Humans are the fascinating part of this thing called life.

Partial stories abound in my head all the live long day, jumping rope with characters who obviously never learned how to double jump. I can twist a plot back and forth till I have no clue where I started from and then have to refer to the first draft or outline again, just to remind myself that, indeed, this time I'm trying to stick to reality.

Just what reality, I know not. Yet.

But a paper in psychology gets me twisted in all sorts of different hurty-head ways, making my ears throb to the point I check to see if blood is spilling out. (Note to self, use throbbing ears and blood spilling out in a future story.)

While I understand the basis of things like statistics and studies, I also look at the broader spectrum and point out that they're just numbers. They don't mean anything. They're arbitrary.

I love reading about the studies themselves, because the minds that thought them up are crazier than mine in so many ways. Show someone a gun, then have them invoke hot sauce on someone else. Really? Yep. And I love the analytical side because I spend too much damn time people-watching and wondering anyway. You humans, you perplex me and amuse me.

Why does this person who is speeding feel the need to toss his soda out his window onto my windshield? I'm not in his way. Why is he a jerk?

Why do the parents at a little league game yell at their kids to do one thing, yet when the other team does the exact same thing, they get angry?

Why does someone in a company lead everyone in prayer at work yet seem to feel no inclination to help a family member through a medical crisis?

Yep. Humans are fascinating. Which is why I'm taking psychology classes.

But my writing style is not conducive to class paper format, which has me wondering even further about those things that inspire me to spill forth words and those things that get me all twisted up.

hey there, lover

Sweet warmth of a whisper from your lips to my ears offer a caress of the cheek and arms around my waist. The light in your eyes sends a smile to mine as easily as the flip of a page in a juicy pulp novel. I must read more, I must devour this story, just as I must devour you in all your loving glory.

My jeans haven't seen starch since the 80's. My boots are a dusty brown, worn in by age as much as the dry air. The paint I spilled across the driveway dried hours ago, looking like blue road-kill was hit there. There are tiny paw prints from the neighborhood tom as he wandered in and out and down the sidewalk, little blue cat feet leaving little blue prints that fade away.

Let the sun set on this crazy day, with all her stories of someone else doing something else to anyone else but us. Take in the settling wind as the trees shudder their relief at a night of sleep. Listen to the doves coo on the power lines, the mocking bird whistle the ice cream truck tune, the grackles as they cackle down the street. Let the night fall and the tiny pin pricks of white light pop out in the fading blue sky.

I wish we had fireflies. I miss the idea of them as much as the giddy feel of watching their dance in the dusk. I want to sit under a tree and watch this night come alive with you. I want to hold your hand and kiss your cheek as we savor the moment of today together. I want to let the fireflies land on me, laughing with delight, much as I do when the ladybugs or butterflies land on me. I want to say hello to the rolly-polly bugs as they lumber to and fro. I want to count the stars above until we see the constellations we know.

I want to tuck into your shoulder for warmth, to feel your kisses on my head and hold your close as darkness falls and we are surrounded by everything and nothing that matters. Let the darkness remind us of simpler times and the calls of nature remind us of our animal nature.

Passion, like prayer, belongs not inside a building, but in wide open spaces.

blathering on in the dirt

Handfuls of things make sense anymore.

Breathing. Breathing makes sense only in the sense that sometimes I realize that my body keeps going long after I'm aware of it.

Sleep makes sense when I feel the bone aching fatigue set in and pull me down to the pillows, demanding that I surrender to the weird stories my dream-mind has in store for me as I let my body rest.

Words. I want them to make sense, but all to often the story refuses to come together and I'm left standing on the curb of a dusty side street in Tijuana with a handful of yen and some dirty needles full of teddy bear stuffing. There's a little boy drumming on his plastic bucket drum set on the corner and he's raking in the change from tourists while I stand there and stare, wondering what the hell I think I'm doing and where the hell I'm going.

Where am I going? No where for now. My dreams still soar and my hopes still hide in the shadows, afraid of further heart-break from another false start, but they hover, reminding me that something may eventually be possible. Someday. You know, when I believe again in the feeling of letting the breeze guide my arms up as if my wings were still able to let me soar.

Layers of reds and blues and greens and blacks make their home on another piece of mess I half-heartedly call "art", as if in some attempt to free that inner turmoil and let it loose on a canvas were to avail myself of creative catharsis.

Learning of all the possible boxes I could put myself in, as well as all the boxes and labels and terrors that could be the possible antagonists for everyone else in all the inner demons they fight has laid forth a vast sea of fears and reliefs of knowing that I'm just one more speck on this crazy planet, just like those everyone elses out there in the world. The silence of space or under the sea has never sounded so appealing as when I look around and the world rushes in on me, bringing me to my knees in a half-hearted prayer of survival.

Ambition does me no good if there is nowhere for it to take me. Carving my own path was lost several years ago, when my ability to see that path disappeared. The trees shifted and the shadows parted and all the howling wolves have set upon their hunt. They hunt the blood, the juice, the soul of spirit, the longing for more than fear and the surety of more than nightfall beckoning the sunrise.

We are the shadows and the wolves, hunting our own kind, tearing apart life bloods of those we wish we were. Forsaking the ability to render aid for the ability to mutilate and be cheered on.

I look lost, there on that dusty curb in the heat of an afternoon. I'm not begging, I'm not playing for cash. I'm surrendering to the feeling of nothing and the weight that pulls me down now begs me to sleep this dream away.

Stand up and take it...

One dream resurfaces, in a new way, moving the walls from left to right and adjusting the height of the windows. Adding more trees, more water, more nature. Adding the ability to become real within the waking realm...

Has it been found? That dancehall? Has it been shifted to the row of buildings on the water, the space for a restaurant and a bar and a little gallery? A bit of both in the reality of now?

This is where hope creeps in again, allowing me to breathe and move within the choking confines of my cage. This might be the goal to work toward now. If only to see if it is real. 

A move of hours and miles, a debt of thousands that I would hope to repay within years, a chance to brighten an area, a chance to brighten lives...including my own. Let the ball begin rolling. Let the pieces fall where they may. Let's see if this dream can become a reality...

Gypsy-girl on the wind

In my soul, she knows, I am a gypsy.

I meander, I wander, I sail afloat on the wind, soaring through the trees and over the tops of grasses, letting my wings of spirit guide me. It matters not where I go, I am a bird on a current and I am free.

To roam in my home, to settle in place on wheels that roll from destination to destination... The attraction of a little gypsy caravan has not left this soul no matter the age or day she's living in. This connected world outshines the stars of the universe above, forgetting the serenity of nothing but nature and breath.

Shifting from place to place, perhaps a bit misunderstood by those inside their self-built walls, I beat the drum and burn the fire for the gypsy within my soul.

damnation of the living

Goddamnit.

I hate the feeling of 'stuck'. That gripping insanity that pulls me down to bury my head under the covers and cry myself to sleep.

I had hopes.

Had.

Fear and reality take over, pushing me down yet again, reminding me that I am just a pawn in this world, here for the amusement and abusement of others.

Dreams lie shattered, much like the broken lamp, glass shards that I still find tucked into corners, reminders that life is not as sweet as I had hoped it was.

Another person  to deal with, to cater to, to factor in... and we hit walls between us nearly five years in, because neither of us are moving forward.

I feel the chains, the harsh metal scraping at my ankles, holding me down, holding me here... here in the land of damnation if you're different and hell if you try to break that mold. Art burns here, lost to the winds, pushed down in the remnants of rigs, wrenches, oil and mesquite.

The suffocation has come so slowly, my whole life, indeed, that I never knew better, I never had a chance to slip out before the chains tightened.

Buried. Bury me now, for the thought of continuing to dig my own grave here is pulling me down into that cold hard earth, never to be released again.

Found On The Way

It was longer than that. It looked longer, anyway. In my dreams.

Another hot, dusty afternoon in town, today I was walking around down the main street through town. Not really looking for anything, and yet looking just the same. In the way of days that beg me to go out to see the world, see what the world has to offer me as I meander from thought to thought and place to place. 

I had started in front of my grandfather’s old shop, a shop long since sold and no longer his, but in my heart it is where he still haunts, all his tools are still in that soft yellow light filtering down from the wavy plastic in the ceiling. His tools sit on the tables where they sat when I was a kid walking through the shop, lightly touching everything, feeling the weight of metal, feeling the grime of grease. 

The filtered yellow light of memory pulls me away from this main street shop, no longer his, no longer really there. A few blocks away, this is not the main street I know, this is not the world I am used to. In some cities the original main street, the history of the beginning of the town, is tucked away, no where near the current thoroughfare, lost in time, holding on to the stories of what was, not allowed to experience the what is now. This is the main street I find today. A lost street, several blocks over from regular traffic, off on the side of the town that is now forgotten. 

The dust of the day has settled in the mid-afternoon heat, crisp grass leaves have been so long dry that they rustle without wind. The street stretches out, the long row of buildings across the way have long been empty, bricks crumbling and windows broken. Warehouses down the way, buildings that probably see business still, but not the visible kind. But it is the row of buildings across the street that keep my eye longest. Two, no, three, no, four little store fronts all together. Shops or boutiques or cafes, once this must have been a quaint place to spend the afternoon, shopping and eating and visiting.

The space on the end has an open door, a large metal door, swung open to reveal the inside…which reveals the outside beyond. The door itself catches my eye, there’s something, a string of words perhaps, small and magnetically stuck to the door close to one edge about ⅔ of the way down. I go closer to read it… the phrase escapes me now, but the feeling was “Every wish you make.” And now I regret not having my camera with me for today’s walk, wishing I could take a picture of this scene. Ah! But I have the camera on my phone, it’s not what I want, but it will work to capture the moment. Perhaps I can come back later with my camera for more pictures. 

I get a close up picture of the words on the door, then stand back to get the doorway in the frame as well. It looks out onto a large concrete patio that then gives way to a small running trail and down to the water. Water? Water! A river, a lake, whatever, it has water and trees and is a bit of beauty hidden behind the dusty empty store front and street before it. I am in awe and want to explore more. I want to see what lies beyond this wall, what other hidden treasures will I find?

A man startles me, he asks if I’m someone he’s looking for. I reply no, I’m just walking. He sighs, looks at his watch and complains that she’s over half an hour late already and he doesn’t like it. His tie is loose, he’s sweated through his button down short sleeve shirt, and he looks tired. I ask why he’s waiting on her. He explains that she’s buying the place. 

Oh? It’s for sale? Really, I ask. How much? 

Well, the last two times it was sold we sold it for twelve thousand. 

Twelve thousand dollars? 

Yes. Are you interested?

Can I see more? 

Sure. Come on through. 

We walk through the open door to the large concrete patio which runs the length of the buildings in back, down to the other end building where it is covered with a metal roof and there’s furniture stacked about as if someone had moved it out of the buildings. The grassy way beyond drops down to the water, with shade from the trees and porch providing a nice swimming area. The furniture is older, the stuff found in auctions nowadays, with dark woods once polished to shine. There’s a fish tank with a pretty carved frame around it that catches my eye. 

The back walls are no better than the front, offering broken and crumbling bricks that need repair. I think to myself that I can actually pull off twelve thousand dollars, putting some on credit cards and from what we have in savings. This begins to stir me toward something that feels good. 

Then the woman walks through the door, followed by a brood of seventeen people. Husbands, sisters, uncles, aunts, brothers, cousins, children and more. She is large, too large to be wearing a tube top and short shorts, her hair is stringy and she is a domineering type personality. Everyone behind her scatters - to go climb on the furniture or to swim or to just lean against the wall and smoke. She tells the real estate man she’s here, as if we hadn’t noticed. She says she’s going to the bank to get a loan this afternoon. But first the family wanted to come check it all out. 

They climb on chairs, kick the loose bricks, splash in the water. I am dejected now, annoyed that I didn’t sign the papers before she showed up, weary of the whole brood of them. I resign myself and go to ask her if I can buy the fish tank from her, when the place becomes hers. She looks me over, unimpressed, looks at the tank with the carved frame and says sure, I can have it for fifty bucks. Fine, I’ll take that. 

I sit down in one of the chairs to contemplate some more, and one of the teen boys comes over, almost petting me, leaning on the chair arm, trying to hit on me in his awkward teen way. I brush him off easily, I’m happily married I say. He takes no pause in his efforts. Another woman walks up, with a white-blonde bobbed wig perched on her head. She shoos the boy off, telling him to go finish his homework or she’ll fail him. He skulks off, leaving us alone amidst the stacks of furniture under he metal canopy. She looks at me, says my name. I look at her surprised, yes, that’s me. She introduces herself as one of my old teachers, years ago, but I don’t remember her, or her name, Ms. Higgenbottom or something, now Mrs. Weathers. She married one of the uncles/cousins, she’s part of this extended family. 

I don’t have a response. I sit quietly as she watches the others splash in the water below us. She turns to me and says, you could do better. Surprised, I ask at what? This. She points to the buildings and land. This family might get the loan, and they will move in exactly as is, with falling walls and decaying food in the kitchen, and tear it up worse, not making any changes for the better. And then it will be destroyed and lost. And they’ll move on elsewhere. You can move in and fix it up and hang pretty lights from the trees and have outdoor parties and sell things in the shop there. You’d do better. 

A moment to breathe, then yes, I feel it too. I feel insides, so deep inside, that I can do it. I can get inside, throw away the rotten foods, scrub the walls and counters, rebuild the broken walls and windows, give it a fresh coat of paint and a breath of fresh air. I can hang pretty lights from the trees and covered porch, have parties on the patio, encourage outdoor dining from the small restaurant on the end, sell art and pretties from the gallery/shop in the middle, have a little apartment in one building. Yes, this I could do. The hard work does not scare me, it inspires me, it pulls me aside and says, hell to the yes, this is yours to dream and make happen, this is yours to achieve with your own two hands and your art and your designs. 

I thank her, she wanders off to watch the others. I find the exasperated real estate man on the side where we first walked in, I tell him I will be back with the money in hand this afternoon. No applying for a hoped for loan, I will make it happen. I want this property, as is, and I want it now. 

He finally smiles, thankful and relieved. Yes, he says. You deserve this. I will do this with you. I will do this for you. This will be yours. The buildings, the land, the water area, everything. And I look forward to seeing what you do with it. 

So do I.