The days seem to come and go more quickly, breathlessly, and magic glides in on a morning breeze, and sometimes stays all day, into the evening, taking it in, enchanted by the light as it dances through the leaves.
And yesterday, there was no politics, corruption, nor greed, no bad seeds, or otherwise. Nor desire for, I turned it all off, and on, and off again, as I worked my way through this video on confederate ghosts, and where they should lie, if they should be, but I am conflicted, born in the south, and the historical significance, but should public places be made into such shrines in this day and age? Change how the story is told, not bury the truth, but how, and where, and I couldn’t make all that into a poem, or not yet, so it sits in my drafts incomplete.
So, I put the radio on the CBC to get snippets of stories and voices for when I came in, but I absorbed nothing, heard the words, but they didn’t connect; it was perfect.
Outside once again, I recharge, redress, re-ignite, maybe write, of what I think, of it all, somehow. It inspires me, and it takes me away, draws me out, I putter about, or sit on the stoop, I visit with the neighbours, I scratch behind Irish’s ears, top of her head, or shush her away.
Gave her a long brush, backwards and forwards, cooing pretty girl, such a pretty girl, so she’ll cooperate with me. Her fluffiness floats away, with soft golden bits in the air and everywhere, with a clump of it underneath the tree that looks as though I murdered a Shih tzu.
I have carved this all out, created, swept out the bad, brought in the good, drawing the spirit of the place, with the energy of the village, a quintessentially quaint Main Street sort of charm and sophistication, sprinkled with all the right stores and coffee shops, pretty gardens, and grand houses on one street, small war houses the next, eclectic, a sought after locale.
The Walnut Tree shelters us from the sun, shady and cool here in my garden.
I tease Irish, getting her to pose for the camera, thinking to myself work it, baby, work it.
She makes me smile.
Now she’s pissed at me, wants to go in, get a drink, food, and she knows I’m teasing her, knows I’m playing, and she romps around my legs as I try to get in the door, off her leash. Filling up her dish with fresh water, listening to the radio, and some fantastic blues is being featured, some female blues guitarist who’s played with the greats, and I sway and swirl my flower print dress around the kitchen to the rhythms she creates.
Some of them remind me of others’ I’d soon forget, the lyrics, the sounds, the images, memories, stories the music invokes, I am lost in it all, and had forgotten why I love the blues, I had missed it. For awhile blues rang this melancholy bell inside my head, and I really couldn’t enjoy it, could not separate myself from what was being said, and moments that they drew up from me, some of them triggered me, and it doesn’t now, and I learned that yesterday.
Outside, quietly soaking up the ends of the day, saying nothing, just watching people go by up at the sidewalk, and the light slanting through the late afternoon, and if the strangers walking by can see anything it is just a bit of smoke billowing out from the midst of a lovely hobbitshireesque nook, for I am invisible.
The debutants, with their chartreuse Grandiflora Hostaness, are just beginning to open for the final act of summer, and yesterday I added a couple golden Mums, for focus.
Old plumes of the Ostrich Ferns have gone rusty and the Lady’s are coming into their own, as Ginny scrambles all about, a hedgy border here, a sturdy wall of her to block my nook from prying eyes, and the undulating lines of the dead cedars draw me in, spellbound to the dancing fey light through the Japanese Blood Grass that I have longed to see, and there it is before me, with the cement Gizmo at my feet, and I feel blessed.