I sit alone, though not, well actually i have two, but im only babysitting this one, until her mama get her own apartment, and a dog, but he's really my brothers, although i babysat him for like a freaking year and half while my brother was learning about all these chinese. I have a cat, a black paisly named Wednesday, she sits on my lap and cries for my attention. I hang my head, it is not sadness this time, it has turned to a numbness not to far from an ache. Then I hear "landslide"…. I remember a time, it was a tape, it had a yellow label. I made it on dudman drive…I loved that house and all of the people in it. The people inside of this very special yellow house, held the secrets, untold I expect, to that of broken windows, and trespassed headstones, and abandoned balloons, and perhaps a missing tooth or two, even the mysterious falling floors. And a deafening shriek that you would not believe if I dare describe. "boys don't cry" that's crap by the way…they cry. The most painful sound I have ever heard…it hurts your bones to hear a man cry. "when we kissed they're perfectly aligned" speculation is never a strong suit of mine, I know realize this. Especially when the damned freckles are too dark to identify. Ha! But I do so love the song. It is beautiful… all beautiful things are not repeated in my own life.
This blog was blundered…ha! I seriously consider that I may be mad, I smile, because I feel the need to say that it may be possible though I know it not to be true. I shall merely record my thoughts to improve my spelling, and the lyrical sense of my brain in fashioning fantastic words, and to laugh at my impossible nightmare of an existence once this has expired. I smile again, it has changed, I am not the same as I was last month, or two weeks ago or four hours ago. I am known to have a switch. I dare say it has been turned off. I have not miss him. Not a smile, I do not look to him to see the truth…there has been none. Perhaps I will give a narrative of conversations that would disgust a maggot… again I dare not. Instead, I shall repeat a passage of the most amazing book, I read it to my children, two nights in a row. Beautiful thing, a good childrens book. It is called "on the night you were born" by nancy tillman. Her paintings are rather marvelous things in themselves. Without a narrative. Oh, and I saw a painting on the side of a truck today. Beautiful brushstrokes, I LOVE brushstrokes. ( I will remind myself to take myself to a museum, perhaps the getty, at the next opportunity) I will touch the travertine floors as is my repetitious pattern of amusement upon entering. I will look at all of the beautiful gilded catholic depictions, and wonder at the people who could not read, and yet were happy perhaps? Were there always people, in all circumstances that held an all powerful, always existence happiness? I believe so, I must. "on the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, "life will never be the same."" "because there had never been anyone like you…ever in the world." OHHH, how it makes me feel like the luckiest person alive. Amazing, words from a beautifully depicted, 10 page novel, that can scream at the sickest of individuals…. "if the moon stays up until morning on day, or a ladybug lands and decides to stay, or a little bird sits at your window awhile, it's because they're all hoping to see you smile…" my mother told me once, that trees loved to be talked to, and that if they were, that they would grow to make you happy. I honestly believed those very wonderful words, I would talk to the plants in our house, and the magnolia in the front, there was also a very special jacaranda that lived outside my bedroom window. When I got older, I remember feeling foolish, but still, I would speak to the growing living things, and they did, always grew to make me happy. Also, my father told me that there was a witch that lived in the pine tree in the deepest part of my backyard. I no longer climbed the mulberry that lay beside it, I was afraid of the witch. He doesn't remember telling me that story, but he thought that it was funny when I reminded him of it. I always loved my fathers laugh, the good one, for there are two, the second I am not so fond of. There was also a dream I had when I was young, we were camping, my mother, my father, and I. We slept in a little pointy orange tent. My fathers feet stuck out of the opening. Bears, I could never see them, because I was inside the tent. They came and licked his feet. My father told me that it was not a dream, and that had happened. That was a delightful finding. My grandfather taught me how to write my name. I sat on his lap, in the kitchen of my grandmothers house. We sat at the very long red table. I remember where she used to put the molasses. I remember that my aunt put cheese on everything. My grandmother would only serve on piece of bacon for every egg. I was five, so I got one egg, and one piece of bacon, but the most wonderfully lathered English muffin. Always crunchy with the proper dose of nooks and crannies. She taught me to eat like a clock. I know the sign for "all gone", and "milk" and "more" and "love" and secretly I know the how to sign the song 'white Christmas'. I have boxes and boxes of unuseful memories that I love. I threw away all of my used candles. I do not hold my personal secrets well. I, in fact, scream them out loud, until they melt away and they no longer hold any semblance of shame or sadness. This last one has been need for quite awhile. "I can't sleep" I have a year book that does not belong to me, it belongs to Tricia Legar. If anyone knows where she is, let me know. I would love to find her again…her and Rochelle Martinez. I miss them both. They are in my heart, maybe Tanya Pashoc, I don't know how to spell her last name, I was six, and she was my best friend-just to see if her life is good, and she has lived well. I want to go to England, and Ireland, and India, and Tahiti, and Egypt, and Jordan, and…Korea, and Japan…it's okay, next life is alright too. This life, though, I must have coffee in San Francisco. And I want to take my children to ride the old paint horses in Rosarito. I hope they still have old paint horses in Rosarito-the atlantic ocean, I would like to see that, walk all of central park. See the caves of Lascaux. And perhaps all Petra in Jordan. Oh, and perhaps, I have no idea where it is, saw it on KCET. it was a place in the world, where the actually collected frankincense. Amazing! i must remember to add them to my page...