Change

Atlanta. I've written about how much I love her, and it's true. I recently went back and was able to hit my old spots. They are still beautiful and I still admire them. Things were different than expected though. As I was falling asleep about three nights ago, back in Edenton, I was looping the experience through my mind and had come up with some words that settled my uncertainty regarding this last trip back. I have since forgotten them, of course. But, they worked for the time and tucked my mind in for the night.
It's change, folks. Pure and simple change. And as I realize this I see signs everywhere pointing to it in big bold ways. Is it coincidence that Counting Crows is singing about it from the speakers behind me now? I watched Modern Family (love it!!) and the theme continued, it was about letting go and letting change take it's course. I went jogging through Edenton and one bright, yellow leaf fell in slow motion, zigzagging its way down the sky with each slight shift of wind, but remaining in my path so that we coincided perfectly and Selma jumped at it, unusually, because she observed it was peculiar too. As I passed the lone leaf and looked ahead, it was as if all of this rushed through my head at once and my tension fell as well, taking its place on the pavement beside the first fall leaf, and I ran on toward... whatever life sends. Immediately, I could breathe freer and my shackled shuffles became strides of curiosity. These weren't subtle signs I was getting from above, it was not hard to take notice of them.
That I needed to let go, was the message. I needed to practice my own motto for the way I wish to live life. Ride the river, not row. Go with the ocean's current, because as soon as your feet slip from the sand below you have a choice. Fight, use an enormous amount of energy against a power you can not come close to controlling, let tension and fright and pain consume your body, lose your breath and drown in the rush- a horrible struggle for nothing. The wave crashes no matter what you want and the only thing you control is if it crashes on you. Or, relax and retain, let loose of your limbs and float a bit in this mad rush of nature and life, hope, make yourself one with the motion and glide as this wave takes you on the ride of your life and sweeps you, most often gently, onto a shore you find rather appealing and safe.
The latter metaphor I have tapped into frequently as I am a fan of the ocean, but not a fan of tackling it. I have unfortunately been manhandled by these waves a couple of times. Neither turned out pretty. The first was a shock. I thought "I'm dead. And this is the dumbest way I could imagine." I could touch the ocean floor, but I couldn't stand. I was in shallow water, but kept getting knocked down by those fierce Atlantic waves and water was up my nose, shooting into my eyeballs (which stung like hell) and every gasp I could manage was salty, if you get the picture. I finally got tossed down the beach and was washed ashore under a fisherman that peered over me with all curiosity and no help. My eighth grade boyfriend had to come fish me out of the ocean and clean me up. I was exhausted and shaken and my face felt like bees had swarmed and stung every inch of it. Case number two was stupid too, but not nearly as scary and tragic. I was with one of my best friends in the Gulf and realized I had my earrings in still and that I would surely lose them. She suggested I put them under my tongue. I thought that was an okay plan. (All of these words reek of alcohol, mind you) As I did this a big, fat wave came from nowhere and knocked me silly and there I go, with that wave wherever it decided. I slid in to knee deep water and stood up, thankful to have one of my earrings still (the other is buried treasure), and wouldn't you know I have on a bandeau top, completely strapless. I stood up, yanked my top up, waved to my friend that I'm alive and well, and as I looked up I saw that the beach in front of me was lined with a group of beach-going spring break lads. I am not an exhibitionist. This was not thrilling for me, but for the same reason I ran into the ocean like a chanting, howling idiot with my wonderful girlfriend, I was able to muster the dignity to turn and laugh and haul ass down the shore... vodka & pineapple juice. Otherwise, I may have slowly sunk and asked the wave if it wanted another passenger for a while.
So, this example of a wave and how it can crush you in a fight, it doesn't come purely from imagination.
Taking a serious stance on the topic, I think resisting change can cause an enormous amount of stress. While going back to a past home can be fun, it can also strike one as hollow and impossible. Seeking the same city is gratifying, seeking the same dynamic within it is not. Swallow it, mourn it, and let it go. I have, with the help of my friend and husband, let my limbs fall slack and the granules under my toes are ever changing, rolling with me, taking me somewhere instead of charging into me and building up against my legs like a wall of pressure that is surely going to hurt more and more with time. Floating now, slowly and gently over new places, I almost rest.
It's a picture in my head. It's not the picture that let me rest my head a few nights ago, but this one is a stored image, a resource to use when needed.
So, I will try and see these signs, follow their direction, and ride my life. I think I had such a tight grip on the things I loved about where I was, that letting go was so threatening it physically hurt. I only now, after a week, can turn my neck and look over my shoulders. Everyday it cracks with a deep thud and I can move it more. Is it worth this sort of stiff, rigid life? My mental attitude had become mirrored in my physical state of being and I was left looking only straight ahead. Not the vision I hope for... I want to do better for myself and see more, move more flexibly.
I think I wrote a poem a while back that reflects this intent during my life. It is a reminder. I'll look for it and will put it up if I find it and it is relevant after all.
I am glad to be back here, writing and embracing my little rituals that bring me big smiles. Life is treating me kindly with gifts of variety. The kind of gifts that change. The kind of changes that make up life. The kind of life I consider a gift.

Corners

No teasing myself. Can’t allow it.

I said Brandi Carlile and Brandi Carlile I must address. “No cutting corners!” my gymnastics coach would shout as we ran laps. This has translated into adulthood as me not being able to abandon much of anything. No cutting corners- in my workouts or in parties hosted, in being able to leave my bathroom without checking if the straightening iron is unplugged less than about 5 times or walking away from a restaurant booth without a double glance and thorough inspection of under the booth in case I am leaving anything behind, and especially with thoughts left untouched as I race laps around the perimeter of my mind. Brandi Carlile is now a corner and my foot. must. touch. corner…

Pause.

By the way, it sounded like I just unloaded what could be interpreted as OCD tendencies on my gymnastics requirements and that is not what I intended. I am certain that as a third grader I understood that it was an odd urge I had to complete the laps rigidly or spring up in class to wipe the chalk board completely. The left over chalk marks still irk me when I think of them. Would it have been too hard, Teacher, to just wipe the board entirely? Teacher asks 100 percent effort to be put forth, yet leaves tidbits of letters lurking on the chalkboard.

Rant. That felt good.

Brandi Carlile, I like tremendously. Fantastic artist, sometimes strikingly poetic and painful and what I love most about her is that I can listen to her music and find myself somber and stewing over the meanings of things that verge on depressing. My kind of music. I know what you are thinking. You are either like me, and love to be saddened or, you think I’m nuts. No argument found here. I’m not battling that analysis. I admit I am pulled to the melancholy. For goodness sake, I put ‘The Hours’ on and program the dvd player to loop the movie. So, I enjoy doing house tasks to the continuous playing of one of my absolute favorite movies, that others happen to find quite disturbing. Like I said, no debate here.

When I think of Ms. Carlile, aside from her talents, I think of a friend. I worked with this friend and had he not been my desk buddy, I may have slumped into a dark little mental dwelling for about a year. A life friend, this one.

I don’t have much to say (on a blog) beyond thanks to him. I enjoyed his conversation and variety of music during our workdays, and his detail-oriented mind was a huge resource for me to learn from. His life, I’ve learned, has challenged him to a match or two lately. Not just tennis, real life stuff. So, I hope he relies on his music and thoughtfulness to outstretch any moment he may find that tires his spirit.

Thinking, insightful men with dreams, I wish for you moments to relax and steer your self where you find not only obligation but true opportunities of heart. Find the water well. There is always a village in need of you.

So, this one goes out to a mutual Brandi Carlile fan (the one who turned me on to her music) and to a friend that, like I, has a hard time cutting corners. May your year end with an easier route to run, perhaps a round one.

I have put today’s music on a playlist that bounces from Radiohead to Nick Drake to Elliott Smith. I’ll spare you all from what that produces in my thought patterns. But, come October, this same unnamed friend will get another shout out… and he knows it too…

Waking Up Today

I peek through cracked eyelids. Husband is up. He points the fan to blow on my face. I like that. I choose not to wake, but snuggle into my pillow. China taps my shoulder. She wants to snuggle too. What was that dream? Oh yeh, I was escaping something with Oprah and Maura Tierney and we were wearing masks and fleeing to Africa. Why do I want back into this dream? Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Snooze.

Eyes… open. Selma Lu is staring at me with anticipation. I wipe my wet nose. Puppy kisses, I smile.

Hello, Day.

Coffee, coffee, coffee, ahhh… Starbuck’s French Roast in pretty, water colored mug. Straw? Yes, please. Sniff and sip, delish! I settle into chair, stare at Nick. He is across from me, playing me music. Favorite Sunday moment. Sigh. Smile. Enjoy Selma’s hops across floor and amazing puppy dog cuteness. Absorb China’s soft belly, as she sits in my lap. Baby, fine fur. Beautiful sky beaming through glass. Must walk dogs.

Walk, walk, walk. Nick goes inside to head off for golf. Walk, walk, walk. Albemarle Sound with wooden bridge and cypress trees. Beauty, God, what a beauty. Wave to bikers. Carry baby turtle to water.

Inside, I sit with second cup of coffee. Breakfast. Read a bit online. Prepare for day. First on list, play David Gray. What to do? Revise? Read more about the first seven presidents of The United States of America who go unrecognized because it was under the Articles of Confederation and not the Constitution? Pack for my upcoming trip back to Atlanta? Write for my blog?

Why, yes.

Hello, 'In My Monet'.

It is perhaps the most beautiful day of the year, so far. Outside it feels like we are situated not on the East Coast, but out West, maybe Salt Lake City. While walking with Nick, we remembered his tour events out in Utah that felt so marvelously; it was impossible for the body to ache or the mind’s thought to drag. The days were so clear, as if the rest of life had been lived behind the lens of a bad camera and this, finally, was a high quality camera lens revealing the magnitude of beauty for which life deserved recognition. Recognition it got. Happy people certainly gave credit to the environment for their clarity. It was one of the best weeks on the tour. Maybe we belong there or somewhere like it. We refer often to those weeks spent in Park City, even farther to Eugene, Oregon and down into and through California. This isn’t implying Edenton isn’t pretty, because it surely is. It is very picturesque and special. Especially on a day that mimics western weather.

David Gray’s song goes like this “First chance I get, I’m gone, I’m out of here.” Not kidding. It is playing overhead like a soundtrack to the narration going on in my head. It poses a very good question. If I got the chance, would I be gone from little Edenton? Thought provoking. Let me see how this one rolls.

It is tempting. But, having moved around a bit already in life, I notice that to occupy my mind with what I am not liking about a place I live in, is worth nothing. It provides nothing of value to me. So, I try not to think about things like this often. I think about what Edenton is offering me instead, what gifts it is providing. This is valuable.

I can enjoy this time while I’m here or be miserable about what I am missing. I tried that for a few weeks. Miserable. Purely miserable. I miss tons of stuff. Let’s see: family, friends, Flying Biscuit, Nord-heaven, Anthropologie, coffee and lunch dates with girlfriends, lights from a beautiful city skyline, buzzing energy, people moving like they’ve got somewhere to go and they’re excited about it, oh gee, actually having somewhere to go, parks full of families and dogs and smiling people (Chastain, Piedmont), brunch at Murphy’s, a plethora of restaurants to choose from for dining, museums, musicals, kick-ass aquariums, a twenty minute door to door drive to one of the largest international airports in the world, aka, freedom to roam world easily, concerts, Braves baseball, the Falcons, (and especially) red and black UGA flags flying, music, music, music, exquisite cuisine offered late into the night, evening cocktails at any of the fine establishments or hotels, artistic creation going on, nobody caring about rumors because there are other way more interesting things to talk about, doggie daycare, Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s… anything at any place you want really, fashion and formality, Athens nearby, tons of hills, tons of trees, anonymity when wanted, salons and spas, and simply driving down Peachtree Street. I mean, I could keep going, all day.

But, I will not. I will realize what my new home has to offer and why it might be that life has swept me down the riverbank to rest in a place named Edenton. (Case in point,) I have rest and relaxation, deep breaths, starry nights, historical remnants at fingertips, cypress trees stemming from the Sound, big moons with big reflections in the midnight water, walking in the middle of the street if I want to, not so much traffic unless behind lollygagger, adorable historical district and downtown, spooky, foggy winter evenings, quaint backyard gardens between white picket fences, getting to know people because that’s what you do, front porch swings, nearby Williamsburg, nearby outer banks, pedestrian lifestyle, no fashion temptations to refuse, possibility of getting cute bike complete with basket in which to put China Lingua, lots of dinners at friends' houses, the most impressive dragonfly summers ever seen, old colonial homes/estates with flickering gas lanterns, intriguing natural elements and creatures, getting in and out of the post office in about 2 minutes, new and really great friends, another pretty neat experience to add to my life’s in-progress piece of art, and most valuable of all, time. Time to write, read, talk, walk, learn about something or someone new is most likely the biggest gift. I have no choice but to embrace the “I’d like to have time to do that one day.” category on my list of to-dos. No stress, no strain, no big corporate thumb pressing down on me, smooshing me into something I don’t want to be.

It’s one more bend in the river. I get to pick the flowers and smell them, experience the different scents. I get to step and sink into different mud of the Earth. I get to see what the sky looks like from here. Where I am now is to be appreciated and to think about the nots is too easy for one and also a waste of time. Often, when I have concentrated on those negative aspects of a place, and have left it, I look back at it and think not of the negative, but of all the positive things I liked about the place. Which is, most likely, a divine influence on human nature. Memory gazes toward the happy, not the sad.

Not relying on memory too much is key for me. I think of all the happiness in a place left behind (Especially Atlanta, because I never, ever once went without appreciation for my Lady Atlanta. I adore her completely.), and I miss what’s in front of me. What good does it do me to sink my feet in this mud and think of that mud?

I am growing with this.

I close my eyes.

Relish my moment. Feel the intensity of this single, pure moment. Blood rushing, breath feeding me life, life feeding me time. Experience the momentum. Energy swarming in air, Earth feeding me vibrations, vibrations feeding me the flow of life.

Don’t close eyes… open. Wake up to really live. Now. Live in the now that has been gifted to me. I hear the music. I see the reflections of life’s wishes. I feel the pulse of the soul of me. I smell my home’s mixture of aromas. I taste, well, I still taste coffee, which isn’t disappointing, friend! I intuit there is a wonderful uncovering coming if I allow. I intend to look at now.

I sit back and smile slightly. Selma cocks head and blinks, ears perk. China looks at me sleepily with a sliver of pink tongue sticking from her black, furry mouth.

It’s a beautiful day inside too. Maybe one of the most beautiful days of the entire year, so far.

I wish for peaceful places to land down my life’s river to enjoy my Sundays, and my every days. Deep breath. I thank David Gray.

Now, on to Brandi Carlile.

Housewives, Hurricanes, and "Hey, Mom."

Desperate Housewives reruns are booming from my daytime tv. And I think it's such a clever show because all the women are intriguing and have these exaggerated personalities that draw us to them like magnets. I adore each of these characters. They are representative of parts of a whole. Most of us have sides. The Susan side, the Gabrielle side, the Bree side and although we may hide it more, the Edie comes out every now and then. I began watching this show way after the rest of American girls. I am so slow when it comes to using sunscreen and watching shows. Nevertheless, I am watching now and making up for lost time.

Today, I am Bree. Why? Because I have cleaned my already clean Arte Italica serving pieces, done four loads of laundry, cleaned appliances, wiped all glass and mirror in house, done the dishes, made the bed, watched a movie and sent it back, gathered all necessary items needed to withstand possible long periods of no power from hurricane Earl, and gotten my friend’s keys that is headed to Chicago in case her house needs care after the storm. I’ve walked the dogs, twice. I’ve gotten the mail, cleaned Selma’s ears and brushed both dogs’ teeth, made dinner for two nights in case we can’t heat food from storm damage, and have even filled the bathtub in case there is no water for days and we need bath water (friend’s suggestion). I am about to vacuum and work out. Before I can brag about my Bree-ness, I must declare, I have had coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Oh yeh, I couldn’t have been Bree without having a great lunch, and it just so happens I had a fresh bowl of organic greens and spinach with toasted pecans, blue cheese, blueberries, and toasted Quorn patties cut into strips with a wonderful balsamic vinaigrette. As much as I would like to be cute and clumsy Susan, there is no time for that with a hurricane nearing. And of all of them, Gabby is the most fun to watch I think. No sexy hotness here either, just ponytails and storm candles. Anywaaaay… none of that matters. I am simply letting the coffee take its course and using the keyboard to hurry the process.

Yesterday, I stated that I would share an email conversation between my mom and me. It’s below, but I will tell you that I can’t make my mom stop being over complimentary. She just can’t help it. She is m-o-m. All mom. And, it may be nauseating to you, but keep in mind, she loves my guts. I switched the order so it reads like it was sent instead of backward. Here t’is…

ME:Hey mom,

I wrote these things.

~For a dream journal I got for a friend as a thanks-for-having-us-gift:

"Dreams and feeling free are intertwined in the mind. They show us that it is self, not circumstance, that determines our truth, hope, and ultimately, our freedom."

~Before bed one night... don't know when exactly... like a week and a half ago? Wrote this:

The seven winds of change came and danced across my wrists.

In the caress they told me a secret that shall never escape my lips.

If you meet the seven winds, you'll be more than pleased.

It's of the glories and of the stories the winds gather from the seas.

~Just a few secs ago, wrote this (Haven't read it back to myself yet.):

Can we wonder while we sleep?

Do we pray a little with every weep?

When mind creeps

I'll let mine leap

Across that gray divide.

Faster please, oh keeper of time.

I want to know and no longer hide

From the truth that spans so far and wide.

Release my captured, colorless soul.

Within, it can stay contained no more.

To roam the lands that have lived in lore,

I must pivot- plunge into myself, explore.

What do I find here in whimsy and what nots?

Can't tell or judge my day's tic tock.

I may be free or I may be lost

Or I may be inside my dream of a spot

That seemed so fancy and dandy.

It seemed to be where one could fly free.

Like Luna moths or spray from the sea

This dream of a space may elude me.

Will I leap back and dare to wake up?

Or am I content in this Neverland rut?

I may muster the courage but my spirit is stuck.

In the new found knowledge of matter and muck.

Mind, give me a hand please, won't you?

I see that your showing me lessons of value.

Inside of my self is where I'll continue.

And in self is where light shines on real truth.

Whether that divide holds me from sheer pleasure

Is up to me, it's my space to measure.

And whether it was a dream or it was life pure

I ought to make both experiences to treasure.

Waking, I wiggle, feel foggy and fuzzy.

And all that made sense just before fades quickly.

I must remember that spark of a journey.

Or was it, I ponder, a glimpse of another me?

(I was writing this and what I wrote initially stopped at explore and I just kept writing after I copied and will send the rest to myself too to keep.)

Tell me what you think.

MOM: These are very beautiful and once again amazing. You really need to do something with these. Share them. This last one is likened to your book I think. I think the one about the winds is beautiful and my favorite. You should write a book of poems if nothing else but fill a journal book with them ALL - even out of order, but written down. You will enjoy them in later years and amaze yourself all over again.

ME: It may be applicable to my book, but not written for it. I was thinking about dreams and we all have the same fading experience when waking from them. Not many things revolving around our inner personal experience have such common thread through all of man. So, I was thinking about what that might mean, and then was thinking ultimately, that death might be like waking from a dream. Dreams are always slow when in them, but amazingly short relative to where we are when we wake. Life may be similar compared to the Everafter. And what seems so important and crucial in a dream is suddenly and by large contrast, inconsequential to our awakened point of view. It may be worth addressing or worth pondering, and even worth working out if it wasn't a great one, but never does it really matter that much... just an experience. Life may be viewed similarly... and this is what really interests me. When we wake in the Everafter, painlessly and with relief, we may notice how exaggerated our emotions were about what amounts to no big deal. Life may be a facet of ourselves, just as dreams are. Just part of the big picture... one after the other, until maybe we decide we can take a break from "night". Also, in dreams, they are, like in our world, always from an extreme point of view from Self. This means, although others are in our dream, it is because we place them there and choose more than we realize. Life is also an experience that is lived through only Self's vision and intentions. Never can we escape being selfish because it is our only domain from which we can truly think. If we redefined or even gave a new reputation to the word 'selfish' I think it would impact our world in an extremely positive way. We wouldn't shy away from our wants and needs, and in turn... we would be encouraging of others doing the same and every single soul would focus entirely on what makes them happy... because that is the main desire of most. Happy people are fulfilled and fulfilled people allow others to fulfill themselves and before you know it, the world is enlightened. Dreams are an enormous sign that our soul is giving us. As a whole, the concept of dreams, shows us it is all about what we think and in turn feel that determines our entire reality.

And, one 'day', we may wake up from this life, and think of it as a foggy, fast-paced glimpse of ourselves that we care so much about, but is not in essence who we are, rather a vivid creation of our minds, only part of our enormous soul.

So, that's what I was thinking about before writing that poem. Just the details of dreams, relating dream to life, and death to waking.

Does it strike you the same way?

MOM: OMG I had to read it three times. Did this just come off the top of your head? Did you copy this out of a book? Beth I think I speak for most of us that we don't ponder thoughts like this on a daily basis or maybe ever. Is this the magnitude of thoughts that float around in your head everyday? No wonder you can tune conversation out - you are in constant debate in your mind. You need to be doing something with all this thought and pondering. You are wasting it by not using it or sharing it. It needs to be out there somewhere. Once again - I am speechless. Can you send this to someone that would know where it needs to be?

So, that's what we swapped and it is interesting, don't you think? Do you think about stuff like that too? All sorts of stuff goes down during the night. We dream, we have experiences that we swear are more real than dreams, and we, during all this, rest. Pretty nifty.

Now that I've kept my promise to post, I'm taking off. Mega flashlight needed. Earl is approaching.

Accepting Furrowed Brow Syndrome

WARNING: long, rambling blog post below. Proceed with tolerant attitude.

Well…

It didn’t TOTALLY suck (that’s the most flattering phrase that I could type with sincerity). It has left me today with much to consider, analyze and conclude upon. Feels great to be back! I haven’t formed many solid opinions yet, this is my plotted time to direct and sort the leftovers of my attempt to think simple, amusing thoughts and leave it at that.

First off, I realized that I needed a method in order to control this process that would surely be a bit of a shock to my brain waves. I was abruptly stopping what flowed and darted and took on a life force of its own. Now, I was leashing, rather, reigning my wild horses. I was dork of all dorks and wrote down my thoughts. Whatever they were (and believe me they left me bewildered) I wrote them and then left them, not elaborating and not coasting on until I reached a new slightly relevant, more appealing topic. Not so simple.

I have them here now, but am hesitant to expose them, as they are so ridiculous I would be full of embarrassment. I will share a peek though, a really itty-bitty glimpse of what went down on my Not-Serious-Me-Notation Sheet.

They range from:

“Living life in la dee dah fashion… super hard so far.” to “I just walked Selma Lu Mela. Found myself saying things like “Nice job Selma. Good poop. You just did a very good poop.” I said this aloud.

Then, I became wobbly:

“I’m attempting to stare blankly with no desire to analyze even the simplest things. While I look at a white wooden house with black shutters amidst a clear brilliant blue sky, I am intending to be simple in thought, yet I find myself thinking of the contrast between absorbing information just as it is and absorbing information to twist until I find a solid conclusion of belief about it, free of holes of hypocrisy. I realize I am failing as I compare and contrast my new way of thinking to my typical way of thinking. Note: need to lock my slammed door to my mind.”

I forge ahead:

“All of a sudden weird segments of music enter my head like “One, two, three, four, get your woman on the floor. Gotta Gotta get up to get down.” and “Eye of the tiger”. Where were those bits of randomness stored, I wonder? I move on. Hastily, I might add.”

“I have gone through a 10-cup pot of coffee before 4:15 pm.”

“I just completely lost track of 1 hour and 20 minutes. No comprehension of time suddenly.”

“Someone read blog… jitters in tummy.”

“New In Town” with Renee Z. Netflix movie just came in the mail! Nick’s definitely gonna be pissed.”

“It is splendid. I have just been invited to attend a bunko party that openly never even attempts to play bunko, yet still is named a bunko party.”

“My little wasp is not buzzing his wings. Might I have thoroughly exhausted him? I think I made contact with my broom twice when directing him to the window. Maybe my broom shuffle was more like a mid-air squash to him.”

My mind is getting anxious at the strange absence of Beth Banter and I begin producing even more sporadic mental remarks:

“George Foreman really killed it with that lean mean grilling machine.”

“Why am I writing these down? Because, I am reminding myself to stop my thoughts. Nip in bud.”

“Why is Billy Bob Thorton on my tv screen? I can’t figure out whether I like watching him or not. He’s good, but… does he make me squirm? Think so.”

“There is something entirely satisfactory in the moment of scratching a mosquito bite. It goes beyond skin deep, it is a whole body experience. Then, there is no going back. Once scratched, mosquito bites haunt and antagonize until they die in battle.”

“Billy Bob gave way to credits rolling. Sigh.”

“Hard water stains are my rival.”

“I never have the appropriate ratio of stuff to space.”

“I have ushered many baby frogs from thresholds and scarabs from pavement to earth today. I was particularly fascinated with watching the scarab and thinking of how Egyptians used to view this action of scarab pushing sand as symbolic of the god of the sun pushing the ball of fire across sky.”

“Late night jog with Selma Lu Mela… she was frightened of everything in the dark and needed encouragement. Otherwise, pretty brainless”

“Shaq vs. Justin Beeber or Beiber is on the tele screen and I am now near brain dead. This makes this conquest remarkably easy. Is it all about sitting in front of the television and watching these odd, only slightly entertaining (and mostly in a mocking way) shows? Fastest way to no thought is reality tv. No offense to anyone in charge of or amused by RTV. Only personal jotation here. This, I invented… jotation. Similar to notation, but without the thought required to make note, just jots. This is a much needed term now that I am blank in the think tank.”

Yes. So. Moving on.

Today:

I walked home from the gym this morning. It was quiet, as usual, in Edenton, and the only interruptions Jack Johnson and Jamiroquai faced was the crescendo and decrescendo of the locusts. It amused me. I would hear one, then two, then what sounded like masses of locusts screeching, and then they tapered off again. Sorta like a circular water sprinkler rounding your way and then back. I began focusing on this rather than Virtual Insanity (this is a song… to clarify) and relishing in the fact that this noise placed me in the South no matter when and where I heard it. It is an earthy tune, relaxing and a bit mystical. It is always accompanied by heavy air, like a misty white veil, draped over the trees and just hanging all around you. You can feel it. Thick, dewy air. And it holds something inside it, like a secret. It’s lethargic and spooky. Voodoo and folklore are secrets whispered in the rustling leaves and the legends are as mysterious and widely accepted by Southerners as the Egyptians belief in a scarab pushing the sun across the sky. I don’t find the South free of faults, I’m sure no one does, much like any other place on Earth, but this noise brings me home. Not to birthplace, but to home. The comfortable, easy place I can find my way around in the dark.

I am now half way down the sidewalk and notice just one strand of a spider’s web. Just one, spanning from tree limb to somewhere I can’t see and it is so delicate. It looks like a strand of crystal, the way the light bounces off of it, and right now…. I realize my mind is relaxed. It pleases me. The frenzy is here, for sure, because I am rattling many tunes at once, but it is just me being, not trying.

Thinking carefree thoughts is not peaceful or without effort, in fact it was like the most defiant and self destructive process I’ve purposefully entertained in… who knows… can’t remember. But, I reach the door to the Cotton Mill (where I live), triumphant. I think hard about even the most meaningless things and it doesn’t have to matter, it’s just me. The happy me. The me that I believe I will look back on, when I’m the bigger, broader soul of me, and smile at the fact that I tried. I imagine myself saying, “ You didn’t know all the answers, and you didn’t get it all right, but you tried hard and you thought hard, and you looked inside more than outside to find the truth of all that is… and that is good. That is living, your version of it anyway.” I think this makes God happy with me. I do not trust and accept blindly information coming from ‘the mouths of man’ professing to know answers on the ways of the eternal soul, I will listen to thoughts and debate, and take it inside and let it marinate, while I make some sort of conclusion of what I believe. I leave myself complete liberty to change my mind. I do this whether thinking about God, or thinking about mundane nothingness. I can go with that flow now and know that stopping my thoughts is fighting a natural law.

Conclusion: If I need relaxation, I shall stick to playing in my closet, getting a pedicure or yoga. Otherwise, deliberate away, because interfering with the electrical showdown in my brain leaves for a very dull day.

So what if I start a sentence, and mid way through insert another sentence, to then pick up where I left off in the first and continue that initial stream of thought. Nick is okay with it. Family is okay with it. Friends are okay with it. Dogs adore it and just tilt head from this side to that side to this side… Nick doesn’t even opt to have a “man cave”, a term I’ve grown to despise since every lame dude on HGTV uses it repetitively. He hangs with his gals and even when he plays the golf course, he does not choose to keep his distance from my jumbled self… he asks me to come with! And if I did stop pondering so much, I not only would have nothing to think about, but nothing to write about, and ultimately nothing to believe in.

Tomorrow I think I’m going to post this email back and forth between my mother and me. It was good, juicy thought and now that I am publicly embracing “my head”, I feel compelled to show example. I do think 30 brings loveliness, I don’t know myself more… that’s not it. I realize that there is so much more me to get to know than I ever knew before. No more shutting the door.