Life Among the Never-Winged

Once upon a time I was writing a book called, "Just Another Love Letter", about angels behaving badly. Now I just quietly ask myself each day, "What the hell am I doing?"

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Location: The Rocky Mountain Empire, United States

My friends always knew I was going to hell. My only hope is that God likes good jokes and bad redheads.

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  • Saturday, June 10, 2006

    This Post Aint Got No Melody

    After being married to someone, or just living with them for a time, you develop a kind of private telepathy. You can read each others' minds, interpret the slightest movements. It doesn't matter if the relationship is smooth or rocky, that communication is there.
    So it disturbs me that I'm not observing this at all in my parents' marriage. Everything looks great from a distance, but now that I'm here...I mean, they're not fighting. And they share several common interests. But they don't so much as do things together, as they do things next to each other. And as far as picking up on each others' thoughts and moods...
    My parents are a pair of socks in seperate drawers.

    Today my thoughts are black flowers blooming everywhere. Oh, there's still a red one blooming here and there, bright as an unexpected blush.
    I'm in the car, putting pen to paper, wondering if it will translate to pixel. I write best in motion. In transition.
    I have to keep looking out the window. I can't help myself. I'm always out here in the late fall when the landscape's tawny and tattered and ready for bed. I haven't seen a true spring in years.
    Lining the road are purple and gold and blue wildflowers that I cannot name. There are also shasta dasies, irises, queen anne's lace and orange lilies in the tall green grass. We're passing dark oak forests and maple and poplar windbreaks between the fields.
    The fields. How could I have forgotten the way they look when newly plowed? The dark wet soil makes my mouth water, makes me want to walk barefoot to the middle of one, lie down on my back and...
    Well. You know the rest.

    There are three types of fields out my window. The first kind is as I described; dark and rich and moist, electric green shoots pushing up and almost glowing against their deep backdrop. My attention keeps coming back to the dirt, the black earth. My heart recognizes when something is the way it should be, and then it aches for all the things that aren't.

    The second type of field; weeds grow thick and carpetlike around old corn stalks bent and blackened like the burnt timbers from a house fire. These are the fields of bankruptcy. The banks claim the plow and nature takes the rest. For a time. Render unto Ceasar...

    The third type; these fields are sprouting new houses, and yes Stucco, Wal*Marts too. I can only wonder who can afford to live in these, when all they can do is work for those.*

    Back home the desert's dry, O tells me, and hot. I won't watch the transition through the plane window. I can't do it. I already imagine the heat pounding on my skin, the relentless blue sky, the crackle of dead grass under my feet as I walk to the garden -- my green and clay-red oasis.
    It's not that I want to stay here. It's not that I don't want to go back (though that accusation was unfaily made before I even boarded the plane).

    Tell you what. When I figure out what it is that I want, and when what I want is somthing that I can actually have, you'll be the first one I tell.

    All right. To bed before the progestrone does the rest of its work and knocks me out completely. Oh the buzz is so sweet though. But I see I'm typing after midnight under its influence again, so I'm sure I'll come to this post just as fresh and uninformed as you tomorrow.

    de nada, my loves.

    *Remind me, would you, to go walking in that idea I have about government and corporation, and 1984 and Brave New World. But not today. I don't want to walk in that heavy grey mass today. What I want to do instead is kick aside the houses and recover the field.
    Fuck progress for progress' sake. That's social cancer.
    All right, Dancehall. Save it for another day.

    13 people left me a love letter:

    Blogger Schmoopie wrote in a love letter...

    In a strange twist of fate, I dragged Stucco unwillingly to the local Walmart yesterday. He wandered aimlessly around the parking lot until he found what he was looking to buy. Yeah, you guessed it, cow manure and SOD! He also made it out of the store with an additional purchase of seeds to grow. "Bells of Ireland" for .97. I swear you two were having a bit of mental telepathy as well. It is perfectly fine with me because it has motivated him to help make our lawn a bit less like the desert that I loathe. You and I share the same feelings of being "in between" places. I hate to leave the space where things grow. But our hearts are with the ones we love. Where they go, we go.

    12:29 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Anonymous Anonymous wrote in a love letter...

    I laughed at the "socks in seperate drawers" comment. I think Schmoopie and I are more like crazy staticy socks in a drier which seem to be (sometimes shockingly) drawn together, regardless of how the tumble dry cycle spins. Relationship analogies through sock circumstances...

    I've said it before, and I'm pig-headed enough to say it again- what you want and need (like the rest of us) is to get out of this caked and baked-clay chimnea of an environment into something more lush and friendly to living things, such as the Pacific Northwest.

    I think Schmoopie is intending to tell a funny (both "ha ha" and strange) anecdote regarding my $.97 visit to Wal*Mart yesterday. I won't spoil it (unless I'm maligned, you know). I need to call O and see if he's inclined to come by tonight. By now he may be in the savagae throws of a full-on freak-out.

    Cheers, and come home safely/soon.

    Stucco (sailor on the sea of hot dirt)

    12:41 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Blogger Des_Moines_Girl wrote in a love letter...

    Thank heavens you're back!!! I'm going through some serious withdrawal symptoms without e-mails from you at work to break up my day.

    I know what you mean about being stuck in two places. I feel that way when I visit the coast. I'm still just a Jersey girl at heart - maybe my alter ego?

    How were the boyos on the plane?

    3:40 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Blogger Popeye wrote in a love letter...

    I had an old woman tell me once that you're never really home when you're more than 150 miles from where you were born. Fortunately, there's many kinds of birth.

    8:53 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Blogger Nancy Dancehall wrote in a love letter...

    Schmoop & Stucco: Hopefully you've been in the company of O ths evening and have brainwash---I mean, talked to him about the virtues of greener pastures. I love the fact that you spent under(knock knock, who's there?)a dollar! at Wal*mart.

    DMG: Not home yet, darlin'! That'll be Wednesday. Hopefully the boyos wlll be as good on the flight back as they were on the flight in. Happy belated to Darling Daughter!

    8:57 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Blogger Nancy Dancehall wrote in a love letter...

    Whoa, Popeye, you snuck in there.
    She sounds like a wise woman. Thing is, I was never home when I was home. I think I was 'born' in Ireland.

    8:59 PM, June 11, 2006  
    Blogger Des_Moines_Girl wrote in a love letter...

    GUH! Misread your post!!! Not till Wednesday?!?!?


    1:19 PM, June 12, 2006  
    Blogger Dantares wrote in a love letter...

    Home is where my people are. The place wouldn't matter so much, though I am most used to Southern England...
    Strangely enough, nowadyas I often see parakeets flying above my house.

    1:42 PM, June 12, 2006  
    Blogger Bud wrote in a love letter...

    Just got back. I missed a lot. I'll try to catch up. I love your description of the fields. I really enjoyed looking a those transitions from 40,000 feet too.

    4:53 AM, June 14, 2006  
    Blogger Nixxie wrote in a love letter...

    a pair of socks in seperate drawers.

    Great analogy! Sounds like my parents.

    12:55 AM, June 15, 2006  
    Blogger Nancy Dancehall wrote in a love letter...

    I've been bopping around the blogosphere, neglecting my posts here.

    DMG: I'll call you this weekend!

    Dantares: I think that's the answer. You have to follow your people.
    Parakeets? In England? Good Lord, it's the end times. The parakeets of the Apocolypse.

    Bud: Thanks! It all looks so good from up there, doesn't it, from a distance?

    Nix: Thanks! When was the last time you went home?

    5:43 PM, June 16, 2006  
    Blogger Julie wrote in a love letter...

    I love your words...when I read them they paint beautiful pictures in my head.

    3:03 PM, June 19, 2006  
    Blogger chenlili wrote in a love letter...

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