I love Great Blue Herons. We have a lot. I love them best in trees, because they still look strange to me in trees. They will perch right on the top of our tall Pacific Northwest trees and look like peculiar Christmas tree toppers. Alien angels. Their bones are lighter than ours, so they can stand on a limb that would not hold me or you.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: relax.
The Introverted Thinker is eight. Her mother takes her out of school for a week to go to New York City.
They leave her sister and her father behind.
Her mother complains about the school paperwork. “Never let school get in the way of your children’s education,” she says. “That’s what my father says.”
The IT is not sure what all this means. But she is excited.
They go on an airplane. She gets to sit by the window. She can see the ground and it is squares like a quilt with hills. It is so beautiful! She is amazed, magic!
In New York City they go to the house of an old friend of her mother’s. The old friend is old and wears dresses to the ground and a lot of jewelry. The house is dark and there are many things in it. The IT is told that the things are antiques and she must not touch anything. She walks around carefully in the dark places, looking at all of the strange things while her mother talks to the old friend. They talk about the past and people that she does not know.
Her mother takes her to museums on some days. Some are art museums. The IT is already used to art museums because her mother is an artist. The museum is like an art gallery only much bigger and the ceilings are very high. A lot of the art is very big too.
One museum is different. Natural History, says her mother. There are dinosaur bones. The IT can’t touch them either but they are wonderful. Huge animals from the past that are not here any more! She loves it.
They fly home. First she has to thank the old friend with the house like a museum, only darker. Then they go to the plane. This time there are some clouds so the IT can’t see as much, but she still gets to see the quilt of the land.
She decides that she likes museums and she likes natural history. Especially dinosaurs.
I try out
for a solo
I am growing
I am beautiful
I look like a different person
a little of what I have weathered
and her husband died
she misses him so
as she comes into the room
you look as if you have wings
and are ready to take off
and I freeze
for a moment
that she can see
Written in 2009.
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
It’s not the tearing sound of fabric
A small rip
And now a tear
That I feel
It’s the torch
I’ve been here before
A job where the idealistic came
As moths to the flame
Because they had ideals
I watched and burned and rose
It’s the torch
The flames that rise
As the witch is burned
Tilts back her head
In ecstasy and knowledge
Eager to learn what she can
From these burning brands
In the burning we learn
In pain we learn
If we can remain open
Ashes fall to the ground
Buckets of water
Wash any remains to grey mud
Relief for the frightened
An example has been set
No but what stirs at night
Moon or none
What rises from the mud
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
And see what is created
Over and over
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
Over and over
I let go
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss
Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface
Ecstasy is in the air
I am elsewhere
I am other
The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped
Over and over
I am born
From the surf
From the waves
I am delivered
Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That’s where I must go
Over and over I resist
And then let go
I have new friends.
Nothing is lost without something else being gained. When you put a bucket in the water and pull it up, no hole is left. The water equilibrates. The water rushes in to the new hole and there is swirling and chaos for a bit and then you can’t tell.
I took coffee in to my yard yesterday morning. I didn’t feel like eating much for the two days before that. I felt more like drinking alcohol but I pay a lot of attention to that urge. I drank some but stopped. There is way too much of that history in my family.
Caffeine, now. Also addictive. I’ve quit caffeine a couple of times. I quit back in medical school because my stomach hurt. Second year I kept falling asleep in the lectures. I tried standing up through them and woke up sliding sideways down the wall. I wonder if people laughed. Everyone was sick of sitting in that room, one floor up from the first year, and trying to learn an impossible amount of information. I don’t think people did laugh. We were all in the same boat after all. If they laughed, it was the laugh of recognition.
So I gave up and sat back down and took notes and fell asleep. My notes would trail off down the page at 40 minutes in to the lecture. Over and over and over. But there might be some advantages to hearing medicine in a dream state. Who knows?
My friends came while I was drinking coffee. Four pine siskins. I have named the first three Winken, Blinken and Nod. The fourth one showed up a little late. That one is Bill. Blinken is very fat and I suspect will appear abruptly thin after the eggs are laid.
A pair of juncos joined them. The feeder got a little bit chaotic when a house sparrow showed up. I thought there was a fifth pine siskin but I realized that this one had a pale pink hood: the lady of the house sparrow pair was present. Then my song sparrow, who sings every morning from across the street, came in. He and I have sung back and forth for years.
I have not seen a lady song sparrow yet. Or maybe she slipped in and out, she will be a little difficult to distinguish from the lady house sparrow and the pine siskins.
What joy to have new friends. I think I will have to fill the feeder every two or three days. It is spring and there will soon be new mouths to feed and everyone is hungry.
The photograph is not from my yard. It is from a wilder place, that is very beautiful.
There is a song, the laugh of recognition, on this album: https://stores.portmerch.com/overtherhine/music/the-long-surrender-cd.html
The whole album helps me to grieve.
Warning: this post contains some time out words.
How do I process the game you played?
I am the subject of the game.
Or the victim.
Or no, I refuse. It is your game. I was not playing. I am the honey badger, metabolism so fast that I have to run from one meal to the next or else I will starve. I eat whatever I can find: cobras, bees, anything. I eat or I die.
You have tethered a honey badger to oxygen by playing a game.
I am the football and you have been kicking me, throwing me, catching me, slamming me to the ground as hard as you can in the end zone.
And now that I am worn and damaged and torn, you’ll toss me away, not even notice me, and find a new ball.
You will need a new football. To play with.
I don’t envy that person.
The truth is, it will be one of you. The group will rest on their laurels, oh, we nearly killed her, wasn’t it great? We showed her. She is so stupid, took her what, 21 years to fucking figure it out? And she thinks she’s so smart.
I was looking for food because I am always hungry. The food insecurity goes back to infancy. Maybe to the womb: my mother says she was not to gain weight and spent the entire pregnancy longing for a gigantic ice cream Sunday. Think of being in a womb, attacked by antibodies to tuberculosis, and starving all the time. Might be a little bit worried when birth happens. Fuck, I am going through a tunnel, what horrors await me here? But maybe there will be more food.
Maybe someone will love me. Maybe there will be someone for me to love. And feed. We can give each other food.
My advice to you is don’t be the ball. I was the ball for 21 years. I was so hungry the whole time, for food and for love, that I kind of noticed but dismissed it as unimportant. Food and love were more important. Work and my patients were more important. You don’t matter and your games are trivial.
It will be the weakest one who will be the ball. You worry that you are the one. You should worry. You had better look strong right away. Post some horror. Write something really tough. Don’t show anyone any niggling doubts. Um, the ball is wearing oxygen. I am feeling a little bad about this. Are you feeling bad about this? The ball isn’t just crazy, it’s hurt. Actually crazy is an illness too: I know that you discriminate and think that cancer is a legitimate illness and that mania isn’t, but you are assholes. No, you’re too small and pathetic to be an asshole. You are a one celled animal that is clinging to a hair on an asshole and you get shat on daily. And you know, deep deep in your tiny shrunken heart, that you deserve it.
I am so glad I am not you.
I am tethered to oxygen. But I am healing. I don’t think you can. You are locked in your small sick pathetic triangulation competition and pretending that it’s a game that it’s ok that you are just playing.
Meanwhile, the oxygen is portable.
I have food and I have love and I have work to do that lifts me on wings. I will go too near the sun and light on fire and fall burning, but that’s ok. I’ve done it before. The ocean heals me, always. It is so much fun to fly!
This is in memory of my mother, my father and my sister. I miss all three and I love them and they love me. Today is the day my mother died. The longer we live, the more days are days when someone that we love died. But they are still here. They are in the rocks and the sky and the trees and the coffee cup. They are not in sugary donuts or foods that cause heart attacks. But they are all around us, cradle us, still love us. Joy to you and the memories of your loved ones who have gone on. Blessings.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: speculate.
We walked North Beach yesterday, 2 or 3 miles out starting at high tide 1:30 pm. There was a very large dead octopus on the beach. There were three bald eagles in the trees above and then more in flight, arriving for a chance at this meal. There was a pair of bald eagles flying in tandem and then this bird. The white wing tips are the clue. I can only find one very large bird in North America with the wings with white feathers at the ends, and it’s not an eagle.
Do you care to speculate? If I am correct, it is a long way from the Cornell Bird Lab map of where it is supposed to live.