Birches

Every time I see a birch tree, I think about the Bill Morrissey song, "Birches". Hopelessly romantic, I would seek to burn them and dance in the light as well. But even before Bill's song entered my world, I was enchanted by birches. They were few and far between where I grew up, so whenever I spotted their white bark, I was always drawn. Delicate layers, pale and peeling like lace, birches seemed to be the bride of trees. As a child, I would gently peel the bark, trying to preserve a note sized section. Writing on birch bark transported me to ancient times; I was elite, a Russian princess or maybe a chosen Ojibway hiding the scrolls. Now I am content to gaze in fascination, freezing moments in photos and memories. Still, hopelessly romantic.

Something changed

80% of the time, lyrics came first. Always. I started making up songs before I could even play a note. It's what kids do. I just never grew out of it. But even when I began playing guitar, lyrics nearly always came first. Poems set to music. Occasionally a whole package would present itself, notes and words seemingly already married. Very rarely would a melody enter my head without a lyric attached.

Past tense. Something strange happened last June. On the night of the full moon, everything changed. I didn't know it then. It was chalked up as one of those rare occasions when a melody alone demanded attention, most likely precipitated by the phase of the moon. Until it happened again. Driving, humming, humming what? And again. Surely, it's something I've heard before that I am unwittingly plagiarizing. So I play it for my husband, a couple of friends. They can't place it either. So it continued. Creativity as I know it was turned on its head.

What could make everything change? Change nearly in an instant, over night, with only the full moon to blame? Was there actually an evolution so gradual that I just didn't notice everything slowly turning upside down? No. Something happened. An odd magic, a twist of reality, something drastic yet natural, something beyond definition. Something.

Sleep

Sleep. It seems that there is never enough time for the quantity of it which I desire. And I desire a lot. Please don't wake me, let me hibernate. Quilts and afghans pulled above my head, warm and dreaming, stretch, sigh, curl up again, repeat. Today was rare. Somehow the luxury of an afternoon nap became a reality. Once asleep, guilt over tasks left behind is forgotten. Plans for dinner are irrelevant. Control is gone. Such a gift, to be able to let go; to dream even as the sun shines on the scurrying world. The week will be there waiting for me when I return, greedy of time, always pressing for more. But for now, it has to wait. Don't spoil the afterglow. Stretch, curl up again, repeat. Sigh. Sleep.

Selfish

"I'm so hard to handle, I'm selfish and I'm sad ....
....I wish I had a river I could skate away on"

Joni Mitchell has a way of bringing to light what most would hide and accepting it, if not being proud in the process. From her heart to her sleeve to her paintings and songs, that unabashed honesty flows. We are who we are.

I recognize my selfish streak, my hard to handle tendencies, my stubbornness. Reigning it in can be a chore when the mood strikes at an inopportune time. My father used to tease me in his best Garbo, "She vants to be alone!" when I'd withdraw. Sometimes it made me giggle; sometimes I would just brood. Sometimes I still brood. It's part of who I am, not the whole, but a part. Might as well put it out there on my sleeve, in honesty.

April come she will

Morning birdsong is beginning. Robins are flocking. Buds are swelling. The calendar still says it's winter, but signs point to spring.

There is no control over the seasons. They will ebb and flow at their own pace, teasing us with a few warm days, only to freeze the world again by Thursday. I can lament winter's passing and our paltry one and a half snows all I want, but it is to no avail. Spring has the blessed freedom to do as she pleases.

So I give in, seed catalogs scattered on the floor, as I sit cross-legged, sipping tea and pouring over blueberries, basil, heirloom tomatoes and beets. I long to work the soil. Sun on my back, fragrant earth beneath my knees, tiny green shoots growing into salads and pesto, ice cream and pies. It won't be long. I know winter will come again, perhaps next week, but spring is immanent. She'll come what may.

Valentine's Day

Love can be forever; it can last infinitely. Or not. Ask anyone who has ever been in love. In other words, ask anyone. Rare is the individual who has never been in love.

Nothing non-alcoholic, nothing legal, can impair judgment as much as falling in love. Under the influence, you can convince yourself of anything. It's dangerous. It's exhilarating. Hormones, endorphins, serotonin, adrenalin. You're a superhero, a psychic, a goddess, a god; you're unstoppable, invincible and immortal. You believe in infinite love.

Perhaps that is why few marriages stand the test of time. When love changes, and it will, people are just not ready. They refuse to accept it. They continue to seek the rush until the chase leaves them crushed. Admittedly, some things were never meant to be, but others?

Infinite love does exist. It takes a good portion of leeway, continual attempts at understanding, repeated forgiveness, sympathy, empathy, patience and humor, but it's there. Sometimes.

Somewhere In Illinois

The world smells like a wet screen door
1978 in Illinois
Woven with patches, white paint peeling
Where the cats have clawed

Rain stopped just after nightfall
Still dripping from bare trees
The sycamore groans, gravel crunches
It’s almost like going home

Then you come to me on the full moon
As clouds skirt the starless sky
Bringing me nothing that I’ve asked for
But everything I desire

And I’m back on that sad old porch
Familiar as my minds own eye
The screen door creaks, you’re there again
With me one more time

Just barely time to say goodbye
As the rain comes back to fall
The moon disappears, and you with it
Somewhere in Illinois.

.

"Death is there to keep us honest......"

"......and constantly remind us we are free." DF "Ghosts"

Cemeteries are a reoccurring theme for me. Odd, I suppose, for someone who wants to be cremated. But these were the playgrounds of my youth. Lush and green, lakes with swans and ducks to feed, paths to walk, trees to sit under. Years later, my imagination wandered through endless moonlit graveyards, full of unrequited romance and Hitchcockian terror. Now as I ramble through the quiet stones, my thoughts still linger over unknown stories, broken angels and the ghosts of days left behind. I can't help but be drawn in.

After the last snow, I took these photos in a graveyard not far from my house. Dan Fogelberg's "Ghosts" provide the soundtrack.

I candod beade

I candod beade ad I wand my bandkie......

Having a cold sucks. My lips are chapped, my nose is raw, there aren't enough Puffs Plus with Aloe Lotion in the world, let alone my house. Someone needs to bring me a pillow and some nice hot tea, cover me with a home made afghan or quilt, rub my back and read to me. Nothing I have to do is getting done; no energy to change guitar strings or play, no voice to sing, and the bathroom is not getting cleaned today, either. Soon as I lower my head, the cough will begin, so I fight to stay upright until the dextromethoriphan kicks in, only then will I rest. Of course, a little whiskey might improve the process. The Dextro-Daniels medicinal cocktail. Afterall, what is Nyquil? That's really livin' on the edge, huh? Makes me feel like a rebel without a schnoz. Appearently, my breathing isn't all that suffers when I have a cold. Yep, this sucks.

Shields up!

I name things. Or rather, things I own tend to name themselves. Every vehicle I’ve had has emerged with a unique name. My new truck is no different.

The dealer nearly gave this thing away. They are so desperate to make a sale in this economy. After finding out how much the Chevy Volt technology was going to cost next year, (as much for a small car as I paid for my small house!), I decided to pull the trigger, coz The Grape wasn’t getting’ any younger. I'd keep my beloved old truck and run it into the ground but still get a new 2008, while the gettin' was good. I wheeled and dealed and walked out a winner.

As part of a package, I had to take the truck back up to the dealership and have the Crystal Fusion windshield stuff put on. I was describing it to my husband, “It makes water sheet and rocks and stuff bounce off your windshield without chipping or cracking it.” He laughed, “It’s a force field?” I laughed, “Yeah, but I couldn’t afford the transporter upgrade.” We could not help ourselves. “Shields up!” “Does it have photon torpedo headlights?” Laughter was leaving us breathless. “Where is warp speed button?” “Oh, no! Klingons and Romulans aren’t covered in the warranty!” "Open all hailing frequencies." “Hello, On-Star? This is the Starship Equinox…..”

And so the new truck was named.

Down came the snow

Snow Down

Finally, the snow came down.
Wave after wave of powder,
A swirling mist covering the night.
Cloud filtered moonlight
Reflects eerily upon every hill.
Each tree becomes a study
In black and white.
The morning will bring the plows,
The traffic and the grey.
Until then,
A pristine world lies in wait.

Not my cat

Cats do not like wasabi. Other than being a foregone conclusion, why on earth would I know this? Because the not-my-cats are still on the prowl.

Don't get me wrong. I love cats. Growing up on the farm, we had between three and thirteen cats at any given time. Not only were they pets; (Dove, Rikki, Reesie, Bangor, Dutch, Magneto and Piper to name a few) they roamed the acreage and kept the mice down in the barn. It was their job. Out in the country, that's how it was. Even here in the city, I'd have at least one now, were it not for my husband's aversion to the idea. But then there are the not-my-cats. They are beautiful. One is some kind of Himalayan or Long Haired Persian or Siamese, the other two are fluffy and dark. But they are a hazard.

Our bird feeders hang over a shade garden, next to some Korean Spice and Spirea bushes. Loose neighborhood cats think of this as their all-you-can-pounce buffet. In the spring, a large black fluffy feline (yes, the one in the picture) quite literally flew through the air and snatched a cardinal off of the feeder. I have no idea where it came from or went to after, as he streamed horizontally across my field of vision like a low flying plane. Super Cat! He and his friends also decided that the flower bed along the back of the house (that the drier vent just happens to keep toasty warm on cold winter days) was their new litter box. N-n-n-n-no. So we sprinkled wasabi powder on the soil. The not-my-cats get it on their paws and fur, then lick....... They stay out of the flower bed now. Yes, they do.

If I ever manage to win over my husband' s objections, perhaps I will get a nice fluffy kitty and name her Wasabi. The poetic justice would be far too succulent to pass by.

Joker's Wild

Duck bathing with a "rubber humanie". I laughed my arse off. There was much to strike my fancy at Terra Studios, but this bit of whimsy tickled me down to the ground in a fit. Much does.

Contrary to my artistic penchant for melancholy, people label me the class clown. Can't say that I disagree with that assessment. All through school, (and now even at work), I was always the one getting in trouble for everything from satirical commentary to practical jokes. Anonymously penned "fake" expositions crossed teachers' desks, leaving some in fits of giggles and causing others to glare at me as I smiled my best "Who, me?" Cheshire grin. One year, on April 1st, I parked my truck three blocks away then hid in my office while employees told my assistant how I'd been fired and that the dreaded district manager was up in the office and wanted to talk to him. The poor guy nearly had a heart attack, but we still laughed until we could not catch our breath. Any gathering is fair game, hence our church choir's motto, "What happens in the choir loft, stays in the choir loft.". We laugh as much as we sing. Humor, whether used as a shield, a weapon or an invitation, has always been my forté.

Recently, a friend, commenting on my absence from a weekly gathering, told me that the group just was not as fun without me. She meant it; I was touched. Sometimes you wonder, like George Bailey, would the world be better off without me? It's good to know that someone's movie really would be different if I wasn't in it. Thank you, Clarence. Have some wings.

Forgive us our trespasses

Ruins are my downfall. If it’s uninhabited, falling down or past its use, then I want to poke around and investigate. Old crumbling buildings, industrial complexes that have made nothing in years, schools long void of children’s voices, cabins in the woods with overgrown or nonexistent pathways to their doors, rusting rail yards, forgotten roads leading to nowhere, bridges that cross only memories of water…. These fire my imagination like nothing else.

Unfortunately, in order to preserve these treasures before they turn to dust, trespass is usually required. In my travels I obey the conservation edict, “Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures, kill nothing but time,” but where I go seems more dictated by a lesser known verse that Woody Guthrie wrote to his iconic “This Land Is Your Land.” One of the verses you didn’t learn in school goes:
“As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!”

For me there is no moral dilemma. It’s do unto others. If I came home from work and someone was in my garden taking pictures of my irises, I would greet them, yes, question them, and as long as they were not taking anything but pictures, I’d more than likely offer them a cup of tea and sit down and talk gardening or photography with them for a while. And I’d feel honored that they found my garden inspirational! However, there is a difference between legality and morality. Someday I’m sure I’ll be run off, if not hauled in, for finding artistic inspiration in the “wrong” place. Until then, beauty is where you find it. Click here to see today’s adventure.

Brother of another

I am an only child, so I don't know what it's like to have a sibling. Not really. Some of my friends are close to their brothers or sisters, others have relationships that are downright contemptible. The dynamic remains a mystery to me. Yet, as an "only", growing up I was sort of adopted into my close friends' families. This gave me sisters and brothers both big and little. I was looked after, teased, pestered, spied on, picked up, turned in, hated, loved, envied, pitied and/or admired, all depending on where I was on any given day. And in true sisterly fashion, I gave as good as I got.

So it was hard to hear that one of those little brothers was sick. Even though he grew up to be quite the responsible man with wife, kids and the whole nine yards, he will forever be imprinted in my mind as the pesky kid bothering his sister and me while we dolled up to go out, or waking me up too early when I was hung over the next morning. How could time have played such a cruel trick? He'd been ill for quite some time, but over the holidays he took a drastic turn for the worse. Now, he's got a new liver to show for it. It's too early for predictions, but preliminarily things are looking good. We continue to pray. Let's hope the good news continues. Anyone who says you won't miss what you never had obviously never met the little brother that was never mine.

Scout

"To Kill A Mockingbird" is this year's Big Read. The idea is to get everyone in town to read the same book, then get out in the community to events to discuss. I could not be happier, since it's one of my favorite books and movie. To celebrate and generate interest, Scout came to St. Louis. Mary Badham is still pixie small, never lost her Southern accent, is gracious beyond words and just about the cutest grandma around. She spoke with passion about the film, her experiences while making it, and of her relationship with Gregory Peck. He was, indeed, a kind and noble man and a father figure to her, not only during the making of the film, but throughout the rest of his life. It was fascinating to hear her tell how scenes were shot and what ended up on the cutting room floor. After a question and answer session, Mary had to catch a plane, but they screened "To Kill A Mockingbird" for the crowd that remained. Young, old, black, white, hippie-kids, suits; the crowd was diverse and a message from the book resounded off the walls of the University City Library. "I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks." - Scout (chapter 23)

The Loft lets me down

I have never seen anything positive come from a buy-out or a merger. One (eventually) killed my job, one killed the King of Beers, and now one has reduced my favorite radio station to a pale shadow of its former self. I am just not happy.

Many years back, my brother-in-law gave me an XM radio for Christmas. Very quickly I stumbled upon the Loft. It was acoustic-ish, but not folk, it played deep album tracks from my old '70's favorites (Fogelberg, Browne, Zevon, Mitchell, Young, etc) and from then newer artists (Ryan Adams, Jayhawks, Son Volt, Wilco, Rocky Votolato, Ben Harper, EastMountainSouth, John Gorka, Casey Chambers, Michael Penn, Ray Lamontagne, Gomez, and so much more). Talk was minimal except for Pete Fornatale's Mixed Bag Radio and a few special features/events and the Loft Sessions provided tasty live treats on a regular basis. There was a special vibe that flowed throughout the day. Mike Marone started off the wake up sets easy, then the shows would build from there, cresting in the afternoon/evening drive, then settling down for the night shift. They kept it eclectic, you did not really hear "the hits"; they would dig three and four tracks into a new release and really give you a feel for the record. I listened to The Loft daily. Turned my friends onto it, many bought into the XM thing after listening in my truck. Hearing those non-hit tracks resulted in CD purchases. By all accounts, their programming and marketing was succeeding..... until now.

Things weren't so bad right after the merger of XM & Sirius. A new DJ. A new show. But then the programming of the old shows began to change. More songs being repeated. More "hit" songs. More "hit" artists. Good luck hearing anything from Jackson Browne that couldn't be heard on regular FM radio, let alone Dan Fogelberg, Steve Goodman or Harry Nilsson. I don't know what the edict was that went out, and I'm sure there's a gag order that goes along with it, but now The Loft is gentrified, homogenized and politicized. It changed the vibe, it changed the flow, it changed The Loft. I'm sure glad the CD player in my truck still works, coz The Loft is letting me down.

ed. 1/13...... Did Mike Marone read this last night? After weeks of disappointment, and abandoning the wake up sets for my own tunes, I was in a rush to get out the door this morning and forgot the CD, so I turned the radio on. Much to my delight, my morning drive consisted of:
Dan Fogelberg "Someone's Been Telling You Stories", Warren Zevon "Johnny Strikes Up The Band", 10cc "Dreadlock Holiday" and Jenny Lewis "Carpetbagger". Maybe there's hope for them yet. Thanks, Mike.

When did "change" change?

Often, I do not know which way to go. Sometimes I feel like I have not been certain of anything since I was seventeen. Didn't know how to get what I wanted, but at least I knew what it was. It's been much less clear since then. Things like jobs, money, shelter, transportation and insurance all conspired against me. In other words, I had to become a responsible adult. And adults hate change.

I can remember a time when I welcomed change. Some kids dreaded the new school year, I was happy to have a fresh start. I changed boyfriends like some people changed their underware. When things started to go south at a job, I'd go out and find another, and do it quickly. The thought of moving to a new place was exciting. Now it's all terrifying. Just making the initial contacts in a job hunt takes a day of psyching up. Reaching out to a new acquaintance is met with the determination of forcing oneself to eat brussels sprouts. When did change become so confoundedly scary? So off I go, to psych up and eat some tiny cabbages. Hopefully, the fear will subside and turn back into excitement. Maybe I can turn back the hands of time and be sure of what I want again. After all, it's only change.

January thaw

Bars of ice surround my muse; together we await the January thaw. Quite to my dismay, the new year has yet to allow much solitude. While my head is full of phrases and snippets, completing a cohesive thought is a struggle. Even a blog entry seems a daunting task. Perhaps it is the head cold I'm fighting (or the meds used to ease it). Perhaps it is the stress of a workplace filled with uncertainty as rumours fly of more impending layoffs. Perhaps it is the quickly filling calendar or the lack of winter snow. Whatever the reason, my mind is a muddle, pacing an icy fence-row. In time it will melt, or crack and shatter with spectacular effect. Freedom and solitude cannot be far away.

A New Year

It is another year. A new year.
Stretching out before us lies an unwritten book,
as fresh and pristine as midnight snow.
We fear to tread and ruin its fragile beauty,
yet our deepest desire is to run forward
through it with abandon, laughing.
Like that snow,
may this new year welcome you into its mystery.
May you greet each day without fear
as hope and laughter fills your heart.
Let this be the year.
The year you walk in beauty;
the year we live in peace.

Many thanks and blessings to you, my friends.
Happy New Year!