It was Manderley! Manderley was burning!

I was ill and that's probably the reason I saw the dragon. I had my window all the way down and was drowning in the slipstream when I looked up and saw it in silhouette form dancing in front of a sun that was melting onto Chamberlayne. I thought wow, and hit what is left of my brakes because it was dancing on the line between the two lanes. I say it because I wasn't close enough to see its eyelashes, which would be the only means I am aware of to determine the sex of a dragon. I mean, really, how is it done? So, I wheeled closer to the back lit creature just as it darted onto the gravel at the shoulder. And at that point it dwindled from something androgynous into the form of a wizened old man saddled in his HoverRound. Now, either it was a real dragon, and changed to avoid being discovered. Or I was much sicker than I thought I was.
I don't think I was completely in control of my faculties. I wasn't legally drunk on anesthetics the way that Cathy was, so theoretically I was capable of driving. I had problems at Kroger though. Believe it or not that store is bursting with food. Food was something I was trying to avoid at all costs. It was like trying to run a fifteen aisle gauntlet. The only thing I picked up that didn't make my guts do the twist was the recycled toilet paper, and that, by all means, doesn't have the best of connotations depending on point of view. But people survive, and they survive and so it goes. Even the ill can drive for the inebriated if need be. We all zoom around in these hunks of metal and mostly plastic as though it's the sanest thing in the world. Usually not even realizing the potential a vehicle has to be used as a weapon. I think of that often, cos I'm slightly off kilter by nature I guess. It just makes me more respectful of the responsibility.
Taking Cathy to get her car after she had sobered up is how I got my dinner. Brain Salad Surgery, and, "...And now in Zanzibar a shootin star was ridin in a side car hummin a lunar tune. Yes, and the avatar said blow the bar but first remove the cookie jar we're gonna teach those boys to laugh too soon.", and Crimson and Clover, of course. I know I'm not the only person to like ketchup on her greens. It was sustaining, and didn't make me barf so I felt better even though I froze all day long.
My kids were in the backyard that afternoon making bricks out of clay mud to make a clubhouse with. I don't know how they come up with this stuff. I mean, probably from the Pueblos, but still, I never thought to do it as a kid. We only had mud fights and mud slides. At any rate, I admire the idea so much that I don't mind the mud trailed into the back room as much as I probably should. Sebastian made a bridge of clay complete with roads and things but the other kids destroyed it before I could get a good picture. He built another one not nearly as good, and I tried to get a good picture of it but it didn't come out so great. My days are filled with photographing childhood inventions. It's a pleasurable occupation.
I also thought of other crazier things. Like wondering why Sebastian is my dark child, and if that has anything to do with the fact that we swam in Lake Anna when I was pregnant with him. My little hazel-eyed lisper doesn't seem to mind the differences. He's proud of his 'green' eyes and darker hair. And doubly proud that he has the longest name. He's mercurial, and his ears constantly drain earwax, and he is the least selfish of the lot. He is a wonderful being. But having Sean as a male role model has of late caused him to growl more than smile, and that sorta thing has got to be dissipated. I remember how he used to call Gatorade 'Harry Potter juice'. I wish he still did that. But even Sebastians have to grow up and not want to do 'baby things' anymore.
And then today I went to the library to stock up. The Old Curiosity Shop, and Bradbury's Farewell to Summer, From the Dust Returned,& The October Country. I had been reading Cathy's Anne Rice books, even though she isn't my favorite the way she is Cathy's. The Feast of All Saints by her is by far and large my favorite book that she has written and it has nothing whatsoever to do with vampires. Water for Elephants is good, and I borrowed Childhood's End from Ella last month and I've read it twice since I did. But I haven't read the ones I got from the library except The October Country, so I'll be going more new places soon. I don't like to start a book and not finish it so I had to finish Merrick, though I kinda didn't want to. And I've read Hamlet twice before so I won't feel too awful if I don't finish it a third.
And so, it wasn't really Manderley burning, just my fevered mind, the sunset, or the dragon's song and dance. Manderley only burns and smoulders within the pages of Rebecca, which is also a kickass read, and highly recommended. Now I need to make coffee and skip some more stones just to see the ripples.

I shoulda remembered Wawa with the kickass wraps

When should I tell Sean that Santa died hundreds of years ago? This whole Santa business is a double-edged sword anyhow. There is the fun of playing, of course, and the whole helping keep magic alive for your children thing. But trying to substitute when I can't always get what my kids want makes me feel an extreme amount of guilt. I feel like an idiot to feel the guilt I do. Christmas just depresses me. The only parts I like about it at all are the getting together part, and the kids being happy part. We drove around yesterday evening and ended up downtown, or close enough anyway. It was a part of Richmond that I didn't know. Cathy wanted to eat out instead of making a big dinner and mess here. It was great. We had our choice of open 7-11's with their gourmet hot dogs and such, and some Chinese restaurants. We weren't armed with information before we left home. The internet didn't know what was open Christmas Day or not. So we drove. The kids got crankier and the cut downs got crasser, like Skylar told Sebastian he was a piece of toilet paper with diarrhea on it, and Sean told Skylar she was heck in the form of a person, and Sage just yelled no, especially when Sebastian called her a sassy pants. I stopped at a 7-11 to play sheriff. It's not as though I had to look hard to find a 7-11, I think they bred like rabbits sometime in the early eighties. But I picked the right one in my opinion. My kids got faces stuffed with hot dogs and nachos dripping chili and ketchup and cheese everywhere. And I had noticed that across the street there was a Mediterranean market, so I got a gyro and falafel and baklava for everyone. It was a good Christmas dinner. And an excellent Christmas with an unparalleled family, extended or otherwise.

just slam and squish meat into it...

Lately my kids have been kitchen wizards. Surprise! The other night Skylar made dinner while I was otherwise occupied. We had big wads of scrambled eggs and salad. Last night, Sebastian almost single-handedly concocted stuffed peppers. He said it was easy, "All you do is just slam and squish meat into it." I like his explanation. It doesn't have to be applied to only the construction of stuffed peppers, but so many other things as well. How easily many people are sated just by the slamming and squishing of meat. And meat can have soooo many definitions as well. Just like seasickness. Sean was teaching Sebastian about Grandpa Green, who wasn't really my grandfather though I wish he could have been. Anyway, Sean was telling Sebastian about Grandpa being in the war. He paused to ask me for clarification, and to make sure that he wasn't telling Sebastian anything untrue. So I said, "Yeah, he was overseas during WWII." Sean then said, "Hmmm, do you think he got seasick?" And I told him that he probably did. Maybe not on a boat, perhaps, but maybe seasick at heart and in his mind. I think that for myself that's how I would feel anyway. Thrust there in the chaos of war, I would be overly seasick. Another word, with different, but all correct applications.

Life, the Universe, and Everything?

Answer. It's in Pierre, who didn't care, and didn't care, and didn't care. Until he was in the belly of the lion. It's in the acorn, small, into something massive with cultivation. The fingernail dirt from the planting, the dewy toil from weeding, the shelter from the frost. It's in the lip balm, cos let's face it baby, it's cold outside. Hear that gnashing wind? It's in the letters of a loving parent. The sent, the replies, all creation from one visage. It's in the Doohicky. The silence invoked, interpretation all across the board, the brainchild of a brainchild. It's in the polished stones, collections of blue-eyed pack rats. To throw away is to kill. It's on the windowsill, spread out for contemplation, window backdrop, entertainment while hands make mountains of suds below. Sometimes the answers are really in the silence.

You say you wanna revolution? Darling Darkshines, you haven't beauty enough for a ticket.

Okay, okay. I feel idiotic. Do you know what that changes? AbsoLUTELY n-o-t-h-i-n-g. So, I shall do this reverse hopscotch until my demise. And at times it seems as though death will not numb my tongue as quickly as he ought. Because there is this aspect of myself that I cannot change. I have tried soo many times and it has never worked. It's like this odd tidal pull that never ebbs. For about eight years now, give or take a month here or there, this full moon has been hanging over my horizon. It never wanes, clouds don't cover it whenever there are storms, birds don't blight it with shit, and it is mute. It gives no answers as to the why?, the how?, or the "Excuse me, but what the fuck do you mean?" Move, set, shatter, sing opera to me dammit. Do something else other than pull me in a direction that makes me ache. Eight fucking years. Oh yes. Believe it or not. This odd attraction like no other. I don't understand it, and it dumbfounds me. It scares me sometimes. And I'm certain that it will just be there forever. Forever. I've acknowledged from afar the fact that different dazzling satellites have orbited that reflecting rock consistently. The rumor of every turning pass eroding me a little with swirling dust. It seems as though I'll never have a chance to orbit. I've turned my back and tried to ignore it. That is laughable because all that happens is that moonshine begins to burn my shoulder and bore a hole there. As I've tried to express already, that orb hanging there is not forthcoming, and therefore is not inviting. Has given no indication that I'm even welcome to be illuminated. It is something I cannot help but want. If it's not going to go away, then why the hell not? That light is often dishonest. Especially to me. Though I don't understand why. But I'm a true dunce for being hurt and yet lapping it up like radioactive milk, all the same. There is no question that it will always be there. It's something that I just know. My heart knows, and is tattooed by my rib cage as it yearns within that pulling. And anyway, the heart knows, what the heart wants, what the heart knows. But the brain slaps it around for being rude, and reaching for something not offered.
It's a good thing that I have my kids. Otherwise, I might just completely disintegrate. I'm not trying to fabricate some allusion to anything so droll as that my kids are responsible for my existence, such as it is. I'm just glad that there are people in my life accepting of the love I have to give. Of course, with kids it's unconditional. Even when they throw it back in my face it changes nothing. But my kids do make me happy. We have good times together, some bad, some balanced. I refuse to have them shoulder the responsibility of making me happy. I find it in their leavings. But that is how I feel about that moon, too. I HAVE TRIED TO NOT feel that way 'bout that never closing eye. But it's of no use. I'll just have to live with it as it is. AND this is how it will go...I see the moon, I think it sees me, I love the moon, but it doesn't love me back. Heart beats, "I wish, I wish..." The mind scoffs, "You fool, you fool..." Yeah, that's right. Forever an aching fool. Eight years and counting.

nottoway, claremont, greycourt, avondale

this will last forever,but THIS will be brief.there is no shining promise,no exhaled relief. i feel i've loved you always.confusing,yet it's true.you sing within my veins,but i matter not to you. so, i'm driven and driven...torturous fuel,houred miles of pain.i want the crash,the blood-filled mouth.this is fucking so much less than sane. your eyes in windows fore and aft,sleight of hand to give me pause.sometimes the worst isn't in the past.it's in the never was. i think you wanted the clamor,made-up wiles all farce and ruse.just to wind them,just to shake me,but it's that loose screw you can't refuse. i wish there was a brake somewhere.stop this pining,stop this strife.i know to you this matters not.but to me this is my life.

why diets are okay, sometimes

the feast, the feast of of course;
table groaning, waiters
silently to and fro.
narrow alleys forming mazes
between overflowing
serving platters.
don't care is the night's
special menu item.
but its taste is false, and
one is what one eats, so
pass it by.
the nonchalance? i judge
it too salty,
tongue shriveling jerky like
saliva sapping fever.
ugh, lumpy revulsion,
with greasy indecision gravy?
no?
jello ed self-loathing, then...
but why? why when no crime
has been committed?
flick toothpicky fear away,
elbow the sizzling secret
onto the floor.
there is wispy hair
in the hate soup, send it back.
opting for empty plate?
at least try dinner rolled
buttered questions.
but even those muddle the mind,
and hurt feelings.
another time, another place
live the kitchen, be the chef...
some divine disher-outer.
no conflicting meats, then,
no irresolute sauces, and never
any hooded desserts.
that feast will be nutritious.

*Why do I believe things I shouldn't? Aching, aching, aching...and no tree bark for miles.

like flour for playdough

I don't want this frustration. I don't want to want what I shouldn't want. I don't want to be numb, regardless. I don't want all that to pose such a problem. I don't want this faulty, dried-up, penned on eraser. I don't want what I want to want, but I do. I don't want this leaky spigot. I don't want these masks, upon masks, upon plastic surgery. I don't want the nibble-nibble knee-jerk. I don't want the lying. I don't want the twitching daydreams, they quicken, but some shouldn't live. I don't want the end of the line. I don't want the complete pot of gold, I'd rather have silver. I don't want the dirges. I don't want the attitude. I don't want the dog piss on the rug. I don't want the crumpled paper to be stolen. I don't want these stale essences. I don't want the fake communion. I don't want the straightforward ship. I don't want old bottom-of-the-shoe gum. I don't want a juvenile medium. I don't want to be forgotten. I don't want the sun all the time. I don't want squishy linoleum. I don't want just the wishbone. I don't want a model. I don't want it, but don't want to lose it either. I don't want to know sometimes. I don't want perfection. I don't want lousy. I don't want an exclamatory dud. I don't want empty inferences. I don't want to believe when I shouldn't. I don't want to be a boss. I don't want this finger twiddling as often. I don't want all the fence uprooted. I don't want the puke on the steering wheel. I don't want to go unanswered for eternity. I don't want an Oscar. I don't want wilted. I don't want flowery, frou-frou, dandy candy.
I want real. I want one. I want the snow filling my eyes. I want the work. I want that walk to nowhere some days, to somewhere on others. I want to be loved. I want the smorgasbord grasses. I want the special sauce. I want the driving fuel, not putt-putt-puttering out. I want kaleidoscope lanterns. I want sometimes singed fingertips. I want to stay the same, as well. I want the picture, somewhat unfinished. I want paint to stain my hands. I want paper cuts from doing the jigsaws. I want miasmas, the smells of night's candles. I want stickers. I want pipe cleaners. I want to be incensed. I want dyed n glued macaroni with glitter. I want fluctuating wells and springs. I want a poet's heart. I want that.

pictures within pictures under pictures gelled to pictures

putting pairs away
neat rows of marriages,
pajamas neighboring.
a click, a tidal wave of
white
all for the searching.
questing and finding:
three magnetic tires,
one blackened banana peel,
please don't tell me that
is a flattened yogurt container?
shrunken light saber,
wooden train tracks,
a Croatian coin from
fading father asea,
a thimble, a red half-gumball,
autumnal acorns and leaves,
two hopelessly knotted
parachute guys,
the lost rubik's,
scattered pistachios,
and part of curious george.
half whispered, oh my...
answered by a hallway(ed)
giggle, and feet
pounding downstairs.
exit sidedoor, and poking
evergreen shelter.
such a wealthy trove
unearthed,
rather, unsocked.
the treasure i
kept for my own
was the long laugh,
with the streaming eyes.