"If we keep a record of our dreams from day to day, we will soon learn to differentiate between those that are worthwhile and those that are not." --from Edgar Cayce's lecture on dreams, delivered January 18th, 1931
Dreams they haunt me plenty; waking, sleeping, childhood, dreams of old age, melted & tortured, boiled over and dried up, keeping me and mine awake with their rasping western death rattles sung in a round to layered drumming. Cayce speaks to my goal of sifting through the negative chattering chaff to glean the inspiration, and harvest the comfort. I have a few recurring dreams, but usually it's not the dream that recurrs, but the world in which that dream takes place. Sets of dreams take place with certain themes and associated qualities of light, some so blessed vivid or intensely emotional that I remember them better then my waking hours. Yes, a diary might help.
Spring has sprung yippee yo ky yay. While walking in the sun the earth below my feet became waxy and red, smelled delicious as I grokked that the world upon which I walked was my apple. I took a big juicy bite about the size of Asia, taking care not to bite where I walked, mmmmm that's good apple-world.
This waxing Aries moon has my canine side set on eternal vigilance. Earlier this evening it called me to it, out onto the dew covered deck in my bare feet, forced quick breaths, dilated pupils. The black Manx came trotting up, taking advantage of the open sliding glass door, followed by the bushy tailed Tuxedo cat. I did my best not to chase and taste them.
Little Gumba learns new words every day now, and crawls. Her favorite destinations are the dog water bowl in the kitchen and the cat food dispenser in the upstairs hallway.
Gumbo got two crowns for his Valentine's Day brawl bashed front teeth. I took him to the dentist. Mom and sister could have come along, but the boy insisted that just he and I go. On the way he asked me if I was scared. I said I wasn't, and asked him if he was scared. He said he was, so matter of factly it could have touched a heart of stone, but I just had a matter of fact talk about dentistry with him. It was all fine until they tried to get him to drink the oral sedation "juice". Turned out I had to hold his arms and legs while they clamped open his mouth and squirted syringe after syringe of the obviously vile tasting dope (demerol & verced) into his sputtering and screaming mouth. It was awful. He luckily made it through alive, and I got to hang out with the most innocently and unabashedly inebriated souls that ever lived. The kid stumbled around for hours, eyes aglaze, but we managed to avoid knocking the pricey new teeth out, or incurring any new pediatrician worthy injuries.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
So the boy says to me, he says "No one is funny."
"Everyone is funny" I replied.
We went back and forth, repeating those same simple phrases for a few rounds.
"Everything is funny" I ventured.
"Nothing is funny" - he took the bait. Then we went on to vary the patterns and opposites, until we were both laughing like hyenas. So wonderful to have a toddler with a sense of humor, when it's funny. When he insists that the unfunny is hilarious it can actually be quite wearing, although I've read that the more one sees the true essence of things the more everything seems funny. Funny as Hell.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Gumbo drew this righteous duck the other day. My mother tells me that duck was my first word. I like the lines of his duck; they seem to allow me look inside the boy's artistic mind, see myself as a young artist. He creates so much art I can scarce believe it. No reasonable way to save every piece, but some of it defies destruction, for now. I remember coming home from kindergarten on the last day with a big stack of art I'd made, and asking my mom how long she intended to retain it. She claimed forever, every piece of it. I told her that was not neccesary, and wondered at how she might manage so many pieces of paper. Of course, a simple file cabinet or two could have done the job, but even more of course, not a single piece survived.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Made good on my plan to hike the hills under the light of the full moon. Big halo. Amazing light through the trees. Warm California winter night. Laughter. Tree climbing. Only two people fell in the mud, that I know of. Turned out that we only hiked for about an hour, but indelible memories care not for minutes and hours. Of course, having led one moonlit group to the brink of insanity and hopelessness without great bodily injury, the myriad plans of the power mad now harangue me with fury. Mmmmmm...night bike ride to Lake Anza for swimming, wait for the heat.