September 18, 2016

It’s lingering on summer here at The Slope, not even Indian Summer. We had a few teasers of fall, and a spate of rains. Enough rains to purchase us a third spring, (feeling hot as summer), with the third round of Lantanas, those yellow mini-sunflower looking things, even a few Milkweed blooms, and yet another BIG round of Stapelias and Night Blooming Cereus. There will be more blooms in the morning. The wonders are not ceasing in that category. But it is going on hot and the mosquito brigade was likewise empowered by the rain and heat, so lolling about outside is still unpleasant and not without penalty.

The lake is still so full, but I have disconsolately been staying away from it. And why? It’s one of my most prominent sources of balm and healing. I mourned its absence for those long years during the drought, and now it returns, blissfully, and I ignore it. What a fickle lover am I.

I must’ve appeared much the same when the long ago boyfriend of olde came for a visit, and I was equally unencouraging of anything that resembled a friendly more than hello. It just didn’t fit, or feel right, or I didn’t feel right, and he had nothing to say, and I have little commonality with those who don’t talk. Or write. Or just do something. That wasn’t a chick movie event.

Perhaps that’s a part of why I’m at odds with my own self right now, feeling not quite at ease in my own skin, feeling unhealthyish and then especially more perturbed with my hip deciding to make its bad self known and I have been hobbling and grunting more than is usual. I have a new, improved hip somewhere in my future, but I’m busy right now, or should be, and rallying is the only course that aligns with my projected life for the rest of the year. It happens that these last couple of days have been better and I am convincing myself that indeed, this trend will hold, at least for a while.

Ah yes, show season is upon me. It’s both a good and a bad thing. It’s gets me going, and gets me out there, only there are the many times that being out particularly there is not exactly where I think I wish to be. I’m not even sure where I do wish to be. My puffy little gut took a punch today when I read that my photographer friend who has made it into the rather largish time is coming off one photo assignment, boarding a plane, and is now headed for Alaska to shoot. We stuck our toes into the fringes of the big name photo stuff at the same time some years ago, and now she’s in Alaska and I’m at the Slippery Slope. Hmmm. I wonder what’s right and wrong with any of that pertaining to me.

Am I becalmed? Am I where I’m supposed to be, at this particular juncture of time? That’s what all the oomagooma sorts say, until now – years down the road of oomagooma-ing – that sounds as much a platitude to me as the rest of them that come from the Bible folk or whatever belief system with which one can align. What do I believe in these days?

A good friend took her own life a few weeks ago. Our circle did not find out the way of it until the day of the service. We just barely found out she had left the planet. We were stupefied and cut off at the knees. I say a good friend, and I consider her such though I didn’t see her often, but she was a quality one and our little bunch goes back to the mid-80’s. That’s a long stretch of time, and when you hang on to people for that long, they mean something. She did it with a gun. Now that is seriousness and determination and a firm decision you don’t leave yourself any room to be talked out of, or likely recover from. A moment, a lingering nothing, and she was gone. I’m still mulling it a lot. I’ve let her go, but she’s logging hours in my psyche. I hope she’s flying, and happier than evidently she wasn’t. 2016 has been brutal in the death department.

The Queen Mum persists. I don’t know how. Thank the whatevers that be, or good genes that she managed to get, or sheer stubbornness, that she still does. When she leaves, I shall have to grow up. Really fast. It will be interesting.

I have new art I’m piddling with and it’s fun. Maybe Fun is just what I need right now, or all I can handle. The work is not terribly challenging, but it’s FUN, and one can only hope profitable. I think it will be. I feel good about it. Perhaps I ought to be jumping for that joystuff that I am entertained and energized to throw myself into something in the category of FUN that might actually help me generate some cash flow. Isn’t that the point of it all? I’m not off on a junket to Alaska, but then again, I’m not in the headspace to do that, so hey, this is fairly peachy. Thank you Obama.

Oh that, too. I must say that politics and the general State of Things have not helped my ennui. In fact they have propelled my ennui into dark places that are not conducive to good health. My hip must be connected to my ennui. Of added weight is the continuing news of the onslaught of pipelines and concurrent oil and gas spills; they want to build a tourist trap in a sacred place at the Grand Canyon, and Nature and I are reeling. We as humans, as stewards of the earth, just don’t get it. Well we will. But it’s liable to be way too late. Perhaps, as some say, the Earth is sliding into its next transition or whatever they call it, and guess who is delivering it with all the power we can muster. It’s hard to find a victory, and mankind continues to devolve. We’re really good at being bad at our best interests, both on our physical plane and spiritually. Our poor planet. And poor pitiful us.

In self defense or sheer survival mode I have decided to pick up the sword of Writing again. Here I am. As soon as I get my behind sitting and floating in the healing waters – which are blessedly with the heat still warm – another upward spiral will be achieved. Perhaps the guitar and my voice will follow in short order. Anything could happen. Maybe even Prince Charming will show up. He will likely be on a walker, when my brain has visions of river runners, but maybe all the old river runners end up with walkers anyway. I just hope he has good stories. I ache for good stories. Dear lord I do love to be entertained. And then maybe be part of the act. The particulars of it all are way far out in the ethers. Funny how on the one hand, the oomagooma credo speaks about letting your dreams out of the cage to fly, having no expectations about how the details of your desire are to be delivered…. and be OK with that. On the other hand we are told to be specific in manifesting what we want. How horrible to have our Objects des Desire delivered unto us, only to find ourselves saying Oh I wish I’d thought to say I DIDN’T want THAT with it. Must remember the fine print. Lately I’ve put that Desirable Object thing far back on a shelf that doesn’t get dusted very often. And yes, I know what you’re thinking, at least you oomagooma types. I’m a sorry hand when it comes to dusting.

But I do love to play with picures. And write. And so it goes. Onward and Upward. Deep breath. Tomorrow is another day, and sunrise is coming. And more chick movies are promised by the Hallmark Channel. Life is swell.

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