Starry Winter Night Stroll

We got up too-early to go dance. It was worth it, but then all we wanted was a movie and food-in-bed and murder-porn lazy-time.

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With the velvety curtains drawn around our well-fed body heat, it finally got too stuffy by other people’s Sunday-night time-for-bed standards under the sloped-ceilings of our sleeping alcove. I whined for Delia to make me a bulls-eye egg NO WAIT can we take a walk?


Out in the dark in our pajamas, strolling the silent neighborhood … so many stars. My pj’s are a soft knit dress and thin fleece hoodie: no panties, no bra. Just shuffling along. It feels balmy compared to a couple weeks ago when the moon was full and the ground hard-frozen. She finds out her new nalgene does indeed glow.

We should be walking naked. Through gardens, not towards the obscenely-bright porch lights of people who go to bed so early. We should be walking naked with bare feet. RUNNING, even. Maybe we will someday, and then come back inside to dance. Or if it’s summer … stay outside to dance. All night long.

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There’s Orion. There’s The Big Dipper. There are billions and billions and billions of things I don’t know the names for. Just tiny little lights in darkness from where we’re moving, such tiny barely measurable distances together, walking at night towards another cold still building where we’ve danced before, and other people. Maybe for a hundred tiny little years.

HOLD MY HAND, I said. WE’RE MATES. MATED FOR LIFE.

We left the sometimes-lit straight roads for the darker curving trails. Little miniature hills roped with roots, rising and falling under our feet.


 

I can hear her downstairs, smell the buttered bread and egg she’s frying for me coming up the stairs.

Growing and Changing

Growing is hard work, and out of your control a lot of times. It happens whether you think you’re ready or not.

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I truly want to grow and think I have a pretty great attitude about it, but I don’t. Not completely: I want to be in charge of WHAT changes, HOW MUCH … WHEN and towards what (perfect) ends.

The good news: I might be past the worst of my midlife crisis, and am embracing good changes. Want to read about them? This month (National Bike Month, coincidentally) I’ll post more here about a significant lifestyle change we made at the end of March right as my grandma died (which was harder for me because of other family issues it brought up than actually losing my grandma) and this crazy overheated early spring unfolded … AND as the person I’ve been spending the most time with other than my wife decided to move out of state for a new job.

AND PRINCE DIED! Maybe that has nothing to do with me and I shouldn’t take that loss so personally, but his passing has been a touchstone of grief and strengthening wellspring of affirmation and inspiration at the same time.

wild roses

High Winds & Rainbows

Day-Before-Yesterday Rainbow

Day-Before-Yesterday Rainbow

After a year full of SUN SUN SUN SUN SUN and hardly any rain, we’re finally being dragged into winter. We’ve had some weather the past few weeks with lots of wind, power outages, and some cold nights in the twenties.

High wind warning an excellent excuse to close early!

High wind warning an excellent excuse to close early!

It’s at the point where people around here get these warnings and just want to avoid all of our machines taking dives and/or hearing our battery backups start beeping. After months of our main data storage being down (and lots of our raw content+ inaccessible) I feel the same way, like “I don’t want my shit to suffer more possible power surges nor do I want to try to work on something only to have the power and/or internet connection go down”.

And I kind of like it, the excuse to just feel the air swirling around and feel it hitting the house and be thankful I’ve never had a tree fall on my head.

The high winds didn't materialize that day ... but they did the next!

The high winds didn’t materialize that day … but they did the next!

It’s funny that they sent this Thursday when the winds didn’t happen but on Friday … the wind came without any text. Maybe nobody wanted to give another false alarm so our local emergency service didn’t alert us. I’m a little weirded out by how much I respond to our county’s emergency texts, like they’re my one friend in the community who wants to call me up and ask if my power is on or not. I don’t mean I respond by replying, just that I feel like a real interaction is happening that makes the weather so much more official and impactful. It makes me remember that the little plot I occupy on the grid is surrounded by neighbors. Usually that makes me apprehensive but somehow these texts make me feel welcomed in a very non-threatening way. Because it’s NOT a real interaction and I don’t have to say anything back.

I think the high wind warning expired a couple of hours ago and we got some more rainbows:

More rainbows as the winds die down

More rainbows as the winds die down

It gets dark early here; sunset is on the schedule today at 4:18.

By the time normal people get off work and eat dinner, it feels like we must be up past our bedtimes.

I’m not a normal person, so bedtime is whenever I say it is. At this time of year it seems appropriate for it to be allllllllll evening, like seven to seven.


Flicker vs. Flasher


Delia was totally entranced by this Flicker outside the window of our sleeping alcove:

Northern Flicker September Washington state

Northern Flicker (sorry for the crappy camera phone pic)

I could not do anything to distract her from observing the bird, but I did have fun trying:

Trixie tries to distract her wife, Delia

Exposing my bottom to my wife.

We have Flickers around here (Western Washington on the . . . fuck, I should have a page to link to for this) pretty much year-round. Sometimes they go crazy hammering on our metal roofs.

Moss

I spent most of today in a kind of homemade rehab, working on my moss garden sanctuary cell.

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The white balance is not good on these pics, but just imagine a private, shady green spot. Or it will be (greener) someday. It’s a small caged area on the side of the house intended for a dog to be let out into, complete with (blocked off) pet door. I’d say it’s about 7′ x 6′. Which is perfect for me, because I like small spaces and often soothe myself by imagining I have my very own padded cell. My sanctuary/cell hadn’t had a dog in it for a long time so was completely overgrown with brush when we moved in.

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We have at least half a dozen perfect areas in our yard that could be landscaped and groomed to function as lovely and convenient outdoor photo sets. That’s what I keep telling myself. And then I look around at them and don’t know where to start or which one most warrants money/plants/back-breaking labor and feel totally overwhelmed.

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So FUCK IT. I have always wanted a moss garden and my mental health needs the low pressure of a manageable space and no expectations to create a little sanctuary. It’s amazing how quickly I feel peaceful and satisfied working alone slowly, looking at things – slightly modifying them – looking at them some more.

I love organizing rocks and fir cones and am completely infatuated with sticks. So much so that I wanted to buy TinyFires.com (too bad it’s already taken) and make videos and take pictures of . . . . uhhhhh, tiny fires. Yeah. All different miniature scales of small stacks of different sorts of wood, and fires for different purposes. Maybe with some action figures warming/melting their hands by them. Me as a giantess stomping out tiny fires. Throwing an .mp3 of this awesome song on as kindling. Whatever! The possibilities are endless.

So I’ve got three boxes of twigs now. Because I’m mentally ill, and putting sticks in boxes is both a symptom of and a healing salve for my madness.

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I also pulled up and reoriented some planks of rotting wood. I didn’t like the direction they were pointing or the way they were stacked. I mean, because they look way cooler now that I fixed them! And I like looking at bugs underneath rotting wood. And smelling stuff. And poking around.

*****

I keep telling myself the battles between the crows and raven are none of my business. They operate on a plane high above my sphere of influence. I don’t need to know who is picking on who, even though the sound of the juvenile raven making a horrible cry almost like a cross between a pained quacking duck and a dying honking goose HAUNTS ME.

I started thinking of the raven as Mike Tyson, a big tragic figure — both victim and rapist. Are the little crows making fun of him and hurting his pigeons? Or is he eating their babies? Maybe they’re all fighting over some other littler bird’s babies.

I don’t know, but it can be an ugly world. So I picked up an empty green glass bottle under the trees where they were fighting and started dancing around to get their attention. Then, when I was sure all the crows and raven were watching me and wondering what the fuck?!?, I smashed the bottle on the side of my head and performed a dizzy swoon before falling to the ground. We all started laughing! That really broke the tension and Mike Tyson made a clean getaway, giggling about my skullduggery.

The rest of us took a moment to catch our breaths after laughing so hard. Then the crows came down to inspect the broken bits of glass. Except for one who landed on my face and tried to peck out my left eyeball.

It goes to show you that in war, there really are no winners. Even when that funny Italian guy wound up in the concentration camp. Actually I don’t really remember how that movie ended . . . was it happy or did his daughter die or what happened?

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