Tomorrow

Oh tomorrow, how mysterious be that day.  My desire would be to sleep very late, awake to Irish coffee, a newspaper and nothing much else to do.

I am, however, booked, as they say.

My son and I are shifting into college style teaching.  He is, afterall, venturing into college algebra.  Thus we must bring him up to par in the other areas of erudition.

Were it not for a certain person who makes me loans at 100% interest, we’d not made it.  My son and I.  It’s a risky way to live, but it assures that I’ll be home to tend to the less risky venture of educating a kid.

He’s a tough one.  Getting very handsome.  I see the beautiful girls eyeing him and I think to myself, it’s getting to be that time.  But I stave it off very stealthily to keep his mind on school work.

His social days will come.  By that time he will be educated and better prepared for that time and other times.

Every tomorrow for me, it seems, holds not what I desire for myself, but what I desire for my children.  Until that day arrives for me, when I may do as I please, this is as it must be.

I want to paint.  Write.  Play the violin.  Eke out a terrible living and at times bless myself with the eclectic.  (Seriously, I want to be financially blessed, but something keeps getting in my way.)  I’ve yet to attract a true patron. 

Though I may end up raising my very beautiful and very bright grand daughter.  She’s black, sassy and so smart, that kid. 

I don’t curse the tomorrows.

Tuatha de Dannan

Whether one believes they arrived in Ireland by boat or by air, the Tuatha de Dannan were interesting people.

Studying their history offers a great amount of wisdom concerning human beings and living among them.

Poets and musicians know such troubles. 

Were the Tuatha de Dannan mythical story people?  I don’t think so.  I don’t believe in UFOs or aliens.  I thought I’d go ahead and confess my disbelief in life on other planets and all that brouhaha that accompanies that belief.

The Tuatha de Dannan were no doubt real people and misunderstood by the Firbolg, though the people of Danu educated them.

Nothing wrong with educating people.

Funny though, how they become self righteous, haughty and greedy.  Reducing their teachers to mythical creatures, like itty bitty elves and such.

Claiming for themselves a higher future in furtive moves to destroy others.   They work their dark magic with help, they do.  Ah, but every cycle soon wheels itself into history.

These things have a way of turning around.  I look forward to that day. 

As one who has endured the ways of the crude for far too long, I can safely say, they are more like animals than gods.  Less enlightened and more carved out of that stone called cursed.

A strange sort who claim God Almighty as their ruler and show remarkably little knowledge of that way. 

I’ve come to think of egalitarianism as a terrible sin.  Kind of akin to suicide.

Nevertheless, no ruler am I.  The squirrels race me.  The crow walks with me without fear.  This is a great gift from nature and my privacy is kept.

I have survived in my privacy.  Without leprachauns and charms of superstition.

It’s good to be Irish. 

The Plane

There is a plane of intuition which is absolutely pure.  I’ve hit it before.  Back when I lived in Hawaii.  I felt safe during that period of time and it produced an amazing emotional, intellectual experience for me.  I was 26 at the time and it was then that I began reading volumes.  Just whatever I could get my hands on. 

My vocabulary quadripled.  I was most curious about history and how knowledge as we know it today came about. 

Anyway, I may not ever hit the plane again.  But I’m so glad I experienced it at least once.

It was amazing.  Kind of like standing at the bottom of the primordial pond and looking up to realize that a jillion stars were above me.  It was as if, whatever had been sitting on me all of my life, was removed and I could see a little something.

Wonderful experience, and I of course had to leave Oklahoma to experience it. 

Hawaii has a certain mystical quality to it. 

Impressionism

My back yard is one of my favorite places.  To hell with the fact that a train nearly runs through it.  There’s something archaic and forrestry looking about it.  I rather like it.

It opens to a grassy alley which is lined by a vine drenched fence and I like that too.  The fence runs the length of the block.  I know the alley, because I’ve lived here for over a year and last week, in an ambitious and artistic zeal, I cleaned the hell out of it.  My neighbors were amazed.  One even thanked me.  It almost has an English aura to it.  Luckily, on my block, trash is picked up out front two days a week.  So it doesn’t go out back to the alley.

I’ve learned to love little snippets of beauty in my life.  A grassy alley with a fence topped with fat vines which are coated with deep green leaves.  It’s so tranquil.

I see color in splotches.  Sometimes in lines.  I don’t think I’m all that different.  It’s just that I paint what I see sometimes.  In fact without trying too hard, I could see the Matrix codes in this piece of nature.

The inspiration to clean out my alley came one evening when I was hanging out a few pieces of clothing on the line.  I heard the distinct noise of a two legged being walking in my back yard.  I quickly went inside.  I was afraid.  Then I became pensive.  Then I got angry.

Thanks to a great pair of loppers, I can see in the alley and in the extreme northern part of my back yard.  I even did my neighbor’s fence row, the lot next to his house and the little city park just a few yards from my front yard.

It looks much better and I can see.  I was spared the nausea of listening to a jaded cop and all that crap.  Sometimes, they cut me off from legal protection.  I never know why or what it means.  For the better part of a year, I was stalked by a some wierd guy. 

At any rate, my memory of the back yard, as I sit here, nearly 1 mile away, comes to me in impressionist squalls.  Remembering in color is cool. 

Painting impressionist is like catching the hour of original eye contact, or at least the sun’s position upon one’s last memory of the object. 

I’m fascinated with lines also.  Tree trunks are the vertical segments which restore a sense of immortality and time.  Reminders of reality and it’s common sensical consequences.  Tree trunks are also invitations to look up. 

I love trees. 

 

 

That Crazy Shirley

I’ve got my mind on George Will, psychometric curve and the pythagorean theorem.  I’m standing in my backyard watching the hazy glow of evening splash across the trees and grass.  A massive, prehistoric looking tree, which fell across my yard during last winter’s great icy show, lays across my yard.  It’s an elegant piece of work.  Art, is what it is.

When Shirley grabs a rug and shakes it in the yard next to mine.  Shirley’s always cleaning house.  She likes to be known for that.  To the obsessive degree.  I clean like a surgeon, once a month and don’t stress on it. 

So, anyway, Shirley’s gotta be better than me.  Her strawberry blonde hair is longer than mine.  She’s got a better body than me.  Okay, and she cannot clean better than I can, but she’s got that hamster-ready daily routine thing going.  She’s got all those popular psychology sayings down.

Who gives a shit? 

Shirley’s in something.  It’s some sort of hick-gladiator deal where somebody’s gotta be better than somebody else.  Her husband goes on tangents and screams things like “Nigger”, “Wetback” and “Dick”.   Shirley screams better than her husband and can eject more words per breath.

Everytime I step out into my backyard, I feel like I’m being dragged into the Grapes of Wrath.  Shirley’s gonna start breast feeding the old men.  Her husband is going to start another small scale Civil War. 

To their credit, the black people across the street have held their tongues.  Maybe it’s out of fear.  But I don’t think so. 

I miss Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Where my neighbor was a harpist.  I miss the beauty of New Mexico.

Shirley used to follow me around when I went outside, hissing taunts of her superiority.  I overlook such things most of the time.  I mean, it usually is a grand cue of mental illness.  But Shirley pushed it too far and a few days ago as I stood by my fence, I curled my come-here index and she walked over to the fence.

“If you don’t quit screaming, you’re going to be picked up and sent to a nut bin.”  I told her.

“I ain’t crazy!”  She screamed.

“Really?  Well that shit is enough to drive somebody crazy!”  I told her.

All I ever really wanted out of life was just enough peace to think in my own territory.  That and a writing career.  The freedom to paint.  Beautiful children.  Some whiskey ever now and then.

I’m getting it while I can and I can still outrun a kid.

 

 

Here’s To Isaac

“…and I pray every single day for a revolution…”  -4 Non Blondes

It’s been three very tough years.  We’ve been robbed by a couple of nomadic, amoral Indians.  I’ve been falsely accused of a crime and thrown in jail.  We’ve been hounded and stalked by some fat kid who is the son of a woman who helped keep my son down and ignorant.  She’s a lazy pot smoking hick.  Kidnapper of sorts.  Complacent moron.

But three years ago, he couldn’t work long division and had no idea what an essay is.  He had no self confidence, because he’d been raised to have none by his father and some rather corrupt so-called counselors.  What was done to him was the same thing that had been done to me when I was a kid.  It’s nightmarish what the state can accomplish with a little help from a parent. 

It’s called the take-down and it is a vicious crime.  A heinous stripping of human rights.

Isaac now is engaged in college algebra, trigonometric terms, anatomy, biology, basic physics, history, french and english.

I give Isaac credit for that.  He has shown the ambition and the gumption to learn and grow.

Tomorrow, I will be 51 and he will be 16.  We don’t have much in the respect of material goods.  In fact, I’m quite broke and he’s lucky to have a Wii, which we have to pawn sometimes in order to eat.

Doesn’t matter that we are rather poverty stricken.  There’s another kind of poverty which we are not stricken with and only due to stubborn resoluteness within mind and heart.  That is to say, we are not ignorant bastards roaming the streets, selling drugs and what have you.

I’m not an ordinary woman.  Were I, more than likely I’d have already had another break down or shot myself.  It’s been that rough at times.

But through it all, I kept the vision, the goal.  To see Isaac educated.  I’m a big believer in education.  Funny thing, this homeschooling.  You see, if I don’t know college algebra, trigonometry or that the spleen is a blood reservoir, then how can I expect him to know?  That’s far too hypocritical for my blood.  No, I’ve got to dig in and know it.

But he did teach me how to play chess.  And then he whipped my ass several times.

That’s right, I’m getting an education myself.  I never made it to trig in school.  I never shone academically.  I’m banned from returning to the local university.  I failed miserably on two college tries.  Five kids and job woes and stress.  What a mess.

Who would have thought that some tall, skinny fifteen year old kid would inspire me to know Math?  Anyway, time has a way of bringing about justice.

Thanks, Isaac.  I knew you had it in you.  I’m just real god damned proud of my genetics.