A Candle Weeps

**Sits cross-legged** Let's see. I think it's time to reveal another secret. This time, I'll let you, Dear Reader, in on my favorite living poet. Poetry is pretty much the most intimate and vulnerable part of me, and the poems I resonate with strum pretty close to my heartstrings. 

This young man/old soul is incredible. He hails from England. His name is Anthony, Anthony Anaxagorou. I don't know if that's his actual birth name, or a pseudonym. I haven't wanted to pry too deeply into his world. I like him just the way I enjoy him now. That's a photo of his arm up there ^^ with his latest tattoo. He recently returned from a trip to the Far East.

He has a web site and a Facebook page, and some Youtube readings. I found him about a year ago by way of a video reading that knocked me out. I have been in love ever since.

Here's a sample from his forthcoming collection, "A Difficult Place to be Human":

A Dinner Candle And Me - by Anthony Anaxagorou

On this night an old dinner candle asked why your chair 
happened to be so openly vacant 

I could see how alone it supported itself 
that halfway lighthouse which would lift both opaque shores 

I spoke to its lambency in a voice composed by sorrow 
a raucous testimony full of wet wine low down 

The more I tried to elucidate your leaving 
the more it would flicker and squirm beneath the words 

Shrinking wasting that splendid stature we both adored 
with each bruised syllable that left my mouth 

I could not stop even through the bulbs of burning tears 
that rolled down the side of its softening body 

I could not stop as I watched it become an embarrassed mess 
with all anguish eating away at such proud form 

A struggling glow was all that remained to say you once had loved me 
and I too had once loved you so thoroughly so unrestricted 

A melting face whose tiny ears were at last to be swallowed 
by the flame of such agony dying to the only story it was unable to bear 

And I finished in darkness. 

I love the imagery and concept of a candle collapsing under the weight of sorrow, crumbling. A candle personified. Imagine that. 

Someone dear to me shared the following song. Candles are special to me for many reasons. 

As far as I can think right now, a candle flame, and love, are the only things that can be shared with endless others without reducing the capacity or intensity of the source. And so it is even more poignant for me to envision a candle mourning.

I will never see candles the same way again. The power of poetry. Thank you, Anthony. 

For more about Anthony Anaxagarou, click here.

The Saxophone Man's Soul

An oldie, but a goodie. Appropos for today. Was originally written out of love for the humanity of an old musician. :)

THE SAXOPHONE MAN'S SOUL

The Saxophone Man sits on a lawn chair at the corner of Desperate and Lost. His tarnished instrument points the way to Heaven and his music weeps for a tormented soul. Cottony white hair is both a crown on his ancient head and a frame for his weary face. He hauls himself to this corner daily seeking deliverance from the pain -- his song both a petition and a warning.

Most days, passersby look away and atone for their happiness by dropping money into his battered case. They listen to the sounds, but don't dawdle lest they catch what he suffers from. If they glance too long at his face and catch him looking up, Saxophone Man's gaze pulls them into his mournful red-rimmed eyes, revealing a spirit so tortured even music can't express the depths. Mostly though, Saxophone Man's liquid brown eyes remain downcast, painfully penitent as he plays.

Saxophone Man's skinny feet rattle around in his old shoes. Sensible socks cover his thin ankles. His faded jean legs are rolled up one time, six full inches, as if to avoid a sudden flood. Flood of what, is the question? Emotion? Memory? Pain? Only the Saxophone Man knows, and he's not talking. He wears a white cable knit sweater, an incongruous artifact of days gone by and a more genteel life somewhere—else. His arthritic fingers dance familiar steps on the keys of his instrument. His right foot taps in time. One. Two. Three. Four. 4:4 time.

The blues. Saxophone Man plays them, plays them for a fool. Lays them down and makes them beg. Lays them down and makes sweet love to those blues, loves them till they're crazy from love and for love. Then he leaves those blues, leaves them alone and hurting. Leaves them crying. Leaves them begging for him to come back, but he never comes back.

But when Saxophone Man plays the blues, people gather. They can't help themselves; his blues grabs them and holds them and refuses to let go. The notes weave, first circling the people's heads in swirling, teasing clouds of introduction then invitation. The notes whisper in the people's ears, promising love, promising passion, promising the world—if just for a little while. The people let the notes into their souls, let the music flow to their innermost private parts where it touches them in places no one's ever been before.

The people close their eyes—to keep them open is an insult, a sin. And the music swells within the people, growing larger and larger, filling the people, crowding their hearts, pulling at their tears--pushing them out until the people want to stop listening or risk losing their souls. And even then, the people cannot break the spell.

Saxophone Man keeps blowing his horn. It whispers. It wails. It whines and cajoles. Magic flows from its mouth, magical music that resonates within the very cells of the people. The music spreads like a fog, thick and heavy. It swirls around the people's heads and cloaks them in its spell. The people breathe in the music-fog, their lungs fill to the brim with the hum. The music seeps into the people's bloodstreams and resonates all through the people's bodies until every fiber is full and overflows and they exhale the leftover notes. The power pulls the people in, it draws them like moths in an endless night to the promise of a flame. It holds them tightly like a lover. People who walk too near get seared by the heat and sanctified by the sound.

When the sun sinks below the skyline, the keening stops and Saxophone Man sucks thin brown nectar from a dented silver flask until it's as empty as his soul. He gathers the money--dimes and quarters and wrinkled dollars--and lays his horn to rest in its battered black case, then plods back to Hell, toting the lawn chair under his arm.

One foggy morning, a girl-child appears from the shadows. She wears a frock of vivid colors, blues and purples and greens and oranges and reds. At first she sways imperceptibly then her slender body flows and becomes one with the notes. She dances unselfconsciously, leaping and spinning on the sidewalk in front of the park bench.

Saxophone Man plays to his Muse. His long, gnarled but nimble fingers find a song never heard before in this world. He teases and cajoles the instrument until an avalanche of ecstasy bursts forth that lifts the old man's spirit. Tears stream down Saxophone Man's full mocha cheeks as his heart fills with joy. His soul is redeemed.

A crowd forms. No one wants to miss this miraculous moment, the flawless marriage of lyrical dance and perfect accompaniment. Each observer hopes the music will never end.

The girl-child's footsteps are so light they don't contact the cement. She floats on the notes themselves and dances on their vibrations.

Saxophone Man's foot slaps in time with the music. His floppy shoes keep a strange side-to-side rhythm. Perspiration drips off his wooly old head and saturates his thin blue cotton shirt as the music rises heavenward. His red-rimmed eyes roll back in his head. His chest swells and empties like a bellows.

Still, he blows his horn.

A zephyr from the East glides in and dances with the notes. A white man with dreadlocks and a shirt that proclaims "Jah Know" puffs on a clove cigarette. Its smoke joins the breeze and melds with the music.

The girl-child is now only a colorful blur, a riot of rainbows, her features indistinguishable. She is pure motion and emotion at the same time. Saxophone Man blows a note with no beginning and no end – an enduring resonance of joy. Onlookers dare not breathe. Time ceases and nothing moves but the indistinct dancing form and Saxophone Man's blurry brown fingers and tapping foot.

The reed splits, rending the endless perfect note, and the man slumps forward. He crumbles onto the cracked sidewalk; the saxophone buckles beneath his weight.

The girl-child's blurry form shimmers and fades away.

The people stare. The people are lost. The music stopped too unexpectedly; they cannot keep up. They cannot reply, respond, react in time. Cosmic sound still rings in the people's ears. The silence is too complete, too awful to absorb, too terrible to consider.

A hooker with dilated pupils skitters forward on neon green heels and drops a rumpled bill in Saxophone Man's case. "Thass beautiful, man," she says, and aimlessly stumbles away.

A thick woman in a khaki trench coat punches keys on her cell phone and calls for an ambulance. She knows the City won't hurry for an old black street musician. She knows the ambulance will pull in at a placid pace, its flashing lights belying its traveling speed. She knows the workers will go through the motions when they arrive, but they won't make the effort. She knows she just witnessed Saxophone Man's last concert. This knowledge, this realization of the way things are catches in her throat and a choked sob escapes. She swallows it back down.

"I don't know his name. He's the old Saxophone Man who plays every day in front of the stadium. Please, hurry. I don't think he's breathing . . ."

As the power of the music fades, its spell ceases and releases the people and one-by-one they drift away, back to their work and their homes. They are changed, and unchanged. They have witnessed a miracle but most remain unaware.

Unobserved by the dwindling crowd, the girl-child gracefully extends her hand. Saxophone Man's spirit reaches out and grasps it.

Together, they soar.

Living with Librans

Two Librans occupying the same household with no outside influence to speak of lead an interesting existence. My daughter and I are gentle and loving with one another, agreeable to a fault for the most part, content to eat whenever, sleep whenever, happy to spend time with each other, supportive. Easygoing is the operative term.

The flip side of that coin is, well, indolence. The rinsed-but-dirty dish pile grows steadily, silently, stealthily. The laundry, while clean (because we can't stand stinky), is stacked five loads high in the basket on top of the dryer. Because? Well, because neither of us has initiated folding it yet. 

Yes, I am the adult, so it's incumbent upon me to both institute structure and step up the pace. I'll get around to that...mañana. For sure. Because, OMG, I don't think I can stand this mess another day!! Oops, there's the third side to the Libran personality. 

We are gentle and agreeable and content to the extent of laziness sometimes -- only it's really not laziness; it is satisfaction more than anything. Picture Buddha. Nobody thinks Buddha is lazy, but he's hardly a marathon runner either.

The extreme of this contentment slides right into the den of inactivity. Nothing gets done during this phase. The fridge is full, the shelves are stocked, all the laundry is clean, but we don't want to move.

Then panic mode kicks in when energy returns. *Ding* a bell goes off in our pretty heads and we're tearing around with a vacuum in one hand and a dust rag in the other. Lift your feet! Better yet, run for your life! It won't last long, just long enough to get things in order so we can sit down and enjoy the fruits of our labor.

Yes, Libra is the sign of balance but the key point to remember is we seek balance, we do not maintain it. We are constantly adjusting, tweaking, chasing after that Impossible Dream where everything is level and even and clean, pretty, and smells nice.

Till next time. ~GHC

Eden, Redux

Thanks to those who did the silly little poll I asked you to fill out. I felt the love! :) For some reason, even though I have a good amount of traffic on this blog, folks rarely comment or interact. Lots of lurkers though. And that's fine. I think many of you enjoy peeking into other people's thoughts, like I do. 

I believe good literature is like that: It lifts the veil and permits access to inner thoughts and private activities. For a brief while, we become gods. 

Request: Please do me a favor and do not visit here directly from an "adult" site. I do not want to see those images and I am ignorant of the site names. Blogger sends me info on what page my visitors link here from. It's totally cool with me that you go wherever and I do not judge. I simply request that you extend the courtesy to me so I don't have to "go places" I prefer not to visit. I believe I would almost prefer to lose readers than to have to see those images again. Thanks!

Today, I am writing about an incident that took place on the Dragon's Tail, U.S. 129 between Tennessee and North Carolina. So until that's ready to go, I'll leave you with "Eden," the micro flash piece that won the International Binnacle Award. I hope you enjoy it. And if you STILL haven't read about the "Dangling Kiss" on the last blog post, be sure and click Older Posts when you are finished reading "Eden." You might be glad you did.~GHC

Eden - by Ginger Hamilton Caudill

In her dreams, the muted heather hills roll on forever. Verdant fields flow beneath her bare feet like bottle-green sea surge. A brook curls around the massive trunks of ancient oak trees; she dips her toes into its soothing stream. Flowers' fragrant perfumes waft on the breeze. Enticed by the songbirds' serene harmony, she lies down to rest.

The alarm clock snatches her from sylvan heaven to a studio apartment. Overhead, the city looms like a grimy Goliath. Below, sirens wail and horns reply; angry voices clash with the traffic's din. An ancient light fixture trembles as the corpulent man upstairs lumbers to his kitchen. The smells of pork and rancid cooking oil linger in the atmosphere.

She slips into grease-slicked shoes and pins a nametag to the bodice of her uniform. Reconciled to raising her ransom, Eve faces the world.

Puzzle Boxes and the Dangling Kiss

Cheating a tad by copying a Facebook post for today's blog post. I had so many ideas, but my day ended up disjointed.

I've always fancied myself like J. M. Barrie's [Peter Pan] Mary "Molly" Darling, who must've had another name at one time. 

"...She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never g

et, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss..."

The reason Mr. Darling couldn't get the kiss was because he didn't understand the box. 

Understand the box, and the kiss is yours.~~GHC

Depression, Hope, Love

Came across a blog post from 2005 on an old MySpace account, where I'd written to a young friend who was suicidal. I wanted to plant a seed for a future time when he would need sustenance and I couldn't be there for him. My hopes were that by the time he needed it, the seed would have developed into a strong plant that bore fruit that would nourish and feed his soul. What I said was:

Those awful feelings we get, the ones where we are alienated from everything and everyone, are false. We are always (and I believe, eternally) interconnected with our loved ones. We are NEVER ALONE. We are as "alone" as each cell in our bodies, separate and distinct, but never, ever isolated. Depression and despair mask the Truth, but the Truth is -- you are a part of something significant and wondrous; you are loved, and nothing you could ever do, say, or think will change the Truth.

 I believe my seed was a good one. Its Truth continues to resonate with me, even today. Perhaps if it had had more time to develop, to take root and grow, Vinny would have been able to self-comfort. He might have had the nourishment he needed to sustain him through the Long Dark Night of his soul. 

As it happened, my seed fell on barren ground. It had neither the time nor the conditions necessary to take root. One month later, Vinny hanged himself.

* * *

I have a lifelong tendency toward depression. I come by it honestly. It's as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and big feet, and just as understandable. I realize there is a biochemical aspect to depression, but I also believe some of it is almost a normal response to overwhelming stimuli. I've worked hard throughout my lifetime to collect tools to deal with my experiences so I wouldn't fall into deep depressions.

One of my earliest and crudest tools was to simply refuse to experience emotions. I walled off feelings like Montressor walled up Fortunado in "Cask of Amontillado." I eventually discovered that memories live inside us, not behind those walls we so conveniently walk away from. We cannot escape our memories. Oh, I know people try that all the time -- with drugs and alcohol and other escape attempts. Psst: It won't work.

 My current policy is to refuse to wall off my feelings. I feel those sons-of-bitches to the depth, and breadth, and height of their being. I taste every subtle undertone and smell every hint of . I *experience*. I submit to my emotions. 

Apparently, a LOT of my emotions involve tears. Happy tears, sad tears, angry tears, lonely tears, hopeless tears, hopeful tears. Tears, period. I began to consider the possibility that I was depressed. Why else would I cry so often? Maybe I need help from an outside source. Then I realized that I am just experiencing the natural results of, well, experiencing and feeling emotions on a deep level. 

Being left for another woman by the man you've loved for twenty years is surely tear-inducing stuff. That seems like an appropriate reaction to me under the circumstances. I've pretty much processed through the shock and horror of it now. I've worked through mourning the future-that-will-never-be. I no longer burst into tears when I see old couples holding hands, or when I read about high-number anniversary celebrations I will never mimic.

I've dealt with the security aspect of being a single woman again, and I think I have that down pat. I am no longer afraid although I did go through a brief period of concern. I felt a little twinge of it yesterday when I realized that I have no male protectors left once my son moves out of state Monday. But I'm a big girl. :) And besides, I have a Mossberg shotgun that I am well-trained to use. I also have no reluctance to use it. Guilt is not a huge component of my tool set.

One of the hardest things to deal with involves wrestling with my perceptions of failure. Did I truly do everything I could have? No. No, I did not. I let my anger and pain wall me off. I withheld parts of me that I could have shared. I acted childishly in many instances. I made mistakes. I didn't reach out as much as I could have. Instead, I hid behind my concept of agency and live-and-let-live, and allowed another woman to march in with her hand outstretched and walk away with him rather than to risk intruding into his private thoughts.

To be truthful, I grew weary of trying. I grew tired of reaching out and having my hand slapped away. I grew tired of standing with my hand extended for days, weeks, months, and having it ignored. In reality, it's a wonder that *I* didn't seek out another partner. Instead, I learned how to exist totally isolated and emotionally unsupported. The meaning I made was that I didn't deserve love, that "this" was the best I could expect, that I should be thankful for the crumbs that made their way onto my plate.

* * *

So what do I want now? Oh my. I am an overflowing vessel. I am a heavy laden cherry tree, bent beneath the weight of ripe succulent fruit. I am filled to capacity and ready to burst. I have so much to offer, to give, to share. I have this very real sense of Time Lost, of immediacy, of urgency. I feel like an Italian or Jewish grandmother, you know the one who urges "Eat! Have another bite!" I want to pour myself out. I have so much to offer that was unappreciated for so long. And I know it's good. Whoever takes me on for this final phase will be a very happy man.

I spent far too much time sitting in a gray fog waiting to die. There was no reason to live; each successive year was just a repeat of the one before. Nothing I did changed the outcome; I was powerless to help direct my life. 

Now I see glimpses of the woman I truly am. The one who, like John Dunbar in "Dances with Wolves," rides Cisco across the Confederate battle line with her arms flung wide open and her eyes closed -- totally offering herself body and soul, without fear, come-what-may. She has discovered the folly of curling up into a self-protective ball. She is no longer embarrassed to laugh out loud, or speak her mind freely. 

I am working on filters right now. Maybe I'm a little over the "Full Tilt Boogie" line in some instances. But for now, I'd rather be too open than too closed. So if you are reading this, and you know me and are involved in my life outside of reading this blog, please . . . be gentle with my heart. Be honest with me. And if you're so inclined, come play me.~~GHC

Not Yet Out of the Woods

Apparently the "Road to Hell" is a great search phrase. I have more than 550 hits on a post I wrote that includes those words. I wonder if this is indicative of people's obsession with blame/guilt, or represents a sincere fearfulness of meeting a negative fate? It'll be interesting to figure out someday.

At the top of the blog, below the chicken photo, is a poll. There are five choices -- you can click one or more. Please take a minute to do the poll. I know a couple of dozen folks visit this blog every day. The poll is completely anonymous -- no one will know it's you, or what you chose associated with who you are. Please take it?

On another note, I am still processing this horrendously unpleasant marital dissolution. Every single time I believe I've reached a steady point, something happens that knocks my feet out from under me. It's getting almost comical. Surely I am doing something wrong - the Universe is teaching me a lesson. I just need to discern what that lesson is and grasp it.

All I know is, I am very tired of weeping. If someone had told me I contained this many tears, I would have ridiculed them. Hard. And I'm crying for me, not because of him. What do I cry for? I cry for the little girl inside of me who loved so much and trusted so innocently, and was betrayed. I cry out of anger and frustration because my defense mechanisms scream at me to shut down my heart and wall it off so it won't get hurt again, and I refuse to do that. I will NOT let his behavior change the inherent sweetness and goodness that is me, no matter how much it pains me to remain open. I will never again in my life permit another human being to change me into a frightened, distrusting, angry person.

 I cry for the little girl who was led deep, deep into a dark scary forest and abandoned. I cry because I am lonely. I cry because sometimes I wonder if there is something inherently wrong with me that makes me unlovable, because surely no one would hurt me the way he hurt me if I were lovable. Then I realize that is fallacious thinking. It doesn't even make sense -- but the thoughts do rear their ugly heads. I guess that's an issue from childhood, something I torture myself with out of insecurity -- a disconnect that is false and invalid. His behavior has little to do with me and everything to do with him. My value or lack thereof doesn't even enter the picture.

I know there is light outside this dark scary forest. I know somewhere out there, a bright sun is smiling on a world far from where I exist. I also know that I *will* find my way out of these woods. I have no way of knowing which side of the forest I"m going to end up on; I only know and have faith that there will come a time when I look around me and realize the trees have thinned out and there is the suggestion of a path to follow. And I hope and pray that somewhere along that path, I find another whose hand I can hold and continue this journey. Someone who will truly be the guardian of my heart. Someone whose heart I, too, can guard and keep safe.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes?

Today was the first day of my youngest child's senior year in high school. Thirteen years ago, she marched off to kindergarten with a big smile. Her dad and I watched with pride and trepidation. We stood, holding hands, as she walked off into Eternity, leaving us behind in a meaningful way. We comforted each other then.

But today, I endured this milestone alone. She smiled at me, head cocked slightly to the side, proud and confident, hands on hips as I snapped a couple of photographs to record the moment. As if I needed a physical record of something that will remain in my memory forever.

I literally set the alarm clock to make my photo. Why was it important to take photos? Because her father wasn't here to witness this milestone. And even though he chose that reality and I could just as easily have shut him out like many suggest is appropriate, it was within my power to include him. Again, it was a gift I could give that cost me nothing and meant a lot to him. And I know he appreciated it.

Why do people feel the need to punish one another? I will never understand that dynamic. Don't get me wrong -- I have more than my share of mean thoughts. I am no saint. I don't even play one on TV. It's just that who does it end up hurting, really, when you do something to harm another? I believe it damages your own psyche. And mine is damaged enough already.

Anyway, as I stood in the hallway with my iPhone, prepared to photograph KJ, Judy Collins' voice called out to me: "Who knows where the Time goes?" My life has kind of a soundtrack, you see. Music and lyrics pop up like Pop-Up Videos throughout the events in my life. It's kinda neat, actually. 

So I looked up the lyrics and turns out, she is not alone while her love is near her. I guess that leaves me out, eh? Or is my love my actual love, the love that resides within me and is part of me and IS me? Maybe I am not alone as long as I retain the capacity to love. I think I'll take that meaning from it.

For your listening pleasure: Judy Collins and "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?" Keep your love alive.~~GHC

Fifi's Wagon

An excerpt from my novel work-in-progress, about Fifi, a morbidly obese French bulldog.

At first, Fifi galloped in the manner that only a bulldog with short stubby legs can gallop. As the months passed and the weight accumulated, she slowed to a clumsy uneven jog, which eventually descended into a labored waddle. Fifi had finally assumed a pitched Frankenstein-type lurching gait those last few weeks when she could still ambulate on her own. Sylvia had worried that Fifi would keel over on her side and remain stuck like a flipped turtle.

A normal bulldog possesses loose flaps of skin that drape around the skull and falls in folds. Fifi's facial skin wrapped so tightly around her skull that her head resembled a medicine ball filled to capacity and in danger of bursting at any time. Fifi had been a playful puppy but her stubby legs were soon overwhelmed by her massive weight, and she had been unable to walk since she was two years old. Ever practical Sylvia had commissioned Ben to construct a wagon in his woodshop so she could haul Fifi outside to relieve herself.

This required an elaborate ritual.

As soon as Fifi whined to go outside, Sylvia hurried to the front hall closet. She donned a white lab coat and an oversized pair of black rubber chemist's gloves and assumed the appearance of an anorexic mad scientist. Next, she retrieved both the ramp and wagon Ben had built. Sylvia then propped the ramp so Fifi could waddle onto it. Fifi could not make it up the incline, and Sylvia had to struggle against gravity to get Fifi close to the wagon. Fifi weighed half as much as Sylvia. Eventually Sylvia realized lifting the ramp and dumping Fifi into the wagon was the most efficient method.

Next came the long and winding path through the yard. She hauled the wagon behind the garage, away from the prying eyes of her neighbors. Then she shoved Fifi to the rear of the wagon so the dog's hindquarters hung over the side, and waited for her to eliminate.

Six years of this routine had not improved Fifi's aim.

When Fifi finished, Sylvia wiped the dog's nether region as well as the edge of the wagon with Scott toilet paper and left the whole mess in place wherever it dropped. It was then referred to as compost.

Ben learned to seek out and isolate pockets of wadded white-paper compost before he fired up the power mower after one unfortunate incident some years ago back which is best left to the imagination.

Kick 'Em When They're Down - Except I'm Not Down

You just never know when that knife is gonna slip into your back. Just when you think you're safe, you can breathe easy, and you close your eyes and take a deep, relaxing nap -- boom! A new reveal of betrayal appears, or a rude reminder of the future you had looked forward to occurs.

Tonight, as I prepared my new phone for information from my old phone, I realized there were 110 photographs on my old phone I was unaware of. See, it had belonged to "him" until he got a better one, so I had all his old contacts and photographs. I knew I had the contacts, but was blissfully unaware of the photographs. Bet he was, too. There are dozens of photos of him I'd never seen, including photos someone else took of him. There are sweet little images of "Missing you" and "Wish you were here" and "You're my cuddle monkey," and more. Even an animated gif of a woman with those cartoon-y bulging heart eyes. How...adorable.

Then I went through the App Store to see what I wanted and was reminded of TextFree -- the app that started it all. I still remember the day I found TextFree on the laptop and innocently asked my daughter what it was. How oblivious I was to my husband's panicked signals for her not to tell me! In case you are as unaware as I was, TextFree is an application that provides a phone number that you can give out and receive texts without revealing your real phone number. Since I don't want him to have my new number, I might just use TextFree and give him that number so I can control what I receive from him. That would be appropriate justice, I think.

Then I decided to save the photos he'd emailed me via phone from our last evening/date/social obligation a week ago. That's when I saw that he sent them from an email address I'd never seen before. Of course, I knew he had many, many email addresses that I didn't know about but he'd never slipped up and sent me anything from them before. 

I signed up for a new Apple I.D. and had to -- HAD to -- enter a title. I've always used "Mrs." Well, that won't fly nowadays. Kinda stung a little bit. My daughter urged me to use "Dr." and I did. That made it better. :)

Today he wrote that he was going to avoid Facebook for awhile because he felt sad when he read the posts. I guess he can't even rejoice in my happiness, even now. And he's texted me so many times. So many, lately. Repeatedly asking if I'm okay, expressing concern for my well being. 

I haven't been better in years. And I will continue to improve. :) 

Aptitude

As promised yesterday, here's something I wrote. Short, but sweet.~~GHC

Aptitude

I am a thunderhead on the near horizon

pregnant with potential.

You've felt my early raindrops

Gentle, tentative,

The storm is yet to come.

I am a fig tree in the back yard

heavy laden with fruit.

You've sampled from my low branches

Mellow, sweet,

Honey richness waits above.

I Have No Power - Nizar Qabbani

Guest poet at ChickenScratches again today. I promise to post something of my own soon. 

This man knew women. Oh, to have been loved, or to be loved, by such a man! The inimitable Nizar Qabbani, again:

I Have No Power

'I have no power to change you
or explain your ways
Never believe a man can change a woman
Those men are pretenders
who think
that they created woman
from one of their ribs
Woman does not emerge from a man's rib's, not ever,
it's he who emerges from her womb
like a fish rising from depths of water
and like streams that branch away from a river
It's he who circles the sun of her eyes
and imagines he is fixed in place

I have no power to tame you
or domesticate you
or mitigate your first instincts
This task is impossible
I've tested my intelligence on you
also my dumbness
Nothing worked with you, neither guidance
nor temptation
Stay primitive as you are

I have no power to break your habits
for thirty years you have been like this
for three hundred years
a storm trapping in a bottle
a body by nature sensing the scent of a man
assaults it by nature
triumphs over it by nature

Never believe what a man says about himself
that he is the one who makes the poems
and makes the children
It is the woman who writes the poems
and the man who signs his name to them
It is the woman who bears the children
and the man who signs at the maternity hospital
that he is the father

I have no power to change your nature
my books are of no use to you
and my convictions do not convince you
nor does my fatherly council do you any good
you are the queen of anarchy, of madness, of belonging
to no one
Stay that way
You are the tree of femininity that grows in the dark
needs no sun or water
you the sea princess who has loved all men
and loved no one
slept with all men… and slept with no one
you are the Bedouin woman who went with all the tribes
and returned a virgin
Stay that way.' 

Nizar Qabbani

Dearest KellyJo - Redux about Truth

19 November 2006

Dearest KellyJo,

Do you know that when Daddy or I, or your teachers, tell you something that we believe it to be the truth? Sometimes we are wrong, but we teach the best we know to teach at the time. Sometimes our truth changes. Like for instance, at one time in our lives, we may have believed something that we found out later wasn’t true. An example would be that broccoli tastes bad. At that time, that was our truth. Later on, we discovered that we found the taste of broccoli to be good.

Your inner voice, that quiet little nagging whisper deep inside, will guide you along your path and help you to find YOUR truth. There are no limitations. That’s the first rule. In fact, that’s the most important rule. There are no limitations. You hold limitless potential.

I am telling you all this because it is very important for you to seek your own truth. Don’t accept what someone else tells you if it feels wrong to you. You can accept that that is THEIR truth, but it doesn’t have to be yours. An example might be that one of your friends thinks another girl is mean, or ugly. You can accept that that is your friend’s truth, but it doesn’t have to be yours.

This holds true with what Daddy and I, and your teachers, tell you is true. We will never intentionally misguide you, but the fact is, sometimes we will be wrong. That’s one of the scary things about being in charge of someone else’s life. But we do the best we can.

We are your parents so that we can guide you ALONG YOUR OWN PATH. It isn’t our job to tell you which path to take. It’s not our job to judge your path, but of course, we are hopeful that you will choose a path that isn’t destructive. I don’t think you will have trouble choosing a creative and positive path, but sometimes Life has twists and turns we could never anticipate. That’s why you have parents and others to guide you back to your path.

I hope this makes sense. I don’t want you to be fearful; there is no need to fear. Just weigh what you’re taught, weigh it on your own scale, and take what feels right. Be respectful of other’s truths, but always remain true to your own. That’s the best recipe for success and happiness, peace of mind, and joy, that I know.

Much love forever,

Mom