There is a Bit of Me From Then

Nothing is simple. So many conglomerations of who we are in this life and from lives past. All of the people we have been...loves...pain...joys...appetites...talents are stored inside of us, popping out like a magickal jack in the box when we least expect it.

Nothing is forgotten...nothing is truly lost or destroyed.

Disconcerting as it is a times, traces of me have come through the years. I have recollected being an elderly Jewish man being herded onto a train in Germany during World War II. That was a surprise. I have been a servant, peasant, soldier, Queen (definitely not what it's cracked up to be..lonely), warrior (majorly more interesting than Queen), Nun (that really sucked) and Soiled Dove (couple of times...apparently I enjoyed that one A LOT!). It's been a long litany of positions in lives that were far from glamorous or easy. However, there was great good in each and lessons to be learned in all.

Each life time is a remarkable distillation of all these things. These are what we call "fantasies" in our lives now....what we want to act out for the fun...but is it just fun or is it a longing much deeper than we wish to acknowledge? Allowed to experience the remainders...emotions and desires or revulsions that come out of nowhere...or that sense of knowing where a place is in town without having been there in this lifetime...give us the reassurance of something more profound happening in our life than meets the eye. I have always believed that all the lessons...all of the growth that we must go through in order to grow spiritually cannot possibly be learned in one lifetime. We have to experience the parts we miss...the victim one lifetime...the robber the next....freedom, slavery, poverty and wealth and all the infinite lessons that go with each piece of the puzzle.

For me, I believe this is what Aleistar Crowley meant when he said that "every man is a star." We are multi-facetted and brilliant in our individuality. We become stars or angels or reach valhalla through our travels intot he infinity. Physics has proven that energy can never be destroyed, only changed into a different form of energy. Essentially we are all energy...that awesome and amazing power that is of God. Making man in his own image speaks of that energy within each of us from the Divine. Damnation comes in when we refuse to acknowledge that divine spark within us that encourages us to grow and become a part of the Ultimate. Accepting as a child...yes...Jesus was right...we lose our wonder and get jaded. We have to be curious and open like children.

I have spent the better part of the last 24 years running away and re-inventing myself because I did not like who I was in this lifetime. I didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to see it. I became unbalanced by embracing parts of what I was previously and overbalanced it with what is now. It's time I actually blend it with what I am now... exploring the bits and taking the joys and lessons from each morsel.

I'm not anticipating an ending to this. I don't believe I'll reach Nirvana anytime soon...though one never knows. I learned a long time ago that you just can't question God, it doesn't work. God just is. It's up to us to figure out how to get back home on our own journey. God left us road signs and markers along the way for each individual. I don't think anyone of these markers are the same for any one person.

Enjoy the journey!

Winter Solstice ( For Alice and For Artos)

And the candles shine
bright halo around the flame
pushing past the darkness
on this the shortest day

Druid whispers
soft moaning sighs
prayers down all the centuries
on this the shortest day

Journeys made in silence
never truly passing alone
Alice is home among the Old Ones
on this the shortest day

To all who remain living
may we remember whence we came
And celebrate the Yule fire light
on this the shortest day

For Terry

For Terry

I have a gypsy heart...following my passion was a rule
and I broke it
settled down to soon
for all the wrong reasons
tried to convince myself I was over you
never was started
never begun
but I carried you with me
to the West and the setting sun

Measuring time
and riding daydreams
I watched the years pass
Children, house and a husband
and the nameless something
standing so close by
longing through the night time
searchng in the day
believing it was just fantasy
I tried to make it slip away

Nightmares came with devestation
silent grief and oceans tears
I stood alone in the destruction
and waged war with guilt and fears
Came a day I just stopped trying
let the pain take me away
and I wished so hard for dying
but a memory bid me stay

Lost in the distance came a calling
so familiar and so sweet
I looked in your eyes and was falling
from the pain that was complete
and the mirror shattered into pieces
crumbling shards upon the floor
watched in wonder and excitement
to find another world and door

Back to the places I once danced in
free and easy, light and wild
I was loosened of my sorrow
and once again the gypsy child.
So you see you were the miracle
you had always held the key
and you freed me to come home now
to the you and I
and where we
should be

December 13, 2009

Cocoon

It is so funny how something so small can make you start dancing again...and I danced...sang...took a candlelight bubblebath. I sat and edited some of my poetry, turned the lights down, listened to country music all night....something I hadn't really done since high school. I had cut that part of me of since then. I tried to escape Provo completely, but it's where I spent my teenage years and some of my married ones. My kids were born there. I had traveled from one end to the other and both sides. I finally admitted to myself that I was homesick. It crept up when I went back with my family to my ex-mother-in-laws funeral in 2002. On the drive home, I cried when I hit the Utah county line.

I laughed long and hard at that! I think I laughed a lot more at myself and everything else. It felt good.

The last few months have been the most hellish I have ever had in my life. I seriously thought of suicide a couple of times. I didn't do it, of course or I wouldn't be writing this. I sort of felt like I went sky diving with my eyes closed and they pushed me out of the plane without telling me. The parachute never opened and I hit the dirt....hard. Isn't it great that God doesn't answer al of our prayers?!

I started looking at blue sky the last few weeks. The snow was beautiful. The leaves are gorgeous. I started listening to music, playing with my co-workers and my kids, laughing at jokes.

WOW! I am still alive and feeling things. The cocoon started opening...very, very slowly. Last night, I stepped out and let my wings dry. I started to fly again...no parachute needed, because the wings were attached. Had been attached all along. Amazing how you can lose track of those things when you are in pain. I realise that I have been given a very important gift...a chance to start over again. What a wonderfult thing to be thankful for.

Catching My Breath

I have become like you

worshipping the closeness of summer's warm dark

Walking through the fields

the night songs lift from unseen birds

breaking the silence under the oaks

I wait for you

catching my breath on first sight

all midnight and moon-brightness

Minds touch

before hands or lips press

Shelter reached

pulling me to you

clutching the ebony

to leave us lovers

hidden from the

harsh realities of daybreak

Weez 1991

The Dance Begins Again

Take me dancing

trailing skirts in the wind and

whirling

twisting my body back

feet tapping

hair whipping

whispering out against my skin

and the deep blue of the night

my hands stretch out

fingers lightly caressing

a distant

tune

gypsy longing

gliding back laughing

into your arms

Weez

11/14/2009

Black Mirror

Staring back at the mirror

ready waiting

doing what I do best

It's hard to say

if this is me

or emotions talking

But there are times

I wonder why

(bother)

the wondering makes me restless

makes me crazy

Lace

ribbons

and those eyes looking back

tired of the madness

of playing

the game

That bed is so hard to sleep in

but when sleep comes

oooooooh! How It Claims You

calls you out

running in the streets

flying down the darkness

to that stranger

A sinsiter

shadow

pressing her face to the glass

Sometimes there

is no face at all

or something

looking

back

from the mirror

coming closer

Finding me looking in

and gazing out

from what is real and

no my

fantasy

Weez

1991

Visited

This time that comes

Something

somewhat haunting

from behind me

long ago

Old familiar patterns

flowing

The soul does not recognize time

It only knows what it is has seen

Weez

1995

Flash Flood

Color exploded into my eyes

when I closed them

so tight

summoning the courage

to kiss you

I could see the rain

washing color from

paper mache streamers

left over from some dance

of so long ago

bleeding down the whitewash

seeping into the chalk

flashing out a plume

of bright violet

Weez

1987

Aunt Mame, Aunt Gladys and ME

"...Sister Christian
There's so much in life
Don't you give it up
Before your time is due
It's true
It's true yeah
Motoring

Motoring....."

Night Ranger

I've always liked that song. It was funny that the other day I started hearing it again, a lot, on the radio. It got me to thinking that there was some truth in that. I'm still here...still breathing...still wanting to do so many things that I didn't get a chance to do. But I also realize that Tony hated me being sad or miserable. He sure as hell would be pissed off with me if I were just throwing it all away to lock myself away from the world.

Auntie Mame was a favorite movie of mine. My Aunt Gladys was also an inspiration all my life. She was earthy, smart, beautiful and gutsy. When I got older and after my divorce to Kelly, I swore that I was going to adopt some of her philosophy. Gladys passed away in 2003. She had survived her husband, my Uncle Gus, by some 15+ years. She grieved for him until the day she died, however, she also travelled, danced, dated, lived her life.

I could hear her voice in my head the other day and she was not too happy with me.

"Goddamn it, Sweetie! Your husband would not want you to be miserable for the rest of your life. Look at your Grandmother. Do you want to end up life her or your mother?"

I am not going to wind up alone, bitter and miserable. Yeah, it hurts. It will always hurt. But I am not going to sit here and rot like they did.

I have Chosen to Live!
Ok.....

The Blanket

Shine brightly

spreading your love in warm rays

A beautiful blanket

to wrap around

those souls too tired

battered and bruised

They have forgotting

what life is about

Take off their rags

and wrap your blanket around them

giving them strength

giving them hope

You can make the difference

making that pattern that they need

giving them the chance to shine

and pass the blanket on.

Weez 6/1989

The Weasel Report

I apologize to anybody who has already recieved this as an e-mail. This blog was also my mental health update to friends and family.


I am writing stuff again. I got so inspired with some of the books I bought at the used book sale that it made me remember a time when I was so eager to put pen to paper and just write....even if it was absolute crap!

I did buy a book this weekend on writing memoirs (uh oh!) and a writing book by E.M. Forrester (I loved Sean Connery's portrail of him!). So I started re-reading Virginia Woolf's writing book and I've been inspired. Gotta find that inspiration anywhere I can anymore. I stiffled myself for quite a while worrying about what everybody else would think...would they get angry or their feelings hurt. I know. I never used to be that sensitive about my writing. Tony mellowed me out...a lot...according to Jesse, my son! Not a bad thing. Didn't mean it to sound that way. He just balanced me...no small task, that! Jesus, I miss him so much!

I remember when I used to spend hours pouring over the works of Rossetti, Tennyson, Swinburne, Poe and Arnold Matthews while lying on the floor in a sun spot, stretched out like a cat. My favorite book "Later English Poets" has stood forelorn the last 17 years...only being picked up to be moved instead of opened. I used to pick it up or a volume of Herriot's works and pour myself a glass of Ameretto or Harvey's and relax in the evening while my ex-husband, Kelly, was at school.

The last year I was married to Kelly, I used to write poetry on crisp, autumn mornings with a glass of wine or a Irish coffee by the typewriter and just go! I decided after the divorce that turning my life into Dylan Thomas's drunken one wasn't such a hot idea.

I believe I lost my inspiration due to contentment. Now, I have it back through loss. How fucking Odd is THAT! I always did have a problem writing when I was happy. I'm backasswards! I would go weeks between journal entries...even when it was something important. Now sometimes I go only a matter of hours. Odder still, there is a certain amount of contentment where I am now. Re-acquainting myself with myself and figuring out who and what I am and where the hell I am going next with my life.

On Saturday, after the booksale (was there from 9-1 looking over every single thing at least twice!), I stopped by the grocery store. I bought a combination pizza with sausage, a bottle of green olives, salad makings, Marie's blue cheese dressing, bread, Earl Grey Tea, a generous chunk of Brie, a bottle of white wine and a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Creme. My grocery list may not sound like anything fabulous, but it was all foods I love and used to buy every so often or not at all. It was time to spoil myself...if I was going to spoil myself rotten I would have bought a box of See's (I forgot it when I was in Reno...DAMN IT!)! I knitted in front of the t.v. in my sweats and turned the front porch light off when I wanted to shut it down from the little trick or treaters (which weren't many).

Well, enough of boring you to death. Just a word to let you know I am still alive and obnoxious!

Scratchy throat, back and neck ache, and had an odd headache for the past three or four days. I can't afford to be ill, but if I am coming down with something I may as well get it over with while I still have time off I can take. Have been drinking gallons of tea and taking Echinachia and Golden Seal religiously. Of course, I have been stressed to the breaking point the last few months, so illness wouldn't be a surprise. I keep thinking I can smell chlorine bleach strongly in the frontroom and can't for the life of me figure out where it is coming from. It seems to be eminanting from the corner by the fireplace, but I don't use anything like that in the frontroom....ever. Weird.

All Hallow's was a double treat. Early in the morning before the next door neighbor boys were up with their bb guns, I snuck away for a few hours to the book sale. What a nice time I had searching through all the old and new books. There were a couple of really old volumes I purchased...Elias by Charles Lamb and a biography of P.B. Shelley. I bought a copy of "The Captive" by Proust, a 20 volume complete set of the writings Algernon Charles Swinburne (YES!), a book on wirint by Forrester, another on writing memoirs, a crockery cookbook that I had and Bones the dog ate years ago, a book of ghost stories and some paranormal romances (housewife smut) and romance stories (not Harlequin drivel...think Chocolat or Under the Tuscan Sun). I also bought numerous Yule presents which won't be discussed here.

Four people left to buy for for Yule...Jon, Laura and the Grandkids. I think I've done well. I am still debating as to whether I will put up the tree. Honestly, I just want to wake up the day after New Years and be done with it. Although I am planning on a turkey, cranberries, a pumplin pie, and wild rice for Thanksgiving this year.

All Hallow's was quiet, thankfully! The next door kids came around early and I warned them to behave as the entire neighborhood has been watching them and won't put up with any crap. They seemed to have heeded it. One of them actually wished me a Happy New Year, though I couldn't tell if he actually realised that for me it was...Pagan wise...or was being a smart ass. A little before 8 o'clock and it was all over. I went through 2 and a 1/4 bags of candy. The kids are getting fewer and fewer...although I saw fliers for parties up all over the place, being on a Saturday night. It would have been nice to have met up with the kids in Tahoe, but I really had to keep an eye on things here.

I watched four of my favorite BBC shows and called it a night after writing Tony his nightly letter.

Yesterday was unspectacular. I didn't feel well and curled up most of the day with knitting and watched a very interesting program on Death Masks. They were doing beeswax reproductions of the faces from the life and death masks of historical and famous people. They would then digitally enhancing the faces so that they had their eyes open, blinked, and smiled. Lincoln and Washington's faces were very interesting. Not what I would have expected or what we have seen in photos or paintings. Even the president's then had to have their publicity shots!

I kept track of the football scores and made a list of who I will draft in tonight's draft.

Other than that, it was a peaceful weekend.

The tears start, seemingly out of nowhere...for no real reason. I find them streaming down my face unexpectedly...sometimes without warning. I have even caught myself crying when I didn't realize I was. I'm not used to this.

I have put up Halloween decorations..albeit more modestly than ususal. The candy is waiting in the cupboard. The red lightbulb has been screwed in at the front porch lamp. The only thing missing is dressing up to scare the kids. I won't do that this year. Every year, Tony and I would figure out what he was going to do for Halloween. Wearing masks was one of his favorite things.

He got such a kick out of the tiny trick or treaters. He really had a soft spot for the little ones, although he would deny it. Snot goblins, rug rats, breeder monkies....that's the usual title for somebody else's kid(s) in the grocery store or elsewhere. Occasionally he would point out a truly cute kid and usually get them into trouble by getting them to copy his silly faces while we were waiting in line.

It's been hard gearing up for this. I spent this last weekend alone and didn't do any artwork, which I had longed all week to do as a release. I purged and organized. I folded some of Tony's clothes and tucked them neatly away in the armoire.

It will be a different experience this year. Hopefully next year will be easier.

Digging Out

Working through this...literally. In the last 48 hours, I have worked myself through the master bath, laundry room and our bedroom. I have dusted, oiled furtniture, straightened, thrift boxed and thrown out. The office is daunting. I have worked from the closet, organizing boxes of old photos so I gcan get to them easier. Next was the rocks that I was polishing...polisher and all parts, including the rocks, have been banned to the garage. Again dusting, sorting thourgh papers, the desk, finding scraps of paper with Tony's handwriting and tearing up. Oiled furniture, and now the bead shelf to dust off. Then vacuum and the next room...the dining room...maybe the kitchen.

I have sworn, cursed, laughed, cried, and curled up on the sofa for awhile during this whole thing wondering when I'll pull out of this a little more....the voice...so soft told me I already was, even if I didn't realize it. A little stunned, I realized, yeah, maybe I was because it was feeling better this afternoon than it had yesterday or this morning. I'm voraciously hungry and I may treat myself to a little something this afternoon before I get to nuts over the rest of the house.

I'm no longer on a time limit to get things done. The only person looking at it now is me. I can tear this stuff up and take my ime with it...well sort of, I'm still a neat freak. I can't believe how much dust accumulated in the office since July. Wow! Tells me what I haven't been taking care of . Well, ok, taking care of me..most important right now.

So, I'm getting closer to wanting to talk to people this weekend. I haven't decided if I quite want to yet or not. Just gathering strength right now. I need this.

The Abyss

and I am not sure

where I stand

arms stretched out at my sides

staring straight

across the chasm before me

do I fly

do I free fall

do I fall back upon the "safe" ground

that is no longer so

clawing my way back

to a time that doesn't exist

a comfort that was

merely illusion

once again standing

at the well before my feet

no magician this time

to pull me back from

falling into the abyss

Solitary Rose

Nothing

I am a ghost
dancing in shadows
a passing breeze
shifting the leaves
to a rustling waltz
sigh of the wind only
the drops of rain
are tears of sorrow
out of my control
the storm passes
only to begin again

Effete

My life is wrapped

bundled in

yellowing newspaper

obituaries neatly

tied in black ribbons



She leans

mummified

in the corner

behind the bedroom door

Where once she moaned

fingers clawing the bedsheets

as he had kissed her neck

their fingers brushing skin

catching fire



Sprinkled with dust and tears

memories

like blowing sand

scour her soul

raw

pumping pain

that won't stop bleeding

from the wound where her heart had been

Art Has Always Saved Me

I bought new watercolour brushes for the first time since I was in Windsor, England in 1987. I didn't look at the price tag and shocked myself when the 5 brushes I bought came to $29.95. Nothing really cost-wise, had they been red sables, which I have always preferred, they would have easily cost $60.00 to $70.00 dollars. The last brushes I bought had been at Boots on the High Street, along with some really neat watercolour pens and pots of paints. The day after I bought them, I rose early and walked to a bench lining the Long Walk and proceeded to paint a picture of another park bench close by.

Watercolours have been a staple art supply in my house since early childhood. My father was the real driving force in my learning to draw and paint. Dad would pack me up in the old Chevy Bel Aire and away we would drive to the deYoung Museum or the Palace of Fine Art. I would be enthralled at the fact that anyone could take paints and brushes and create a Renoir or Monet. Sometimes I would ask my Dad to pick me up and hold me so that I could look (but don't touch) closer at a painting. It was so amazing to see the brush strokes, proving to me that, yes, someone actually painted the picture. Up close, you could sometimes see the colours blending...just a minute line a hair's breadth...but enough to capture the eye. I still remember seeing a stroke like that in a Rembrandt painting where the crismon turned to orange...a faint trace of yellow...just a scratch of it peering through. You wouldn't have seen it if you were standing at normal viewing range, but the arms of my father made it possible.

From that time on, I have painted on sidewalks, walls, and rocks. I was disappointed as the pigments faded in the sun and bled off into the gutters in the rain. Later on, in high school, I took watercolours my sophomore year. My grandmother bought me a box of Binney & Smith artist's colours in a white plastic case. I remember sitting in the freezing classroom, listening to the instructor whose name I can't remember, droning on about how you have to see with your own eyes...not what people expect you to see. It was a passion...something to be felt...like when Renee Farnsworth had a leaf bug land on her shoulder in the middle of an outdoor painting class. I was absolutely fascinated at the green wings it had...so much like a leaf and the tiny beady blue eyes peering up helplessly as I grabbed it before she, still screaming, squashed it. I had to paint it. The painting never was displayed it school...and has long since disappeared in the many moves I've made throughout the years.

After my graduation from high school, I again found myself in art classes at the local technical college. Photographic developers, inks, printing inks, and the pungent scent of solvents came whaffing through the lower bowels of the college, blending with the smell of coffee, cinnamon buns and bacon from the cafeteria next door. I fell in love there...or lust...I'm not completely sure which... with a fellow student...all unreciprocated unfortunately...over coffee and discussions of art history, Gutenburg and who had the best prices in town for art supplies. I was in heaven in those classes until I had to take the rest of my core classes to graduate. Art was everything...health, P.E. and algebra seemed dull and hardly worth the effort.

On the walks home, I began to see angles, shapes, shades and nuances in the world around me. Provo in those days had huge horse chestnut and maple trees in front of the spooky, old BYU Academy building. The textures of the rain-soaked, ancient grey sidewalks, littered with wet autumn leaves in every conceivable shade of orange, red, brown and yellows plastered to it was gorgeous. I wondered how anyone could miss this...didn't they see when they walked down the street? Rich brown horse chestnuts rained from the denuded branches, occasionally hitting you in the head as the crows sat and laughed.

Old farm houses and fields took on a whole new meaning. Art became a secret language, one that my father had successfully transmitted to me as a child. It was my own world. The old train tracks up Provo Canyon could become beautful, spooky and sensuous all depending on the light during different seasons and time of day.

When I divorced my first husband in 1987 and went back to England, it was like coming home in many different respects. I had began to recapture myself with watercolours, pens and pencils. Poetry began to mingle more steadly with the art work...like a filling in a pie or pastry. I couldn't live without the colours or words painting something I had seen and had to share or capture in my mind.

Enter Jan McIntyre when I returned to the states. A sculptor, painter, and artist extraordinare, we were distant cousins who became close friends instantly one evening in a bar gathering of musicians. That group was something I will always treasure, even though we have gone our separate ways and Janny has long since passed. The art carried me through the victory of my first gallery showing of watercolors and wood burned items. It carried me past the pain of a failed marriage and into a new life. It held me together through a doomed relationship with a musician that was cursed from the start. Love or lust (definitely both! Oh, yes.), I am not quite sure. Love and lust for the creative life was a definite addiction...and like all junkies, I had to have more.

And then I met Tony in 1992. Tony was earthy, intelligent, well-read, foul mouthed, and the most beautiful man I had ever met...and he wanted me. He was the high school girl's dream. We became lovers within a month and never left each other's side for more than a couple days at a time. He encouraged me to paint, draw, and bought me a 35mm camera outfit. We explored eras; he was in love with the geometrics of art deco and I with the flowing sensuality of art nouveau.

Through the years I lived in arts and crafts stores; always on the search for some technique book, ink, medium or glue. He would stand there sometimes at the end of an aisle, hands on hips, head tilted, "Are you ready yet?" His patience was more immeasurable than he would ever let on or perhaps, realize. He was my muse and pushed me forward to experiment with using different mediums.

I began taking photo copies and painting them, using them in collages and putting them into journals. Beads and glass, their fine pure colours, intrigued me. Seed beads became another way of expressing myself through jewelry and then peyote stitch. Spirit bottles and loomed murals began to fill the walls. I bought beads and hoarded them, amassing some several hundred pounds, up until this summer when everything came to a horrible, sudden stop. Tony died on a beautiful, cloudless Sunday afternoon.

The last few months have been rain soaked. I have viewed the world through eyes every bit as unclear as rain washing down glass. Isolation and intolerable grief, along with with an incredibly acute loneliness has shut me off from the world and myself. I began searching through closets in my mind, frantically throwing open doors in dark hallways trying to find a reason for this or some momentary peace. My pens dried up with the heat and disuse and my beading loom covered itself in a fine veil of dust. The vintage mahogany dining room table I had claimed as my art center lay silent and cluttered with ideas and projects now completely gone by the wayside...until last Sunday.

Curiosity got the better of me. I found a small piece of watercolour canvas I had preped with Gesso last spring. It was gritty and I liked the way it felt under my fingers. In the buffet behind the table are my paints, pastels, and other implements. I pulled out a pallette, the old Binney & Smith box of colours and a few brushes from the cat jar. Armed with a glass of water and a rag, I began to paint for the first time in months. I had too much water on the canvas, and the human heart that I had painted began to bleed down the canvas in a happy accident, pooling at the bottom. I bled off the excess water and decided that it was perfect the way it was. Let it dry and rework it in a couple of days to get down the details.

Slowly, I am breaking free of the sorrow. Slowly, once again reaching for who I was and now am through watercolours and brush strokes.