July 1, 2016

Our bodies

Are like cars for the soul. Some people drive the same car for years. Other people's cars get wrecked in an accident or not taken care of. Then the person goes and gets a new one.
In a parallel universe I am a lunatic in an asylum. I'm lying on my bed, my greasy hair streaming around me. I stare at the ceiling. I am not self aware. I could be a plant, a stop sign. What is I? 

May 5, 2016

didja ever ramble

i work a lot at night because i don't like a lot of commotion around when i'm trying to do stuff right. so yeah, i'm up until about 1 most nights. i try to go to bed earlier, it just never happens. now that it's nice out i'll probably start going out to the deck to meditate. it's the only place i can. anyway, so tonight i'm doing what i'm doing most weeknights, taking information from one source and putting it into another source so i can make sure bills at the office are paid, people are paid, etc. i'm usually here with the cat. sometimes i put something dumb on tv, not something that requires a lot of visual attention. or more often, listen to music or an audible book. i usually start sometime around 9-ish, work until 12-ish, and relax for an hour doing whatever.... dancing around the house, yoga, meditating, blogging, imagining buying the ten acres behind us and getting a horse, admiring my kitchen, making tea.  anyway, i'm having to hustle because i've been away for more than a week.... checks and automatic deposits have been piling up.

~~~~~~patti shuffle: Farewell Reel~~~~
Obviously i'm listening to music tonight. It's been raining a lot here since I got home a few days ago, not much solace from saying goodbye to my spirit home at Spoutwood. So iTunes has Patti Smith on shuffle to make me feel better, or at least help make sense of things. When I'm old and senile (tomorrow, perhaps) I'm only going to speak in Patti quotes. "The children will rise strong and happy,  be sure." "We're only given as much as the heart can endure." "Ain't it strange?" shit like that. if i were a playwright I'd write a play with the whole script being Patti lyrics. Or maybe Bob Dylan....John Douglas and I did a cool coffee house thing where we typed up maybe a hundred scraps of Dylan lyrics. As we sat at a cafe table, we each took turns drawing a piece of lyric, read it in such a way that it seemed perfectly normal to say to your dining companion, "She's a hypnotist collector. You are a walking antique." Good times!

 ~~~~~patti shuffle: cartwheels~~~~
 Back to Patti. I often ask myself, "What would Patti do?"  Or, as I'm trying to make sense of something, sometimes just the right Patti song will come on. Here comes "Gloria" with all its swagger and rebelliousness. Totally sexy song: 'here she comes crawlin' up my stair." So what does that mean? I have no idea because i'm here typing instead of thinking on it but it could represent reckless action, but one that may have rewards. Then comes "Wing," about surrendering all for the sake of freedom. "i was a vision in another eye and i saw nothing no future at all... yet i was free.....". And she wants to share this with someone she loves.... And so on....

 Now this little game disturbs me a little, because in high school i had a truly crazy boyfriend who thought lyrics were telling him things about me; "lying.... cheatin.... hurtin.... that's all you seem to do." He, however, was taking lyrics literally and trying to make it about him. i guess it's not really the same thing....

 But now it's almost midnight and I can't make myself click over to the work screen. I glance at my progress and decide, it's enough.., and so is this.

May 3, 2016

Faecation

"...Oh my land Oh my good
People don't be shy Weave the birth of harmony
With children's happy cries 

Hand in hand

We're dancing around In a freedom ring

Come on now Oh my land

Be a jubilee Come on girl

Come on boy Be a jubilee..."
Jubilee by Patti Smith

Trying to explain the Spoutwood experience to someone who hasn't lived it is like trying to describe things like the feelings you get when you fall in love, or when you look out at the sky and see the connections between the stars. 


For one thing, everyone's experience is different. 

Spoutwood's May Day Fairie Festival, for me, is a faecation. From Monday night to Monday morning, I'm in a whole different place with a whole different community. No ringing phone, Quickbooks backlog, confusing emails, insurance company rage, a growing frustration with having to depend on technology for every single thing, sometimes, boredom. At Spoutwood, I'm outside most of the day for a week. I've learned a lot and had way too much fun.

But for me, my favorite part of this faecation is the people. Too many of our relationships are fleeting, just enough to get through the event with a few pleasantries thrown in. Some of my dearest friends are from  Spoutwood, some I'd even call family. Stories abound of those who found love at Spoutwood, and come back every year to celebrate. We're from all over, and for some of us, it's the only time we get to see each other. For some of us, Spoutwood is a sharp contrast to what we do the rest of the year. I'm a practice manager most of the year, working in our family practice office, trying my best to keep up in a rapidly changing medical practice environment. But my bestie there on the right is an artist, the pretty woman in the middle is a shop owner (and an artist herself). We've watched kids, like Willa, go from toddler to adulthood. Of course, sadly, some old friends have passed away or just passed along. 
don't worry -- this happened the Thursday before Festival!
By Friday it was all gone.

Throughout the week and into the Festival weekend, we work hard, solve problems, hug, eat, walk up and down Frodo, run up and down Frodo, sleep, catch up on each other in bits and pieces, hug, answer questions, work in the Swap Shop, dance. We carry on thru any weather; it's all been done!!! 

It's a reunion that also happens to be a Festival. It's a reunion that happens to wear wings. 

Welcome to Spoutwood!



May 2, 2016

random restless thoughts.

post- fairie festival. i usually write about the festival. but i can't go there yet.


you know why. you imagine he knows why.
the daydreams of a lonely housewife
could create a decade's worth of soap operas.

Fran├žois Boucher Daydreaming











make sure them apples are ripe, she said.
and don't you already have enough at home?
yes, but these green ones taste so snappy, not too sweet.
why not have both.

like when you dream  you're naked in a room of fully clothed strangers
don't know what to say and it's soooo awkward.
not willing to make the first move.
so vulnerable.
better you play it coy.


the sterile hotel room swallowed her ideas and spat them out
"wrong!" it says. "now go think about something else!"
she was only dreaming.




April 25, 2016

She's probably One of those weird fairies that live out there in the holler

You can tell she is because she doesn't photograph well. The glamour doesn't make it in a photograph.

March 9, 2016

Spring fever, maybe

Maybe it's the monotony of gray and brown.
Maybe it's because people are so annoying.
Maybe it's because the insurance companies I have to deal with are driving me crazy, giving me wrinkles, making me tired. Press this number to be connected to that, get hung up on, wrong number, wrong person, wrong ID. Wrong diagnosis code. Wrong everything. Wrong place.
Maybe it's because what I do requires a lot of sitting, and I'm getting a tummy where I never had one before.
Maybe it's because I'm tired of people complaining all day and not doing something constructive about stuff themselves. It's easier to make a person sound stupid so you sound smart. Ok. Whatever. Don't try helping them; that actually takes effort.
Maybe it's because I hate tedious shit, minutiae, typing numbers from one place to other, adding them up, making sure they balance. God, I really really hate that. IT IS SO BORING.
Maybe it's because I see the people around me doing awesome shit, and here I am, in a fetal position on the couch because I'm either too fucking tired or too fucking frustrated to do anything else.
(I can't look at your book cover, sorry. It just reminds me that I haven't written anything in two weeks. Or was it three. I don't even know. I just know I have nothing left at the end of the day. Nothing.)
Then I feel guilty for working on something I actually like -- or I feel guilty for not being grateful for being able to afford the lifestyle that all this gets me. Or someone takes offense that I'm not happy for them, that I'm not happy all the time.
Maybe I just need to shut up.
I don't know.
I just know that some days I just feel like curling up into a ball. I also know that tomorrow I'll feel better.
Spring, please?