Though as I typed the title, I first hit the r instead of the t and therefore it would be the rime, a “frost formed by the rapid freezing of…”, the definition of Oxford Languages gives “water vapor in cloud or fog” but let’s replace that with writing. Vapor, cloud, fog, freeze, those nouns/verbs work well with a cease in writing here.

Today as I read the blogs of friends, which I get to enjoy, think through and get feelings of connection from, each day, I thought about this blog of mine. Figured that it could be some dead thing, pieces of it sitting in some unseen space, and thought that perhaps I would go in and see if any of it was still around. Here it is.

What have I done in the four years in which I have not written here? I have written much on scattered sheets of paper, in tidy on the outside but scribbled and drawn into on the inside journals, with friends in writing groups – in person then online during the rampage of the Covid 19 virus – and on other laptops that lit up then croaked in unexpected moments.

I have gone from having a steady job, working with people that I consider family, to waiting for the business to re-open through the beginning of the pandemic, always figuring the virus would go away and all would be a-ok, then lost job for good (why do we say for good about things that can feel bad?) as the business tried to re-open and the new vibe of recovery from the lockdown-time just did not work for the business. I worked there for thirty-two years and being put into this new perspective has been quite a shift in my life. There’s something I can explore here, later.

That exploration, and other diggings into occurrences are what I can look into, reflect upon, throw around and other idiomatic phrases, in my blog.

Time to melt the rime off life.

I watched a tiny video from the Jimmy Kimmel show the other day and in it a person questioned people, asking those he met to ‘name a book’. Such a general question. As I watched I tried to answer in my solitude and drew a blank. Then I got up from bed and thought about the video and the negative remarks that were made on the social media area as others watched and seemed to get angry that people could not name a book. I wondered what I would do if I were questioned about it on the street, being filmed. Then I went to a bench by my wall, sat in the dark and thought. Name a Book, I said, and As I lay Dying, in Leaves of Grass, I kept my Journal of a Solitude in this question that I am certain is a level in Dante’s Inferno but many American Gods might scoff at it and if so I could clobber them with the heft of Princeton’s Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, which to some is Milk and Honey and to others a Soul on Ice, and then figured I am Not Dead Yet so time to write to be Moving On. Started thinking of social media and how we, I say we but most likely should simply say I, too late, jump to conclusions faster than ever before. But honestly, what do I know about that? I do know that we humans are creatures who have a strong tendency to assume, and how it is easy to leap into some settlement of thought, then neglect breathing deep and think for a moment longer. Our reactions, my reactions, to many social media comments may be faster than to a spider dangling over my head at the breakfast table. So on another day I think, and think more as I get myself ready for bed, brushing my teeth, washing my face and flossing my teeth. Then gargling minty mouthwash and — multi tasking — doing a Jesus thing, washing my feet as I get ready to enter a metaphorical house – a bed – and visit with spirits/souls in my dreams, in my sleep. Jesus thing, I say, though he is said to have washed the feet of others. Now I’m getting into a big theological statement, an assumption that when I wash my own feet I am being my own Jesus. A statement that takes me to a place where I may say that he, or that God, whatever mysterious entity we choose to name, is within all of us, touches each of us. After thinking that I begin to bring all of the people considered to be holy saviors, along with tons of good things on this planet, into a mental picture, and I clump them all together in a big symbol of goodness in this crazy world. Crazy world full of beautiful shapes, forms, colors, all different. Sometimes we, I, may think of them, could name them and be content, heartbeat of consciousness that does not really run in a stream, may flood, could over bloom close to a luscious springtime full of blades of grass, a cat in the yard hunting that sparrow, bombed by a thrasher who landed on the palo verde tree skipping the thorny rose near the pretty pansy, luckily miles from the poison ivy, leaves of three let them be, stand in the Leaves of Grass then move to the next book, name it, Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson: The brain is wider than the sky/for put them side by side/ the one the other will contain/with ease and you beside. Name something. I watch. Breathe deep. Stream on.

Emptying a tub that I found

full, florid fetid water

topped by monsoon storms

old muddy chemically complex stench emptied

small bucket to big bucket during fifth trip forth

then back a dead sparrow

was scooped out, oh dear

heart rotting, guts streaming.

I put it in a good place, asked for a blessing. How long

a life? Why in the stink of the water, unknown.

Some of it splashed in my face. Tangible

metaphor. How many punches do I need before

I pick up the pen, to pick a little, talk a little. Bless you

bird, dear sparrow.

Kafkaesque-Kindly, Music Hall-Mutation, Sphincter-Spit, Tintinnabulation-Tobacco

There is a long line of guide words that I chose randomly from a dictionary that I picked up quite a while ago, then vowed to write a piece with them, so, here I go, trying to begin in a kindly fashion as it seems that many residents in this country are not kind, at all, as of late. We may be in a Kafkaesque mode and have begun to transform into an intrusion of cockroaches, they who shall survive. Looking at these words I wonder about the dictionary from which they were plucked. Now I will say that I have no idea from where I took them, and none of my handy references hold these words on top of the pages as guide. Did I just make them up as guide companions? Am I a liar because of that? Perhaps I have spit that designation out of my mouth into, no, I am not going to say sphincter, though I just did so, spit out of my mouth into my own face. Unconsciously lying about taking them from some dictionary guide words may make me said liar, or I may have taken them from some spot in a library, or another world.

Mutation of mind, to take words from wherever and mush them together. Place those words on a stand in a music hall, a theatre and the story begins. First there is a tintinnabulation, until some mysterious audience members start covering their ears, complaining to their companions that the ringing is making their heads hurt, then the play begins: a man enters, stage left, and begins rolling some tobacco up into a thin smoke, he looks out at his own horizon, and starts his own story, “Liar. Yes, a mutation of some reflection. An unreliable memory. That’s what we got. See, look at this life, come with me.”

There is the beginning of some play, some story, some thing, a place in which those who seem to be full of anger, desiring change, wishing for power, grasping at anything that may come along, near or on the other side of the stage, meet and a story begins. We’ll see what happens, perhaps.

Lately I have realized that I am rarely here on my own blog, not that one can physically be on this ethereal place, so I think, but aw, you know; I have not posted for quite a while on my blog. Honestly I know that I don’t do so much because I get distracted, have a job at which I cannot sit in front of any machine and type, am busy with theatre stuff (look up http://www.sheworxx.org) become tired and doubtful, and…wait, that word, doubtful, strikes sharp and is aimed well. I doubt that anything that I have to say is important. Yet, I am a funky paradox, as I put together a number of workshops with writing exercises that I research and use, or which I create, and during those workshops I speak with strength, saying how important it is for one to be aware of the positive significance of their own voice. Our stories are mighty, valuable, and often far-reaching. The blogs of other people move me, in many ways. So, as of today I will take my own advice and write something on my blog; anything may appear. Right now I will actually pick up a pen, go ahead, gasp at my ancient action, and start on an exercise to free my thoughts, loosen my shoulders, and give my stack of ideas new angles. Want to know which one? Of course you do. Open a dictionary, or a thesaurus, and use the guide words at the top of random pages to cue, prompt, quicken writings. Here’s what I’ve picked for today: Kafkaesque-Kindly, Music Hall-Mutation, Sphincter-Spit, Tintinnabulation-Tobacco. There, that is enough to start with. Feel free to pick up your pen, open your laptop, flip through your dictionary/thesaurus and choose your own. Set a timer near you, for 10, 15, 20, 60, minutes, and write without stopping, or editing. Here comes the fun! I will publish mine tomorrow.  We’ll see what timing I pick.

I miss being naive. Innocence, and vulnerability, were my contradictory masque of life, as the performance of death had been avoided after my TBI(traumatic brain injury). Along with my loss of language all of my worldly experience had been misplaced, and as I re-gained consciousness, and conscience, the world was a pristine place to explore. On a rehabilitative walk while at the hospital the sight of a leaf on a tree was awesome, and the fact that people, those things that walked about in and out of that hospital, would say, “Good morning…” and smile at me was amazing. I did not know, then, that many would never do such simple things in their daily self-commiseration of life.
After my release from the hospital I was, luckily, sent home for outpatient rehabilitation and looked after 24-7 by my partner, and my friends.
And, oh dear, I started this in 2012, which some may consider long ago! So, yes, I was gently cared for, pushed along, and motivated to recover whatever may have been my entire self. What on this earth was that supposed to be? The answer to that question is mighty complex, and formed by so many different voices in the Western social structure through which I was raised and given growth. I was to be nice, kind, ambitious, successful, sweet, tender, unbreakable, tough, merciful, fair, equal, and all of the good angles of human behavior. Then I started to be aware of, to notice, happenings in which some pernicious creature with a human face is nasty to another creature, human or not, and there’s the rub, I miss the belief that all people are good, and that everyone wants other people to be treated well, always. Though the slap of what some may do, or not do, is harsh, and though I eventually became conscious of what can happen in this world I still hang on, tight, to the thought that, as said in Alice Walker’s book, The Color Purple, and present in the film which followed; What you put out comes back to you.
A simple statement, yet the message carries more than I may ever sift through, and so I take it as it is, day to day. There’s the self that I hope I had before the loss of me, myself, and I. Just saying good morning, to people around me, wishing them a very fine night, and hoping that they are well, is so small, but we are all so vulnerable, and tender, and hope is a necessity.

We cleared each shelf
pulled the straight boards
out, sanded, painted and then
I was left alone
sieving paper to page, my
page, any page,
some calling
out, assessed by level
of the writer’s interest
a gradation of tone,
rhythm, I got rhythm
out of this mind, and took
words that sent me over
each edge, hilarity and horror
romping any room, through-
out this life, with and with-
out, punctuation: Edith Head pinking shears, patty pan raccoon, vacuum, attune self to soul, agraphia, aphasia, burr hole to burr hole, happy camper
out and about.
Rebuilt shelf, bookish, page to
page, calling out.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine posted a piece on his blog suggesting that we take time in our lives to see what is around us. Little things may be on a sidewalk, in a yard, across the room in one’s own home and he said that it is easy to ignore those objects, whether they are pieces of nature, bits of trash, or parts of something man-made. His blog, which I love and read each day, was the beginning ore with which I built a mental shovel and dug into my own mine; this mind of mine, memories.

It did not take much digging to come upon a thing that has been around, within, me for approximately fourteen years. If you do not know me, about fourteen years ago I had a tremendous adventure, was lost on some intangible road, trail, journey; I fell off of an arch in Utah’s incredibly beautiful Arches National Park, and suffered a traumatic brain injury. I claim it as an adventure due to  every thing that I have gotten to see, during the time of loss and recovery. Surgery and rehabilitation are happenings I covered in a play that I wrote, as part of rehab, and in a memoir that I constructed, as a qualification for a Master’s degree in creative writing. To create, and to see what was created, there’s the thing that I dug up after reading my friend’s post.

The object, the thing, the found substance that I realized I still searched for, though it is found at points, is me. Self identity. I spoke with two of my dear writing friends one evening, as we wrote cool pieces, and brought up the fact that I missed something about how I was after the injury and surgery. The blog, with it’s eye-opening suggestion, to look about and see what was around us, triggered my missing of a large thing that had happened as I re-woke myself. I missed being the same as everything around me. The concept of being one with this planet, and all that is in it, may be a common thing when certain parts of an individuals brain are injured, and removed. I do not know that, but I remember reading a book by Jill Bolte Taylor, My Stroke of Insight,  and she had that feeling, as well, after her catastrophic brain injury. I had felt it strongly during rehab, as I was walked outside and shown trees, grass, water, fence posts, rocks  and even dirt on the ground. Everything was named, singled out, individualized; everything but me. I thought that I was simply with those objects, whether trees or rocks, anything around was the same as what I was. It took me a long time to grasp my identity. When in the hospital, as I said in my memoir, I looked in the mirror and did not know what that was, that moving thing near me. Reflection, actual or not, was a question that I carried, for a long time.

I have heard, from those who love me, that it took me a long time to find myself, and you know, I don’t mind that, at all. I miss the simple complexity of being one with all around. I miss the naivete which threads through that feeling. I hold tight to the accompanying concept of if one is the same as all around then kindness and respect are the footings to ramble along on. I, I say the word I, as I have become an individual, a person who knows who she is; aha! There’s a clue, she, a person who thinks about her self; and who still questions who on earth is she to be. What a complicated adventure, this has been, and is. Good to see what I may pass on every trail I take.

I do it, I wait and wait to write important works, to create a masterpiece, continually delaying any creation by determining that each word is not some stunning gem. Waking up this morning, a bit later than my usual work-day rise, I got out of the bed, strolled about our home, made a cup of coffee and (I gasp as I type this) turned the television on. That is a thing that I generally avoid doing. Television, TV, has become a very different business, service, animal, comfort, entity, ok, monster in my lifetime. I was recently visiting my mom and we watched the TV pretty much all of the time that we were at home. That is very different from my childhood. My sister and I were allowed a few hours a week in front of the box. We hungered for it. We turned on the cool stuff on Saturday morning, cartoons, American Bandstand, Soul Train, and we watched Elvira’s campy showing of horror films whenever we could. The news was on at 5 and 10pm; and that is all. At dinner the set was turned off. Hungered for it, there’s an answer to a thing that becomes a puzzle to me; the fondness, and desire for programming that may be funny, sad, smart or stupid. The shows on television reveal and reflect us, and we are a fascinating and crazy species. So, I turned on the television this first day of a new year, and avoided writing anything. Aha! There’s a whack in my head (a fine metaphor, luckily, as if anything real comes near, hits, my head I become a serious fury). I watched the History Channel’s line of programming, a load of repetitive theoretical mish-mash concerning the mysteries of pre-history happenings, dinosaurs, UFO’s, extraterrestrials, Jesus and the Holy Grail. There are apparently many underground cities on this planet, plus the Holy Grail is located in Scotland, as was proven by that book that became a movie starring Tom Hanks…um, yes, that book by, um…nope can’t remember and no, I don’t need the answer! (would place a smiley face here but this is no text message so smile at yourself if you desire) Oh, I remember, Dan Brown wrote the thing that DaVinci might have wondered about if he had been brought back to life by an extraterrestrial Jesus, by getting smacked in the head by the guy who apparently held a cup that we now call the Holy Grail. Whew. Important works, indeed, DaVinci did many, as did everyone else mentioned here. Visiting my mom this Christmas was a wonderful gift for me, given to me. Though we watched the box, which I can’t even call a simple box anymore because it resembles a flat darkened window, we talked, drowning out many a mindless show and loved every minute of the true company; Mom and I. Now I have turned off my darkened window, sat down and wrote this, and I’m looking at the garden through the simple frame of glass to my left. That is important.