wildlife dreams

Whether because I just got up at the ungawdly hour of 6am, or because Kenard began waking me up about half an hour earlier than that-- I vividly remember my main dream.

We were in three or four separate boats, having paddled out to get to the space shuttle take-off strip. We had to dock to wait for a signal or something, and our leader took us to what seemed to be a secret dock site; our boats just beached on an invisible something. After waiting a long time, I decided to go investigate. As I pulled the boat away, I saw that we were docked on a whale. I told the others, and after they saw for themselves, we paddled back to land to talk to our leader.

Being on a train or boat, the rocking, going out to the stairs, seeing killer whales breaching in the bay, coyote in the low forest on the side of the tracks, bobcat on the curving stairs up to the top.

The house we bought-- "forest retreat," nude beach down the hill, neighbors with kids, getting parked up.

***I wrote the above in a rush while getting ready for a ridiculously early Saturday morning run, devolving into stream-of-consciousness in order to remember details. I'm kicking this one out the door rather than try to reconstruct it, since it's already been a few days. ***

bathtime

My brother referred to my "boyfriend" on the phone today. He meant Kenard. Ken is widely known to be quite beloved by me. And I thought I was being restrained around others, only mentioning him only one out of ten times he dances purringly through my mind. When he and I are alone, it quickly devolves into me calling him my "wittle mister Kenardlesworth," and him purring through stinky drool.

Last night, exhausted from working on a chain gang all day, I took a nice hot bath with Epsom salts. As is his custom, Kenard sat on the floor with his front paws on the side of the tub, ready to bat anything and everything into the water. After running out of sinkable items, he started to creep across the faucet at the end of the tub to try to reach the shampoo bottle on the other side. There's not much of an edge along the wall that side, so he'd reach over and start to slip, then retreat to sit for a while pretending to think before he'd try it again.

Finally he got up the courage to go for it, and with one paw outstretched towards the bottle and his furry belly taut over the faucet, he slipped... I caught him just in time, one hand under his middle. He stayed sedately on the floor after that, "cleaning" the shower curtain with his paws from the safety of dry land.

So that was my evening: my husband greeted me at the door with a big glass of wine, and my boyfriend tried to take a bath with me.

I typed for miles

This time of transition, this time of daylight slipping away, accelerated impressions of not possibly being able to do everything. So I haven't made time for writing. I didn't go to the farmers market this weekend. I skipped my long run in favor of reading on the new couch for a few hours, resting my messed-up shoulder. So that was my equinox: embracing relaxation.

I'm doing less, but somehow I have even less time for my various projects. Sunlight equals productive time. As my photosynthesis slows down, so does my productivity. Nighttime, at least, is better for creativity, so I expect to have more ideas as the season of hibernation snuggles down over the northwest. There's a lot of dark time, torture for us insomniacs, especially those of us

***This entry left unfinished due to the sudden pressing need to leave to get ready for a work event titled "Winter Formal"***

dame de lotus

Fall is coming. It's slowly dripping cherry syrup over the tops of maple trees here at work, trimmed round like lollipops.

Two images I had forgotten to mention, from yesterday:

I woke up with the beginning of a visual migraine, so I took a shower in the dark-- yes, it's dark now when I get up. What an odd experience, to shower in the dark. Hot water, cold tiles, undulating pulses of afterimages (that's in my head), and gravity barely applies. It was disorienting, but it worked, and I've only had this headache up in the corner of my head to remind me of a narrow escape.

Since our middle cat, Venus, stopped eating and drinking for a few days, Erik and I have had to give her subcutaneous fluid a few times. Originally the vet wanted to keep her in emergency care, but, well, we're rather pro at the "subcu," from a previous incident. That's another story.

Anyways, we were preparing the fluid bag, tubing, and needle, and Erik had just grabbed the cat. He sat down on the corner of the bed, when-- WHAM!-- the frame collapsed. I tried to play it down so that we could deal with it later, but upon further examination that night, the damage is extensive. I can't believe how many screws are sheered through the middle, ones integral to the main parts of the frame! I've never seen a bed frame fail so spectacularly, but I'm hopeful that I can take it apart and fix it. For now, since it's too big to get through the door, we have the busted bed frame pushed to one side, and our mattress on the floor on the other side of the room-- barely a foot to go around between them.

So that's how the week has been.

Morning seems strange, almost out of place

I really needed to listen to music yesterday in the car. Unfortunately I've misplaced the tape-converter I usually use with my MP3 player, so I was forced to dig deep and explore my tape collection. In the morning on the way to work, I heard Al Green's "Tired Of Being Alone" and it gave me shivers that sent my hand straight to the volume dial, turning it way up and belting out the words as time washed away inside the car.

After work, the first tape I popped in turned out to be Joy Division, "Still." Wearing my corporate sell-out generic running gear, windows down, garnering more disapproving stares than usual for my bumper stickers, dancing and singing while driving... This is the story I wanted to tell today, the perfection and time-machinations of music, this particular serendipitous choice. The words won't come, though, and nothing gets done. I'm blocked and nothing flows through me. If I close my eyes, I'm the branch who will snap in the wind. Open the floodgates, I want to cry. There's nothing to stop them from opening, yet they remain stubbornly in place.

Addendum:
This morning in the car I listened to a mix tape I originally made for Erik, soon after we met. It had me laughing out loud. Really, did I think he'd enjoy listening to the Go-Go's "Vacation?" And what possessed me to place the jarring cacophony of Guitar Wolf's "Wild Zero" after Elvis Costello's velvety "Red Shoes?" I was trying to impress him with my eclecticism. Hilariously, I end up aurally coming across as inhabiting some wild mood swings.

Must hilarity always ensue?

That's all I have for you, that one question.

I'd like to propose that the answer is yes.

on the day

I'm sitting in the bathroom, thinking. It's a great place to think. Sound echoes off the tile and supplies sit at the ready. It's the last stop before bedtime and the day is done.

Today, this day six years hence-- for the first time I feel nothing. I thought about dredging up the memories, the details I won't ever forget, and inserting myself directly back in time in my mind. It's all available for recall, as I've done many times. Today I decided not to. I didn't even feel guilty seeing the various commemorative events on tv (at the gym. I went for the first time in two years).

All I felt was surprise at seeing the weather in New York-- rain. Because here in Portland, it was beautiful, majestic. The very blue sky I saw six years ago in New York. The same smell of promise in the air. Not quite the same, but almost, the feelings of hope in my heart and travellust in my veins. I've heard that every seven years the body completely rebuilds itself, but maybe sometimes if you push hard enough it can take only six.

That home I once found for only a week-- it has been here for technically five years now. For today, at least, that is enough.

Heartbeats

Rarely there appears on the horizon of the conscious mind a phrase, or image, or sound that resonates in the soul. For me it is most likely to be music, and this particular song, of which I have now heard three versions recorded by three very different musical groups, is such an artifact.

Here is the original, by the Knife; the first version I heard, by Jose Gonzalez; and the one Erik just played from the other room by Scala, a Belgian girls' choir. Hearing the latter made me realize the truth behind the song, that it strikes a note within me no matter who interprets the music and words.