Blowing Toads

Today, I blew toads. Yes, literally. I was in my front yard, attempting to clear the dumping of leaves and small branches from my fenced off flower area. I seldom use the leaf blower, but having totally jacked up my left arm and shoulder painting the entire hallway in an hour on Friday, I was trying to keep a low profile and resist putting in more steps or painting.

So I got the leaf blower out. Meanwhile, after the storm that caused the tree to go through the roof, zillions of teeny toads emerged, somehow triggered by the first rain of the season. They gather near the house, particularly in the garage at night, causing me to park the car in the driveway, get out and shoo the toads out of my path before pulling in.

So when I started blowing the leaves, hidden toads began wafting about in the jetstream. It was quite a sight and I admit it reminded me of my childhood days, when I burned ants with a magnifying glass, held grasshoppers by the legs and fed them to my cats, and poured salt on snails and slugs to watch them sizzle. Being  mostly vegetarian, a spokeperson for animal kindness and a pacifist; surprisingly yes, animal torture resides in my past. I am not sure what motivated it, but I felt a sense of God-like power knowing the little creatures lives depended on my whim.

This little guy was plastered on the brick, unable to go up or down. As soon as I realized what was happening I redirected the air and released the toad to continue to his destination, somewhat disturbed , likely confused, but not harmed.

I know how he feels!

Now, on with life.....

Under Construction

It occurred to me, as I followed the "Follow me" truck through the construction zone on highway 49 tonight, that would be a good name for my book. Our house has been under construction since we moved (back) up to Ryan's house 20 months ago. This road has been under MAJOR construction since about June. Our relationship is under construction. The ongoing battle within my head..a Winchester-house kind of construction. Doubts, fears, responsibilities, anger, guilt, sadness...building and tearing down, rebuilding, stepping back , re-assessing. There are doors to nowhere, with locks and no keys. There are landings with no stairs. The spectacular garden is visible from every window, but there are days I cannot find my way outside.

It also occurred to me that when i feel overwhelmed, and helpless, and angry, I have nothing to find solace in. That is the time religious people "turn it over to God." I held that thought for  second and realized I truly have no faith. I don't trust anyone or anything to take care of me. It is all up to me. It is both empowering and terrifying.

 Today I awoke, opened the door to a brick wall and walked smack into it. Tomorrow, I hope to reach the garden.

For PG

it's dark 

and

i'm worn

and I don't

want anything

i hear

nothing

there is

no one

to say come back

but then i remember

how much

i am loved

i sigh and

pull the curtain back

slowly

it's raining.

should

I have to be careful of the mornings. After the alarm, the morning cuddle and denial of said alarm, the waking of the children, the scurry for cereal and lunch money and shoes, and onemorehugiloveyou, there is silence. There is me and the dog and the cats and my pajamas and the coffee is cold and I should eat breakfast but I’m not hungry. There is the computer to check up on the world and the weather and who’s butt was showing on the red carpet and balance the checkbook and will it get warmer later and confirm work for tomorrow and then I realize its time to do something, or admit defeat. Husband calls to say kids are dropped off and something funny happened in the car and I miss you.

I go to the kitchen to find something to eat and what I really want is some cheese and wine and crackers but it’s only 9:30 so I eat reheated garlic bread instead. If my mouth tastes like dinner maybe I can pretend its evening.

The dog by now is on the driveway soaking up the sun and the cats are bored.

Here is where I should do something like shower or exercise or climb back into bed because today is too much, all those hours stretched in front of me is just too much, so much I could get done and say, I did this this and this aren’t I good? 

Lighthouses Rule!

If you haven't seen this viral video yet...enjoy.

Supposedly this guy Dan Deacon was on hallucinogenic drugs in a closet and someone recorded it, and put animation to it. I read elsewhere that he was just watching TV, flipping through the channels, commenting. I like the first scenario better :) Either way, its fantastic and quotable :)

The Birth

Thank you Aimee Bender, who showed me I’m not the only one who thinks crazy shit and needs to write it down. That a story doesn’t have to follow traditional rules. It only has to make you feel something, anything.

Thank you Haven Kimmel for showing me you can write essays, that turn into a memoir, and then write fiction.

Thank you David Sedaris for writing about competely mundane shit that captivates. How do you do that?

On the day she went into labor, she cleaned her house. It was unexpected; she had known it was coming for some time, but clearly today was the day. She had been carrying the story inside her for months, unsure of what it would look or sound like, but excited as she felt it growing and kicking inside her gut. 

Some knew she was expecting, and would inquire, has it come yet? Do you know what you are having? It’s a surprise, she would smile, you’ll have to wait as well. 

To those who did not notice she was carrying, she seemed average, inconsequential. A regular girl going about her business. She liked the secrecy, the double life. The story’s cells were dividing, multiplying, flowering within her, with no external evidence of the birth to come. 

The conception time was vague. In a way she had felt it growing for years, but it did not become evident until recently. She had been so busy during the gestation that it had been easy to forget about, until a gentle internal nudge would remind her to begin preparation.

The seed had come from many, many sources. Each event in her life, each writer that had inspired her, each book that had touched her soul contributed to its genetics. 

When she realized what was upon her, her fears arose in an an army. What would people think when they saw it? Would they judge her? Would they be surprised, yet pleased as she was? Would they doubt her ability to nurture it, and advise her to give it up for practical reasons?

As she felt the labor pains, she nested.  When she felt she could wait no longer, she sat in her recliner with a glass of wine. The dog and cats sat near, supportive but not intrusive.

And the story was born.

It was smaller than she had anticipated, but fiercely beautiful. It had her eyes, and her heart. The wisdom in its eyes was balanced with a clever smirk. 

It gasped for air as it left the womb, out of the safety of her mind into the glare, the cool air giving it goosebumps. She quickly clutched it to her, and as it nursed, it reached out a tiny hand to touch her face. 

Mother, it said.

She knew it would not be her last.

Thank you Emily Pearson...and Samwell!

Seeing this led me to explore the "What What" part the dudes were grooving to...which led to....

You know you can't stop singing it....