Thursday, December 08, 2005

ElenaJosette snatched


Okay, I'll play. I haven't played much lately and I'm feeling antsy. So here goes:

Words: 718
(NOTE: The genie works best on texts of more than 500 words.)

Female Score: 1114
Male Score: 1191

The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!


Apparently part of an algorithm that defines words as either male or female. Check it out for yourself. Supposedly accurate 80% of the time, but it was close on me. I guess I am almost balanced between male and female. Not such a bad thing.

That is all. Disperse.

White Trash Christmas


It's that time of year when everyone wants to get into the act and parodies abound. So, in order to spread a little holiday cheer, enjoy yourself and go here.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Yarg days


I'm having one of those days when I cannot concentrate, when I want to write and run and walk and get out of here. Cabin fever in December? Or something else? I'm fidgety and antsy and I want to do something, anything, but work.

Earlier today an acquaintance told me I need to do something with the relationship corner in my house. Wha!? Feng shui is what she meant. I know vaguely about all this, but relationship corner?

The way she explained it I suddenly realized there was no wonder my relationships are all over the place. My laundry is in that corner and it's spilling out of the woven African carry basket that I use for a hamper. Makes sense. But I had to check it out for myself. According to my search the southwest corner of my apartment is the relationship corner. I had to go look. The SW corner of the living is bare with a few cobwebs festooning the space between the window sill and the corner of the entry into the kitchen. She said I should put a picture of a couple in that corner. The search info said put something red, pink, and/or white in that corner, but go easy on the red because it means passion AND anger. I'm not into pink, although one of my close friends decorates everything in pink and green. Nothing like Pepto-Bismol and bile. Yuck!

Okay, so I called B&B and asked if they had a picture of a couple I could use to hang in that corner. I could put my parents' picture there, but I don't want the kind of relationship they have where one of us is slightly deaf and ignores what they can hear and the other is a shopaholic with a jewelry addiction who yells, gripes and criticizes all the time. I could put a picture of one of my sisters and her latest beau, but that changes from hour to hour and I'm not sure I want to even think about keeping up with her pace. I could put a picture of my brother and his wife up there, but he's completely oblivious to everything and his wife is gone most of the time. Not my idea of the perfect relationship. Then there's my other sister and her husband and I don't even want to go there.

My grandparents, when they were alive, had an interesting relationship -- and separate bedrooms. That wouldn't work for me either. Princess Diana and Prince Charles would be a very bad choice since she was bulimic when she was alive and is now dead and her husband is with a horse-faced wench who is also divorced from her first husband. I'm already a two-time loser and I don't need any more help in that area.

Looking over all the relationships I know about, very few of them work. Husbands bury themselves in work or hobbies or chores around the home -- or internet porn -- and wives shop till they drop, grow to the upholstery on their couch while they watch endless rounds of Oprah, Phil, Sally, or whoever is the current talk show host flavor of the week. Celebrity couples lie and cheat and most old couples are minus one. I want a plus one.

I could paint something myself, a silhouette of a happy nondescript couple gazing into each other's loving eyes while the sun comes up around them, but somehow I doubt fantasy will make my relationship corner any less empty. But I think I have the perfect couple.

A pair of falcons or eagles. They mate for life, have unbelievable high flying acrobatic sex, and never look at another falcon or eagle with lust in their far seeing eyes. But I wonder if that will bring a falcon or eagle to my door and into my life. I don't know if I can handle interspecies dating and mating.

Maybe I'd better move the over flowing basket of dirty clothes into that corner. That's the good thing about dirty clothes -- there are always more of them to be added. And a messy over flowing love life is better than no love life every time.

Back to work.

A little poetry offering


I wrote this poem this morning for a contest. The subject was chosen for me and I just wrote what came up. Just thought you'd like to...


Out of the Past


Out of the past you came,
sadness in your voice
and hope in your heart,
your eyes full of excitement
and love.

Silence stretched between us
through all the years,
a silence that began
with chances missed
by two shy children.

Friends we were
and friends we remain
through the silent years,
nursing a small spark
of the true love we share.

Red flags flew as you
opened your life and your heart.
Then I reached out to you,
heart aching for your pain,
and longing struck both our hearts.

But you aren't free,
a prisoner of circumstance and pain,
afraid to go forward,
more afraid to go back,
making prisoners of us both.

Empty weekends and holidays,
vacations we cannot share,
hiding our love behind public nods,
never touching, never holding,
never together.

We are destined for each other,
and have always been,
but time has been against us,
time and shyness and fear,
keeping us chained apart.

As Christmas nears and
a New Year approaches,
I wish upon a bright star
for the only present I will ever want,
you and I together at last.

Until that bright morning dawns,
all that waits for me is silence,
tears and empty longings for
all the days and all the nights
alone without you.


You can read some of my poetry and writing, some you've seen and some you haven't, here.

That is all. Disperse.

Snow globe world


The giant is shaking the snow globe again. The sky is gray-white that shimmers a faint washed out copper at the horizons. The white creeps down the mountain outside my window, wreathing the upper reaches in mist. Smoke signals drift lazily upwards, fanning out in a slight breeze that barely stirs the tiniest branches. The world is cold and silent, winter hushed. But here life is heating up.

I made some butternut squash soup a few days ago, cooling it in the fridge, mellowing the flavors. Last night I heated it up and mashed the big pieces of carrot and squash and onion with a potato masher. It didn't work. I borrowed the landlady's hand blender and fell in love. That's what I want for Yule -- a hand blender -- so when I make roasted pepper soup with black beans or butternut squash soup with sour cream and toasted pumpkin seeds or split pea soup or any blended soup I don't have to worry about spilling it all over the floor and the counter getting small batches into the blender, pouring it into another bowl, dirtying up the few dishes I own and the counter just to pour it all back into the pot and serve it. Unlike many women, I love getting tools for Yule.

I shared the soup with Nello across the hall, and the landlady when I returned her hand blender, and had a couple of bowls myself. It was the perfect meal for a cold winter night when the stars where obscured by clouds and blowing snow. Or for any winter night, come to that. Nello brought the container back a few minutes later, a big smile on her face and a searching look in her eyes that said she wanted more. Nello said it was just the right thing to warm her up and make her feel cozy. "Just what I needed."

And then I got the message. An email.

Gus, he of the lovely spontaneous prose, wrote to ask if I had any plans for New Year's weekend and if I'd mind if he came to town to take me out for coffee or a meal? He said, "We should know within 5 minutes if we like each other." I guess we'll see because I said I had no plans. And I didn't until last night.

In the past few years my New Year's dates have been me, myself and I. Sometimes a bottle of champagne was involved, but it was still just me and the animals and the silence and the music playing from the computer in the loft. I haven't had a date for New Year's in years. I did think Michael would ask me, but he's been busy and I've been ill and we haven't talked all that much in the past week. I do know he's going home to California for the holidays and I doubt he'll be back before New Year's Eve.

Someone told me 2006 was going to be my year. If this is any indication of the coming year, they could very well be right. I do know things are changing and changing quickly.

I suddenly realized that I miss writing poetry and have been visiting old poems and stories on the All Poetry site and even wrote a couple new ones for contests. I didn't know until I checked out the site again in response to an email to come back how much I missed it. That's not all I miss.

I miss writing. I planned to edit and flesh out Past Imperfect, my entry for NaNoWriMo this year, but I feel other stories bubbling just below the surface, ready to explode from my mind -- and my fingers. Something inside me is coming back to life. That something that always sent me running to the keyboard or reaching for a pen. And I'm sure I'll have lots to write about, although not a lot of time for it.

I've taken on the newsletter for the PPRAA and my first issue will be January 2006. Taking on the newsletter also means taking a seat on the board of directors. I'm sure I'll find something to do, even if it is just shaking up the ant farm. In the meantime, I'm getting all kinds of help and offers of help and invitations to parties. So, instead of just doing the monthly ham exam sessions between here and Woodland Park, I'll also be sitting on boards, helping plan hamfests, interviewing people for articles, writing about amateur radio and hams in the news (or putting them in the news), as well as carving out some time for prose and poetry...and maybe a date or three (or more).

The drama last summer is responsible for birthing this explosion of activity that forces me out of my solitary aerie and into the world more and more and I thank the people involved. If it were not for them carrying tales and sparking and interest in this lonely traveler, I would be content to sit and watch the world from my window-walled room, venturing forth only for necessities and the occasional movie. So, thank you all for shaking up this ant farm.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Just one more


As I save the old files in Linux compatible format, I found another poem I'd like to share from that long ago lover.

NASCAR Girl


Almost flying the road opens wide
driving into the perfect blue sky of the future
the feel of hot metal and the scream of the wind
I punch through the clouds like an eagle
high enough to see forever, a super vision,
but what I see is ever so much better,
it’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s waiting for me,
looking for me,
wanting just me,
so glad I met her,
just perfect for me,
she’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s better than ever.

Her beauty isn’t superficial.
Her knowledge is rather special
(this is no empty head, no bows or frills
not the hanger-on blonde with no thought
other than the thrill of maybe getting laid).
How many fools have walked past her.
She wears a black Tee with white letters
above dual checkered flags that says
“Death Rules!”
She has reached out and tasted it
her tits sag and sway low beneath
and if you ask she’ll show you
scars that will take your breath away.
She says, “I’m always naked under my clothes,”
with a smile stretching here to Dover.
She’s a little fat, but so damn cute,
a voice like a song, a piccolo, a flute.
She can think, write, and play the day
like a rock song or Beethoven ode
and ride with you and roll with you
laugh with you and chide with you
until all sorrow sways into forgotten,
like the ‘49 Ford in Thunder Road.
She keeps a journal filled with stories
of the road journey of her soul.
Behind the flash of her true blue eyes
she is molten joy at just being alive,
it bubbles and seethes and boils at
the chance of love, the rumbled exhaust,
the breakneck speed, a love of the fast,
and asks, "How much time do we have left?”
She is no stranger to grease and oil.
Quicker and more deft with a five-eighths box
than most guys I know, and she knows and says
that the torque settings listed are way too low.
On the street and when she's ready to go
she likes a four-speed with a short sure shift.
All this with a heat that warms like the sun,
with a love that sears like an iron,
with the hot soft lips of a dark angel
with a hardness then a softness then
a flat out run toward the finish
a full power shift into ecstasy
now one forty flat out down the hot straight
coming hard off the turn
the RPMs taching up and up
driving, driving
only inches from the wall
flying past fast
the roar of the crowd
the howl of existence
the rush at the edge
the nothing of tomorrow
and all the flags waving.

She calls me her Darlington.
She can be silly, yet cool.
She was looking for a driver
so she could give everything.
“She is my NASCAR girl,
never better a lover,” I thought,
as I smiled at her and turned the key,
now and forever off to the races.


Ain't love wonderful...even if it is a Mayfly existence in a sped up world?

Just one more


As I save the old files in Linux compatible format, I found another poem I'd like to share from that long ago lover.

NASCAR Girl


Almost flying the road opens wide
driving into the perfect blue sky of the future
the feel of hot metal and the scream of the wind
I punch through the clouds like an eagle
high enough to see forever, a super vision,
but what I see is ever so much better,
it’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s waiting for me,
looking for me,
wanting just me,
so glad I met her,
just perfect for me,
she’s my NASCAR girl
and she’s better than ever.

Her beauty isn’t superficial.
Her knowledge is rather special
(this is no empty head, no bows or frills
not the hanger-on blonde with no thought
other than the thrill of maybe getting laid).
How many fools have walked past her.
She wears a black Tee with white letters
above dual checkered flags that says
“Death Rules!”
She has reached out and tasted it
her tits sag and sway low beneath
and if you ask she’ll show you
scars that will take your breath away.
She says, “I’m always naked under my clothes,”
with a smile stretching here to Dover.
She’s a little fat, but so damn cute,
a voice like a song, a piccolo, a flute.
She can think, write, and play the day
like a rock song or Beethoven ode
and ride with you and roll with you
laugh with you and chide with you
until all sorrow sways into forgotten,
like the ‘49 Ford in Thunder Road.
She keeps a journal filled with stories
of the road journey of her soul.
Behind the flash of her true blue eyes
she is molten joy at just being alive,
it bubbles and seethes and boils at
the chance of love, the rumbled exhaust,
the breakneck speed, a love of the fast,
and asks, "How much time do we have left?”
She is no stranger to grease and oil.
Quicker and more deft with a five-eighths box
than most guys I know, and she knows and says
that the torque settings listed are way too low.
On the street and when she's ready to go
she likes a four-speed with a short sure shift.
All this with a heat that warms like the sun,
with a love that sears like an iron,
with the hot soft lips of a dark angel
with a hardness then a softness then
a flat out run toward the finish
a full power shift into ecstasy
now one forty flat out down the hot straight
coming hard off the turn
the RPMs taching up and up
driving, driving
only inches from the wall
flying past fast
the roar of the crowd
the howl of existence
the rush at the edge
the nothing of tomorrow
and all the flags waving.

She calls me her Darlington.
She can be silly, yet cool.
She was looking for a driver
so she could give everything.
“She is my NASCAR girl,
never better a lover,” I thought,
as I smiled at her and turned the key,
now and forever off to the races.


Ain't love wonderful...even if it is a Mayfly existence in a sped up world?

Poetry presents


Many years ago someone wrote me poetry, making gifts of his feelings in words. I'd like to share a few with you.



She Was a Poem She Didn't Know


I could not think a poem any better,
wholly a mystery
the way the words come together
just appear in dark ink on paper
between the letters
that we used to write each other
about writing from the very soul
to become truth, changed, whole
in a world bent on splitting us apart.
Your bleeding, daily, literally
fighting to write and stay alive,
bit by bit you let it unfold but it
left me shaken, quivering, rolling through
the whole story, your bravery and the bold
way in which you walked away
into what you have become,
a flame that doesn't dare to flicker,
a wick that burns no matter the hard wind,
a courage most men could hardly match.
Then you take your pen and write a letter
and tell me you think my poem is better,
that you could not think a poem any clearer,
but the words are all for you, like a mirror,
for the wonder you are, how beauty comes together.
No, I could not think a poem any better.



* * * * * *


When we touch electric


When our lips touch
when our hearts caress
when our souls kiss
with each electric yes
inside every neon sigh
this bright white light
flies and streaks like lightning
drives to the heart this spark
nothing but electrified bliss
that arcs and crackles in your cries.
I think it starts right here above your thighs
and darts to become blazing fire inside your eyes.

Zap! Hot breath. Hot death. Sweet electrocution!


* * * * * * *


I Love You For Your Mind


No, I love you for your mind, woman, for your mind
no, not for your tits that hang like supple pears, apples, ripe grapefruits
succulent and dangling from the tree of life
that suckle me long into the deep of night with your juice and nectar
No, I love your for your mind, woman, for your thoughts
no, not for your nipples sweet and red like the bud of a fresh rose
between my teeth rising and jutting out hard so proud majestic
No, I love you for your mind, woman, for your ideas and dreams
no, not for your breath tumbling and gushing and panting out
in animal sounds, unmeasured sighs, the sometimes screams
inside the hugging and the giving and the pulling and the loving
No, it is your mind I love, in your mind I find love and treasure
no, not in the delicate slope and rise of your belly above your mound
the wisps and curls of hair there in which I play and then twirl around my finger
then traces, toying, the thin skin around where you were joined to your mother
No, what I love you for is your complete grasp of European history
that you know the significance of Napolean's stunned defeat at Waterloo,
this huge and wheeling turn of history,
long after the master stroke of simplicity to take it all at Austerlitz
no, not for the mystery of the parting of your flesh, this entrance to heaven
where the angels sing and call me to answer and offer prayers upon my knees
my lips and tongue and teeth all kneeling and gnawing to enter here these heavenly gates
No, I love you for your mind, your cleverness revealed in contract talks
no, not for your sweet lips that close tight and hard around my stalk
humming a tune and waiting for the sudden hot electric shocks
No, it is for your mind, the intricacy of your curiosity that turns me on
not the wonder and the glory of your most perfect ass
not the delicacies I find in every crack and crevasse,
No, I love you for your mind, woman, but only for this single thought:
when you think that yes, yes, you'll go on,
go on forever, thinking that you'll never ever stop loving me
and suddenly, hell, I just love the way you think.


That is all. Now go write some poetry to someone you love. Yule/Xmas/Chanukah is coming/here.

Look what I found...


While converting one of my computers to Linux, I found I could get into hard drives and files I haven't seen in years. Some of the things I wrote and thought long gone have resurfaced through the cyber murk and make me smile. I wonder what prompted some of the pieces and clearly remember what gave birth to others. There is even a goodly bit of erotica that I need to find somewhere to post and might even create another LJ just for that. If you're interested, let me know. Otherwise I'll keep it to myself and you'll miss some really hot and spicy vignettes.

For right now, here is a tongue firmly stuck in cheek piece called --

Homeless Advantage


No responsibility. No time clocks to punch. No ruts to faithfully pace day after day after day. It’s a dream come true. It’s what we all wished for every year as we blew out the candles on our birthday cakes, and now it’s ours to live day after day after day. Bums do it. Winos do it. Even the mentally ill do it since the state facilities set them free to get their piece of America’s dream. Now middle class women and children can do it, too.

Ah, America, land of opportunity, freedom and, if the Bill of Rights is nonfiction, we have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We all have the right to choose – even if the choice is being homeless.

Being homeless can be a lot of fun if you handle it in just the right way. It’s all a matter of choice. Try to make sure you do it in the right city, though. Some cities offer no real opportunities or enough choices to make an informed decision.

Charitable organizations in some cities offer you free food, of a rather bland and predictable nature, or you can choose dumpster diving as a change of fare du jour. Let your palate be your guide.

If you’re prone to ulcers, the blander menu would be better for you. Your children can always dive for snacks before bed to satisfy their preference for fast food. There’s nothing faster. It’s a matter of taste.

They can wallow in food and have all their condiments right at their fingertips, nose, mouth and many other places that food hasn’t had a chance to get near since they were babies learning to eat with forks and spoons.

Forks, knives and spoons are optional unless you still have a family heirloom of white plastic laying loose somewhere. If you’re watchful and lucky you might even find a few in among your food. What a bonus! No restaurant ever offered you more for your money.

You can join your children and enjoy a little quality time together. But if you were really honest with yourself you’d admit that you like a little junk food now and again. Where else can you go for real junk food?

Dumpster diving doesn’t have to be your sole option, nor does the bland, tasteless fare from missions or free hostels. Keep in mind that even the most unpalatable stodge is far superior to the cramping complaints of a stomach on a strict no-food, no frills diet. You could take time from your open schedule to earn a bit of pocket change to buy a few inexpensive tidbits to supplement your tightly varied meals, like a pack of gum or day old donuts or bread. The green stuff is good for you –where do you think penicillin comes from. And just think of the benefits of having a natural antibiotic in your system when you get cut on the rusty bits on dumpsters or get bitten by rats.

Earning money need not put too big a crimp in your idle style if you’re intelligent about it. All you need do is cultivate the ability to appear needy, heart rending and just a little obnoxious if the situation warrants when charity is not uppermost in the minds of your would-be benefactors hurrying down the streets on their way to those boring, time consuming ruts you’ve been clever enough to avoid.

Work smart not hard – teach your kids the business. Send them onto the streets you never allowed them to play near when you were tied down to a mortgage or rent. They can stroll along the curb and look for loose change. After all, they are closer to the ground and all that bending does tend to get to be a bit tiresome after a while when you’re having trouble just standing up straight.

Pennies add up just like the old cliche says. If you watch for pennies they’ll soon turn into dollars. There’s very little for the price of a penny these days though. Thank you lucky stars for that. Penny candy would just rot your children’s teeth and spoil their dumpster dinner. Save your pennies for those cold days ahead when your options are fewer and wanderlust beckons.

My favorite way to support the nasty habit of eating – a monkey on my back I’ll never be able to get rid of – was to sell blood plasma to the local donor center three or four times a week. That $15 or $20 every other day or so adds up to a tidy sum when you sit down and think about it. Since plasma centers don’t take children you’ll have to keep this source of income all to yourself. Can’t let the kids have all the fun.

My favorite time when donating was afterwards. The first beer after your tour of duty on the comfortable plastic lounge in the donor center just hits the spot. It numbs your stomach and your brain and replenishes the fluids you’ve sacrificed to your addiction for food. It also costs less than a square meal.

If you’re averse to the benefits of hops, water, sugar and the fermentation process there’s always a free fountain full of icy water in every big office building’s lobby. What more could you want? It’ll also help fill your stomach to stop it’s everlasting complaining. That rumbling noise can be so nerve wracking, especially when it’s coming from your stomach.

Balancing all your creature comforts won’t be too difficult if your children have done their parts. You can live like a king in the spring, summer and early fall and profit from the healthful atmosphere of the wide open spaces when it’s warm and dry. But don’ sell rainy days short because they help create the pitiful appearance you’ve tried so hard to maintain. Thunderstorms, and the occasional downpour, also save you the expense of wasting your hard-earned money on a facility with a shower. Nature does provide well for its itinerant offspring.

Save your money for those lean times in the winter when nature’s accommodations become a bit too drafty and cold for comfort. Don’t rule out the open shelters and missions in those times of wintery bluster so close to the giving season of Christmas. A red-cheeked face, shivering body and waif-like children come in so handy to remind the workday slaves of charity and generosity in that most holy of seasons dedicated to the birth of Christ and the open-handed largesse of Santa Claus.

Make the most of every advantage to stockpile your acquisitions. At the very least newspapers, catalogs and advertisements for Thanksgiving and Christmas sales will go far toward feathering your cardboard nest if you’re less than happy about parting with your vacation cash.

Remember the lesson of the birds that migrate south at the first sign of cold weather. By the time the weather turns nippy you could use the exercise from all the indolence and ease of those bright summery days not to mention how much you’ll save by not having to buy winter clothes and coats.

Traveling is a great education for the children, too. They won’t have to worry about proper clothing, shoes or peer pressure either. Homelessness is so much healthier for their budding psyches.

Without telephones, television, radio or movies they won’t succumb to the flash of colorful clothes, warm-up jackets or expensive shoes. Sandals are much more suitable to wear with summery clothes. They will be somewhat in fashion with the holes and tears in their clothes. Some things are just unavoidable.

Drugs won’t be a problem for you or your children. They’re expensive and unnecessary. They don’t offer you and yours the luxury of getting away from it all when you already have. The numbness and euphoria working people find so addictive are already yours from cold and lack of food. Why waste your savings paying for what you can get for free?

Outside of a little petty thievery to help with those lean begging times to keep the kids’ eye-hand coordination sharp as a tack, their quick thinking on the beam and their reflexes honed to perfection from those quick getaways. Crime is not a problem either.

Who’d want to steal from you and where could you hide the loot if you stole anything more than you could easily hide or eat? Of course, store owners do have a prejudicial tendency to want to keep you out of their establishments, but you don’t want their overpriced, defective, middle class goods anyway. That’s what you’ve been trying to avoid. The decor would clash w the manila color of your cardboard abode anyway.

Schooling for your children isn’t really necessary if they choose to take over the family business. If they wish for the rutted rat race you can teach them yourself. What better education that learning on the job?

Reading, writing and arithmetic will be the easiest because they are a part of your daily life. They’ll learn to read by the signs and papers they use to line their clothes and bedding. Writing is just as easy with all the litter around to use for paper. Pens and pencils are usually found lying in the street. You could invest a few cents in one from a store if push comes to shove – consider it a business expense and take it off your taxes when the IRS gets around to demanding their share of your earnings.

Math will come easiest of all from the practical side of their days counting change and dividing the spoils from dumpster foraging trips.

Current events and geography are easily learned, once again, from newspapers and litter. Science will practically teach itself from observing their own bodies, and yours, as you all physically change by making do with less. Comparisons are easily made between you and the wage slaves who hurry by as they pretend not to notice you.

The state will eventually have to be petitioned for financial aid if they choose to go to college. They might decide to stay with the family business after all. Nothing is impossible. You’ve learned this as you survive from one day to the next.

One song says, “Life’s a ball if only you know it. And it’s all just waiting for you...”

Living is easy when you pay attention and take advantage of the edge you have over everyone else. Homelessness isn’t so bad once you get used to a standard of living so far above the animals that comprise your biggest competition.

After all, animals can’t appreciate the benefits they take for granted every day – time, freedom and the open road whenever they wish to walk it. What more could any astute mammal wish for?

White


Yesterday, winter bowed and made its first appearance with a quiet steady salting of snow. Outside my windows the mountain was hidden behind a dense draping of white as though the world was inside a snow globe some giant shook and shook to obscure all with flying flakes.

The snow globe world outside my window this morning is quiet beneath a clear blue sky with a hint of blurry clouds on the mountain brightly lit with a blazing sun. Squirrels huddle on the ends of slender branches still as statues while clumps of snow fall into the silent street below. Water drips down outside my windows as the bright sun melts the frosting on the roof above me. The streets are nearly empty of all but a couple white mounded cars. Somewhere out there a metal shovel scrapes against a sidewalk, sometimes bumping and banging to loosen its heavy wet burden, as one early bird makes a path through the crystalline powdered white.

Prezzies


I've been down with the flu, as anyone who has talked to me over the past few days can tell, but I have not been alone. Friends, neighbors, the landlady, and new acquaintances have stopped by with food, reading material to make me smile (and sweat), herbal concoctions to help me heal, and one generous soul has even sent healing energy my way. That one generous soul has also kept me company on the phone despite a trip to the emergency room for an accident that could have taken his eye...

...and he sent me this to warm my heart.

As the sun cast down its rays of light and warmth upon the frozen mountain top, slowly turning the ice into water which flows down the mighty slopes, filling in all the deep crevices that time has created, it makes its way to the valleys below where it will give the life force to make all things come back from a long solitude of sleep. The grass will grow. The flowers will bloom. The trees will sprout new leaves. The valleys will once
again shimmer with life.

It is as the same when the heat of passion casts its rays upon a frozen heart. Love will once again flow, filling in all the hurt and pain time has created, making its way through the depths of the soul, nd bringing the life force needed to awaken the heart from its long solitude of sleep. With this all is well and life is good.


Gus wrote that for me last night.

This morning after we got off the phone, he wrote and sent this:

When the light of day meets the dark of night, it is here where all the questions and all the answers of the universe can be found by those who look deep enough with a clear and empty mind!!

Needless to say, Gus and I have a date when he comes back to Colorado Springs.