants and three Mexican. We recently got a Walmart and a Lowe's...so we're really big time now. It could have stayed even smaller as far as I'm concerned. In a way it has. A lot of the hundreds of new homes that were built here either got damaged in the flood or they have been foreclosed on and left by the owners. Hundreds of empty houses in the once brilliant little new boomtown that started to get pretty snotty and high on it self.

Grandma always said there was always someone better/bigger than yourself. My town is learning to humble the hard way...not necessarily a bad lesson as far as myself and a lot of old times are concerned.

So we drive out to the desert, my husband and I. A few buckets, pick axes and picnic basket is in the car along with the sunscreen and bug repellant. Other than paying for the gas, we amuse ourselves with pieces of rock and the past for the price of investing our time. Dust deveils come to peek in every so often and stir things up, along with the occasional horney toad. Good company as the light begins to grow soft and pinky purple.

Slipping into the Fog - Avalon

Drifting.

When I am in pain, I do that. Mist and fog are comforting to me. I need...crave...my space and a time and un-structuredness to heal. I need my sisters and the Old Ones.

New pastels and watercolours are coming. New beginnings in a project Arthur and I are going to do. There is so much hope here. My artwork is taking me out and back and into other areas now. So much in my heart that I want to put down on paper with ink and colors. Wrapping the paint and pages around me as a warm, old blanket. But here....here is where I hide...

Moving through the forests and the dry grass...carefully picking out the flat stones on the waters edge....barely discernible through the mist and dark, I have gone this way before...hundreds if not thousands of times. Weaving my song quietly, knowing the spell to unlock the gates when I come to them. The Watchers mark my coming and lift the veil of snow. I am going to the Isle, going where none can follow me unless they know...are one of us...and there are so very few of us left.

Fair Isle

Standing by the old trees

I see far out into the mist

looking to the West

over the water

Feeling the change

the breezes carrying a hint

of the old voices

fairer

lifting my spirit

lighting my way

ready to step out

on the path

lead me home

It's Time

In this time

I let the sand

slip

slowly gliding

through my fingers

blowing

the veil catchs

lifting in the sea breeze

floating out

cloud-like

into

the sunset ending

Memories of the Musee

Framed by the Golden Gate, the Musee is every bit as much a golden treaure as the arches greeting the bay.

Funeral

Roaring...prowling...clawing at the air...my teeth sink into nothing. Restless and irritated at the buzzing of flies, I snap, glaring and red-eyed. I'm daring a fight that won't come. Ah, Gods!

It is the last day of the year...moments ticking away as any other day, but the last of this precise slice of time. I want it over with, and yet, I cling to it with the other had like a child. Not a bad year...nothing like that. Balancing the scale of judgement, it slips between my fingers, spilling everything. And the blood still pounds relentlessly in my ears as a mad drummer in a padded cell...unheard by anyone.

I torment myself and I do it well. Wishing myself awash in canvas and paint, carving out pieces of recognizable dreams from clay chaos. Instead...

I'm choking on words, banging the letters of a keyboard until my fingers bleed. The atmosphere is cloying like a bowl of long dead flowers floating in skum. Funerary in spirit and attitude, we carve the seconds off the old years carcass, pretending it savory instead of sour.

Mourning jewelry has always becomed me.

Relics