Hodiernus Dies

“I can’t wait for fall,” she says. So does the cute meme picture on Facebook from that one group that loves walking through crunchy leaves. I love this. I love it when people have an appreciation for seasons that aren’t warm. I love stand collar pull-overs, track jackets, pea coats, red wine warming me from the inside out and flushing my cheeks, the fire roaring in the woodstove and its coals as it calms down from its initial, hungry tantrum. I love the chill in the air, the leaves turning the color of the inside of pirate’s treasure chests, and shuffling-walking-dancing balboa through the red-gold crinkle and tinkle of the sound of glass breaking without the destruction or pain.

“I’m ready for fall,” someone says. On one hand, a smile tucks itself into the corner of my mouth. On the other, my brow crinkles. I love autumn and winter, spring is nice, and summer, when it’s not too hot, is glorious. Today is summer though, and as much as my love for the ephemeral smiles in anticipation of leaves beneath my dancing feet, it loves the todayness of this August 28^th. (And realize right this moment I’ll be 31 in exactly three months. Where did the year go? But that’s not today. That’s 31, three months from now.)

Fall is coming, but I’m ready for today. And tomorrow, and the next day. Summer, with summer suns and skies and storms. Sunsets and rises behind clouds and a star that seems determined to show off its rays this season. I don’t remember a year when they were as visible as frequently as they have been the last couple weeks. It’s beautiful, and I’m content with being here, now, today. I am happy with the flip flops and my brand new Vibram toe shoes that are, quite honestly, like hugs for my feet. Feet that needed hugs. Are they ugly? Probably, but at this point in my health, that’s okay.

When the weather turns, and eventually forces my frozen toes back into socks and shoes that protect them from the elements, I will be ready for that too. I’m ready for fall, but not in that “I’m not satisfied with what I have kind of way.” I’m ready for fall like I’m ready for rain, or sun, or snow, or cold, or heat. I’m ready for whatever the day brings. I’m ready for today, in this season, and any day. This is the day I’m in. This is the age I am. Today is the world I have and I’m going to seize it. This particular one I’m going to seize gentle, more of a cradle, really, and snuggle up comfortably to it with a contented sigh, as though it were a pillow. That’s the kind of today I’m feeling. Nugglesay Diem. Snuggle the day.

I’d love to hear someone say, just once, “I love pea coats and hot chocolate. But today is good too.”

Today is a reason for living.

-Our Lady Peace

 -m0rg4n

Verbosity

And this will be known as the summer I barely wrote.

Paradoxically, the quote of the summer is:

“So avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do. It also won’t do in your essays.”

Of course, barely writing to me includes thousands of words saved, and thousands left to sift into the oubliette of my text message trash so that it will stop telling me the inbox is 80% full. Words I don’t care about because they were written in haste or to chat, or to tease and delight but not linger.

The meat of it, however, the sustenance of writing has escaped to play on green-blue-brown waters of lake Pend Oreille, hike through the shallow running current of the Pack River, and dive deep into the virtual worlds of science fiction and fantasy novels and video games. The bones have been buried under nearly continental workloads and only recently begun to surface. Only today have I begun to really begin to engage in a bit of archaeology, unearthing earlier writings and finding the muse to gather new thoughts.

My book remains unfinished, not yet ready to collect imaginary dust or dog ears as it sits on the virtual shelves next to a thousand other Kindle writers. What a time to be a writer! I write a page here, a page there. With my other goals achieved, I have set the completion of The West Wind as one of my next goals. Its time will come.

I dived into the open arms of the dating game again, and such a curious game it is. For my first adventure after more than a year of celibacy, I went on a date with a former student who is now a widow after less than a year of marriage. Our first, and last, date was the week before their first anniversary would have taken place. Somehow, I am not surprised that a second opportunity did not present itself. Perhaps it might have gone differently if she had shared her story instead of letting me discover it on Facebok. The topic never came up.

My second adventure has proven the most fruitful, yet the most outside my comfort zone and while not concluded, is nearing one. I have been enjoying the company of a single mother who lives an hour and a half away every other weekend and is outside of my usual physical type. While there is chemistry and she is good company, it is not emotional chemistry and I have not developed the beginnings of feelings for her. I always feel like our time spent together is an escape from her reality and responsibilities. That isn’t a complaint, but it isn’t something to build a relationship upon.

Ah, my third. . . the first date I wanted, and the last I went on. The date we had was wonderful. Good dinner, good conversation, and I have no idea why she claims she didn’t feel a spark. We went for a walk after dinner and as we walked side by side she continuously moved her hand from her side to my bicep and back. There were a few moments of natural beauty we enjoyed together, and a couple moments in which I chose not to kiss her, but could have. I felt like she expected one at the end of the date, from her body language and long embrace. I rarely kiss on the first date. Perhaps that was the spark she was missing? C’est la vie.

In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy living. I am trying to let go and enjoy myself more, worry less. I playfully call it controlled hedonism, though I’m hardly hedonistic enough for it to warrant the terminology.

Work is an intriguing mess right now. I work for an in-house advertising agency of a fairly well known women’s retailer (the company was on the Fortune 500 list once upon a time), and we have no copywriters for our catalog or retail work. We have been understaffed in that department for ages, even before the last three all left within three months. To my knowledge, we’ve had one interview for a copywriter in all that time and THAT was last week.

My own department is down one person, who moved to Montana and is working remote until my boss is tired of dealing with it. That’s the honest version. She’s working on a “temporary basis while we transition and look for a candidate to replace her.” He doesn’t like remote, and while I can see it working, it’s bad for morale. I have plenty of down time (i.e. Right this moment.) and would love to be out playing during that time instead of being stuck at my desk waiting to see what, if anything, comes my way.

For my part, I have made it clear that I’m not really interested in being a proofreader any longer. My boss apparently has plans for me, if he can ever catch up enough on the work he has to act on them. When he told me he was planning to post my former co-worker’s position I told him to post mine too and hire me to do something else. Where this is going, I don’t know. If it goes somewhere, soon, I won’t care either. I refuse to become one of the copywriters, however, but that’s certainly not in his plan. Just today a friend of mine here was introducing another employee to other departments and referred to me as being in the “proofreading department” and my boss corrected her, saying I was in “Operations”. (That’s Creative Operations.) I hope that’s a sign of things to come.

Life in general is interesting as well. A friend of mine has been living at the house while he goes through his second divorce. It is in the early stages at present and she is fighting his requests, which is to be expected. He is doing remarkably well, however. I am happy for him. This divorce may be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. His soon-to-be ex was one of the more unpleasant, toxic people I’ve met.

Mira is doing well, she had her first heat in May/June and then a false pregnancy. Apparently her body thought it was pregnant in spite of having no puppies in her womb. She was very cuddly during that time period, but has since become a puppy again. A very large, 90 lb. puppy. She last weighed in at 88 lbs. With minor exceptions, she’s still a wonderful dog and a heart thief. Almost everyone who meets her falls for her.

Sometimes I wish I was a dog. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a mastiff. Newfoundland? Life is good as a dog.

That’s enough for now. Hello, friends.

And a thousand words, goodnight.

-m0rg4n

Beauty Is

Beauty is

as beauty does,

so much more than just the hours 

spent tête à tête before the mirror

making up and curling hair

all the while wondering 

who might be the fairest of the fair.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

a kind smile flashed to a stranger,

the tintinnabultation of her laughter, 

the soft kiss on the bruised knee of a child

who looks at her forever after

like she's the beginning and end of miracles.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

the heart and the hope

she offers up time and again,

waiting for a love who sees

her skin is made of glass

and it is not only her feet that dance.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

as beauty does unto others,

as beauty does unto itself.

What beauty does unto the world

defines beauty, 

breaks the mold. 

When She Smiles

She's pretty when she smiles

it's not the make up 

that makes her light up

not the diet that draws the eye

She's lovely when she smiles

it's not the low cut

shirt that makes her perk up

not the short skirt that makes her bright

Tell me, what did it cost you for that frown

the one you're wearing like an iron crown

what toll did you pay that brought you down

If you like I'll sit and listen for a while

make you laugh, I'll clown around

cause there's nothing more precious

nothing more priceless 

than your smile

She's radiant when she smiles

it's not the heels that 

define her beauty

it's not the hart that wins the heart

She's charming when she smiles

it's not the workout

that makes her stand out

not physique that's so unique

Tell me, what did it cost you for that frown

the one you're wearing like an iron crown

what toll did you pay that brought you down

If you like I'll sit and listen for a while

make you laugh, I'll clown around

cause there's nothing more precious

nothing more priceless 

than your smile

Castaway

Castaway

It's said, no man is an island

yet from where I stand

all I see is shoreline

crashing waves and foam

lapping at my toes

no matter how high I climb

these breathless peaks of quenched fire

mine's the only road

passing by below

Sometimes from the summit

I see white wings on the horizon

always too far to tell

if they're the feathers of an angel

or the canvas of a sail

and though I set fire to a beacon

it never does much more

than warm me for the night

I guess the smoke that I send rising

toward the moon's soft argent light

loses its way among the clouds

fades behind their shroud

When it's quiet and the fire's crackle

at last dies to an ember,

the last memory of its flame

I lay back alone and listen

to the gentle humming of the world

to the subtle strain its playing

over the snare-whisk of the waves

the soft, strumming promise of her coming

an angel, a star as yet unnamed

I close my eyes to listen

feel her crescendo in the earth-song

her heartbeat pounding in my veins

and I know that with her arrival

my island will never be the same

I wake at the tide's insistence

shrug away the dream

wash off the sands of night

in the salt of the lonely sea

roll all my hopes before me

to my post upon the peaks

and when I spy another feathered sail

somewhere out to sea

I let my dreams tumble down again

to my signal on the beach.

Vulnerable

It's strange how much easier it is to open up to strangers than it is our friends, and then, only if they don't get too close. We let people in until they reach a comfortable orbit, then hold them there with our gravity, keeping them drawn in and close so they don't spin off into the empty void, but never close enough that they might flash through the atmosphere that guards us. We so rarely let true seeds of life settle in. And yet, we broadcast ourselves out into the nether, into the open maw of virtual words and shout in a voice so loud it would shame thunder, yet are barely heard, the space is so vast. But those stars out there, who listen, our secrets seem so safe with them, so open and yet, still tiny pinpricks of light in our lives and our loneliness. And the secrets! The words! Tiny vessels soaring into the universe full of our emotions, colonizing worlds far beyond sight, traveling so fast it may as well be the speed of thought. How good if feels to put them out there, to stand open and naked in front of the galaxy around us, to bathe in the Milky Way. How fast we withdraw, call ourselves home and cover ourselves as if our darknesses embarrassed us. As if the curves of our hearts and the contours leading toward their soft beating required the modesty of a Puritan dressed for winter.

We withdraw in fear, the dread enemy that we cower from as someone passes too close, so close they might see so deep into us that they may see things, good things, bad things, that we may never see for lacking their perspective. There's the fear that we're not good enough. The fear that if we draw too close, the moons we've gathered will break free from our orbit and their beauty lost to sight. Fear that for once, we'll get exactly what we want. . . and it won't be what we wanted after all.

This adventure is hard, it is frightening, but courage isn't a lack of fear, but standing in its face and saying, "Here I am, explore me, be close. This is who I am, stay or go as you will. I will allow you to be one of the dark gods that come into the tiny clearing that is my soul, my life. May I have the courage to let you come and go. And how, oh, how, I would come and go from yours."

Sourire

I spent the Sunday evening before last with a ridiculous smile plastered across my face. The music was good. The movement was the same as it always is, pure joy, perfect in moments, awkward in others. Conversation after conversation after conversation, one woman after the next, then back to the first. I fell in love with a smile, for the night. I do that. I notice her shoes, the rise of her hip, the valley of her waist, the curve of her breast, the line of her shoulder as it rises to a neck, and get caught in that final facet, where the light shines most. Her smile, the upturned corners of her mouth that soften even the hardest lines, and like the lights slowly brought up on a dark stage, stretches almost miraculously into her eyes. It’s hypnotic, that smile, and I feel myself falling into that trance, that 3-minute long love at first dance. Sometimes, the smile laughs, sometimes it simply is in love with the moment, like I am. Whatever it is in me that is drawn to a woman before I come to know her adds up all the pieces, sets her smile as a crown, the final brushstroke of a masterpiece and I fall. Beauty is magnified exponentially in an honest smile.

It is hard to maintain interest in dancing with women who don’t smile or smiles that don’t dance well. Both are castles in the sand built too close to the rushing tide. If I had to choose, though, I’d chose a patient smile who was willing to learn.