MYDAY!

  The washer is churning, the dryer is turning, the sky grows darker, the winds blow stronger, my dog is restless, a painting is waiting for me to tend to it, and I am happily content. Why? Because it is MYDAY!

The days of the week are Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, MYDAY, and Saturday. Yes. I have renamed Friday to suit me. My ongoing love affair with this day continues. The optimism of a carefree weekend is what I always feel on this particular day.

 

This weekend is already a very promising one. Aside from watching the semifinal round of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, my husband and children will be returning from a long trip to Montana. No, I did not join them. I wanted some "me" time to get to the tasks I cannot seem to tackle with their three bodies and accompanying clutter ever present. Throw in that it was a ski trip and snow skiing is not my forte, and I was grateful for this time alone. However, it was TOO long of a vacation. In fact, this is the longest I have ever been alone since my marriage. I began missing them fiercely after seven days.

 

I have to admit there were more than a few occasions when I felt I made a huge mistake by not joining them. It is only when I take a look around the house and see all I have done that I think I made the right decision. My mother is experiencing some new health problems, and I am glad I was not somewhere across the country fretting and wondering how she was faring. I also know it was good for me to bask in the peace and quiet in my beloved home. That in itself has been excellent for me.

 

After so many years of not being completely alone for any extended period of time, it was interesting how I reacted to the change. I was able to have uninterrupted thoughts. No one disrupted the flow of whatever activity I was engaged in. I did not get to ski the mountains of Big Sky, ride a dog sled, swim in the Hot Springs, be the one an elk charged ::chuckle::,  but I got to get in touch with myself a little more than I have ever been. I also have a greater appreciation for them and the positive ways they impact my daily life. How can I regret that?

 

Now, I just want to see their faces, smooch them, and hug them tightly...before hubby leaves in a few more days on yet another trip~minus the kids. LOL!

 

"Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone." ~Paul Tillich

 

(Graphic by Simone's Creations®...not for use without her permission.)

RAINING INSIDE AND OUTSIDE

                

I dreamed I was this age and single. That I never had any children nor had ever married. It was unsettling. My vacationing husband happened to phone me while I was still tangled in the dream. I had a vague awareness later on in the morning that I had spoken to him, but I was not certain. Had it only been a part of the dream?

Rain and gloominess without a hint of the sun's presence followed me throughout the day. The temperature was cool. It was an odd day.

 

My mother and I and two of my sisters went to lunch, then on to a meeting to give our approval of a clay rendering of my father's face that is to be part of a bronze wall plaque honoring him in a certain city. The company commissioned by the city to create it specializes in making memorial headstones.

 

The likeness of Daddy was outstanding, and we all enthusiastically gave a thumbs-up to proceed with the casting in bronze. I roamed through the display area. There are such beautiful granite headstones to choose from. Just when I thought I had seen the prettiest one, I came upon another one that was more gorgeous. The combination of beauty and sadness a headstone encompasses is disconcerting. One cannot deny the artisanship of the stone, but its use is wrenching to the heart.

 

We climbed back into my vehicle, and one of my sisters asked if we could stop at the close-by cemetery where her in-laws are buried. They both passed away in 2002 within a few months of each other. We agreed to go there.

 

The cemetery is positively massive. Winding roads, old sections, new ones, parts designated for those of specific religions. My sister had some difficulty finding the exact section. During the hunt, I hopped in and out of the car to take peeks inside some of the mausoleums. One looked like a tiny church, complete with a miniature steeple. Had it not been for the fact that it contained someone's remains from long ago, I would have loved to paint a picture of it. The stained glass windows were stunning. I found it especially touching that some were "perpetual care" ones~meaning fresh flowers were delivered daily inside those mausoleums.

 

We finally located their plots. Mom stayed in the car while the three of us girls stepped out into the rain to view the area. ::sigh:: It was very depressing. Because it is a family plot, there were numerous other family members buried there. My sister filled us in on who was who. There was my brother-in-law's 43-year-old grandfather's stone. He died in a boating accident. After safely lifting the last of his children into the boat, he drowned. His marker was impossibly sad because of the inscription stating he laid down his life for his loved ones. Next to him, was his wife's headstone. She passed away a mere two years after he did. His first wife's stone was nearby. She was all of 24 when she died. At the foot of one of the graves rested the remains of my brother-in-law's three-day-old infant sibling.

 

It was too much for me. I needed to get back in the car and get away from all the personal history that was twisting my heart. It was a little easier for me to look at the grave sites of the unknown people from the 1800s or to admire the headstone of a person I did not know.

 

I, who have the world's absolute worst sense of direction, was able to immediately find my way out of that giant cemetery. There was much chuckling from the others about that.

 

After I arrived home, I busied myself with tasks. When I finally sat down, I thought about my dream. I thought about the cemetery where we had been. And I thought about how sad it would be had I never married and never had children.

 

While my entire life story has yet to be played out, at least I know that at some point in time there will be somebody standing in the rain looking at my headstone and those of the ones I have loved and who have loved me. Remembered.

 

"Slowly, the dead steal back into our speech." ~Unknown  

SENSELESSNESS

       

"The reverend he turned to me, without a tear in his eyes. It's nothing new for him to see. I didn't ask him why." ~from the song Cemetery Gates performed by Pantera

 

It has been over a year that I have thought about writing this entry. Many times during the past months I wanted to find out the thoughts and feelings my nephew had about the incident. I was afraid to ask him. My concern was that I might stir up some buried emotions by urging him to relive the evening for me. And so I waited. Hoping time would be kind to him. Friday I finally talked to him about what had happened.

 

This is about Darrell "Dimebag" Abbott's last nite. His name is not one the majority of people recognize. His father is country-westerm songwriter and producer Jerry Abbott. Darrell was a guitarist (who some consider to be one of the top guitarists ever to play) who formed a heavy metal band called Pantera. It was one of the most successful bands of the nineties. When it split in 2001, he moved on to play for Damageplan.

 

In early December of 2004, Damageplan came to play in Columbus, Ohio. A crowded Alrosa Villa club was just getting into the music of the first song when a young man jumped onto the stage and shot Darrell repeatedly. His gunfire was not confined solely to the guitarist. The manic shooting spree killed four. Darrell first. One of the dead was a fan. One a club employee. One a bodyguard for the band. There was a fifth death...that of the gunman when a patrol officer shot him. And with that, Darrell Abbott became the first musician ever to be murdered onstage.

 

Oh, the reason the 25-year-old man shot Darrell? He was mad at him for disbanding Pantera and joining another group. Nice, huh?

 

My nephew was eager to see this group play that particular evening. He is a huge fan of music and always knows the latest information about various groups. He had been a Pantera fan and was a Damageplan fan. He and his boss excitedly arrived at the Alrosa. The opening song began to be played. Then gunfire erupted. First aimed at Darrell, then it was sprayed everywhere. Shots were fired into the crowd. The spectators fled the club and were kept in a parking lot to be questioned by police. Knowing my sister would hear about the shooting on the news, my nephew called her from his cell phone to let her know he was unharmed.

 

These are the questions I asked him and his responses:

 

1. Do you think about that awful nite very often? No.

 

2. During the shootings, what did you think? At first, I thought it was part of the act. I think everyone thought that.

 

3. When all of you realized it was NOT part of the act, how did everyone react? It was not too chaotic getting out of the club. There was no pushing or shoving. Maybe everyone was kind of in shock. I called Mom to let her know I was okay, because I knew she would see it on the news and be worried. I remember feeling agitated when I talked to her.

 

4. Did you think about it a lot after that nite? And did it cause you to be afraid when you attended concerts from them on? At first for a few days, I couldn't think about it at all. Three days after the shooting, I went to a concert. I was nervous. I am not anymore.

 

5. What are your feelings about what happened? The whole situation pi**es me off. It was a terrible waste. He was supposedly a nice guy (Abbott). Not only were the killings so awful, but the Alrosa's revenue was affected by it. Now few bands want to perform at the Alrosa. There used to be great groups that came there. There aren't anymore. It frustrates me.

 

6. Any lingering effects on you? I think I will always be angry about it. I don't really think about the shootings themselves except when I am listening to Pantera or Damageplan songs.

 

I ended the interrogation at that point even though my mind was spinning with dozens more questions I wanted to ask him. It just "felt" the right time to stop had arrived. And I feel sure that after my phone conversation with him, he was probably assaulted by nonstop thoughts about all that I had dredged up.

 

I know after I hung up the phone, I yet again thanked God that my precious nephew had not been one of the fatalities on that cold December evening.

 

Closing with a very disturbing and chilling quote:

 

"Guns are neat little things, aren't they? They can kill extraordinary people with very little effort." ~John W. Hinckley

CROSSING OVER & A COMPARISON

                            

                                  The midlife warnings
                            once so distant from my ears
                                   ring and deafen me

                         (posted at Write Words Writing Club) 

I find the mid-life years~particularly the forties~compare easily to the teen years. There is something about these years that seems to contain the turbulent emotions of the volatile teenage years. Enter the incredible highs and the bottom of the barrel lows. The lust to succeed in some way. The zest for living that at times can consume every pore of my body. The self-confidence mingled with self-doubt. Whatever the day, each one holds a magic or a darkness...or perhaps a bit of both. Unpredictable. Undeniable is the urge to leave my imprint somewhere. On something. It is a time of wanting, needing, and expending energy to determine a way to get where I want to be. Need to be.

 

My winter watercolor art class came to a close. The spring session starts soon, and I told my instructor I would not be back. I do not feel I have the gift to paint well. He told me I was wrong. He was sad. Like a teenager, my mind was made up, and there was no changing it. Of course, I felt terrible that I upset him. I softened it with a hug and told him I loved him to pieces. I need to wander through the world of art in my own way, experimenting with a wider variety of mediums. No rules. I cannot close off the part of me that has to express myself.

 

This journal will be my playground on occasion. It will be filled with poetry and paintings. Some decent, some hideous, some~hopefully~good. In other words, it will represent me and my quest to find where I think I fit. And gone will be the timidity I often feel about displaying my works here. After all, I am still a work in progress. ::smile::

 

Speaking of which, there is the most erotic photo of a couple on a beach that I am itching to sketch and paint. Time to begin it.

 

"Keep true to the dreams of thy youth." ~Friedrich von Schiller

THE UNEXPECTED (Repost from March 2, 2005)

(Graphic by Simone...please do not rip her work.)

This particular past entry is one of mine that makes me feel good. Oh, the little things in our world that can bring us joy are boundless.

Wednesday, March 2, 2005; 8:32:00 PM EST; Feeling Quiet; Hearing Slave To Love~Bryan Ferry & Roxy Music (mmm, baby)

The Unexpected

I had attended a boys soccer game being played by five- and six-year-olds. It is next to impossible to watch kids that age play the game without smiling. Usually, it is "pack ball"...there is a clump of kids who are frantically kicking at the ball, and they travel up and down the field in one large pack. A few kids remain on the fringe of all the activity, not because they are staying in their assigned positions as much as they are virtually clueless as to what to do. Young children are sometimes quite emotional, too, while they play. They fall, and they cry. They accidentally get kicked, and they cry. They get in a really good kick, and they are jubilant and jump up and down in celebration while looking over at their parents and grandparents to be sure their stunning move has been observed by them! It is very entertaining and heartwarming to watch them play. They are not only learning the rules and techniques of soccer; they are also learning about themselves and beginning to explore the competitive nature of sports. So...

I was sitting along the sidelines and intently watching the pack of kids make futile attempts to kick the ball. All of a sudden, the ball squirted out of the sea of tangled legs. It rolled over to this lone boy who was standing very near where I was seated. His eyes lit up...he waited for the ball to reach him...he drew back his right foot...and then with all his might, he kicked that ball HARD. He kicked it so hard that he lost his balance. Both his feet went flying up in the air, and he fell onto the ground landing on his back. All the spectators gasped...sure that he had been hurt. The little boy rolled over onto his stomach and barely moved. His parents were seated next to me, and they were extremely worried. The boy fiddled around with the grass for a few seconds, then he looked up at his parents with a twinkle in his eyes. He said to them, "Hey! I just found a four-leaf clover!" We all went into hysterics~relieved he was not injured and totally charmed by the fact he was in the midst of a game, yet he was oblivious to what was transpiring on the field. Forgotten was his glorious kick. Forgotten was the nasty jolt to his body as he hit the ground. The important thing to him at that moment was his unexpected good fortune at finding something he felt was special and meaningful.

And isn't that a lesson for all of us? The game of life sometimes knocks us flat on our backs. We have the choice of focusing on the negative during those times. We also have the choice of finding something positive about our situation. We might have to look awfully hard to see anything we deem a plus, but undoubtedly it is there waiting to be discovered.

Today's quote:

"There is little difference in people, but that little difference makes a big difference. The little difference is attitude. The big difference is whether it is positive or negative." ~W. Clement Stone 

INTERPRETATIONS

 

I think our own interpretations of a piece of artwork are sometimes more interesting than the art itself. When a painting is very realistic, everyone can agree on what it depicts. For example, if it is a portrait of a woman, we all would be in total agreement about that. What would differ among us would be what we saw in the woman. Is she contemplative? Sad? Wistful? Should the painting be of a landscape, we might see the same scene, but what we envision about that place would vary.

 

We can look at more abstract work, and it is far easier for there not only to be many more interpretations, but also many more things to interpret. Those paintings are more obtuse. And that opens the door for our minds to explore all there is about the works. I am unsure too many people would ever come away with identical thoughts about such paintings.

 

The Write Words Writing Club had a picture over a month ago that a few people selected for their entries. I have never been a collector of abstract work. I am not a contemporary decorator. However, every once in awhile, I am taken by a painting or picture that is definitely unlike my usual preferences. That was the case with this picture. What I immediately saw in the picture was quite different from the interpretations of those who wrote about it.

 

I saved that picture. I knew at some point in time I would want to write about it. I was not certain when or in what style I would write, just that I would. The time is now.

The lust released,

spent in a fury

of reckless need.

 

The intimate act

merely an attempt

to fill a void.

 

An ache for love

the impetus

for their coupling.

 

Turning away,

closed eyes concealing

the pain of emptiness.

DEFEAT

       

There were so many of them. Within reach. I brought my hands together and was certain I had been able to capture at least one. I tingled inside with the knowledge that I had managed to obtain that which I had yearned for. My hands remained cupped around my celestial prize. A smile adorned my face while I savored the moment.

Carefully I parted my fingers, eager to peek at the glow I held. I saw only darkness. How could that be? Nothing was there to be seen. I turned my hands, palms up. My eyes met emptiness. And I felt myself spiraling downward into bleak defeat. Engulfed in a sadness that refused to relinquish its hold on me.

 

The saddest part is that I caused a kind old man to well up with tears as he watched me give in to my thinly-veiled despair. And I cannot forgive myself for that.

 

"But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope." ~George Eliot