WEEK 1, AUGUST SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE

The theme over at Self-Portrait Challenge for this month is enclosed spaces. Self-portraits of each one of us in a confined space. Another requirement is that the portraits portray us as others might view us in that particular place and moment.

And since this is a place in my home that I frequent far too often and "travel" on at various speeds, here I am on yet another trek up the stairs.

HAPPY, HURT, AND HARRIED

Could be the names of three of the seven dwarfs, couldn't it?

Anywhooooo, I finally finished this painting of my daughter. Yes, I am happy with it for the most part. I do not like doing portraits using acrylics, however. I was utterly clueless how to go about it (lessons in acrylics should be on a to-do list for me), because the paint dries way too quickly. I took the photograph of my daughter from which I based this painting last summer, and I had always wanted to paint it. TA-DA! Goal achieved. Best part of it all is that she likes it very much. She smiles when she looks at it. And that makes me very happy.

I began a new painting right afterward, and it is entirely different from any type of painting I have previously done. Egads, I keep trying new stuff without having seen the techniques performed in person. Relying on step-by-step photographs is just not the same as actually watching someone wield the brushes and paint. This promises to be a challenge, but I am already liking some aspects about this new style. The painting sucks in a huge way. The nice part is I can wash it all off and begin anew. (::grin:: I have already done that three times!)

My heart got a hurt put on it Friday. ::nodnod:: No Band-Aid can fix it. Those are for minor boo-boos anyway. This is a pretty large wound. The best thing to do to heal it is to push it out of my thoughts as best as I can. Sometimes I am very good at that. Other times, I cannot at all. I do not know which way it will be this time, but I am hopeful I can wrestle it from my thoughts. Honestly, I have to wonder just how many little chunks of my heart are missing from the various injuries it has been subjected to. God help me if there would ever come a time when I would grow cold because one too many pieces had been plucked from that vital organ of mine.

Harried. Mmhmm. I am getting more and more frantic by the hour. We are leaving for our trip to Chicago Thursday morning, and I have a list out the wazoo of things to do. Leave it to now for my dog's diabetes to start acting up. I inject her twice daily with insulin, yet I can see signs that perhaps she needs an increased dose. The poor thing is aging, and it is sad to see her slow decline. Her blindness is an ongoing source of pain to me. I hate that she has become more timid and hesitant and nervous since losing her sight. Her weight is dropping, but her appetite remains hearty. That and her constant thirst scream to me that her insulin needs adjusted. So, I take her to the vet on Tuesday for a checkup.

Yessss, I am getting my hair done on Tuesday, too. I chopped off a good four or five inches the other day. It had grown way too long. Let's see if my stylist thinks I did a good job of hacking at it. ::laugh::

Joy of joys, I chipped my front tooth. No one can tell, because it is the back of the tooth I chipped. This is ALL the fault of Mark Jacobs who was my elementary school honey. Yes, one summer nite long ago at the pool as I was leaving and had just begun to step into the encased steel turnstile that led the way out of the facility, Mark jumped in with me. Only one person was supposed to be in each section, and when he slipped inside with me, it jerked back the bar. And hit my mouth. What a horrifying treat to see tiny bits of white enamel on my black towel. Ugh. I suppose I was lucky it was not knocked out or broken in half, but geeeeez! The dentist will be getting a phone call from me on Monday with a plea to do something to fix it. I cannot imagine how unsettling it would be for it to pose a problem for me while in Chicago.

And that's another thing. My son is vacationing in Maine right now. We cannot get through to him to coordinate the time we are to pick him up at the airport in Chicago. He is flying straight from Maine and meeting us there. Well, he is if we know when the heck his flight arrives. ::smile:: I am sure he will call before we leave. Okay, I am almost sure he will think to do that!

Mom has had one heckuva tough time since she went into the hospital. She ultimately had to have her heart shocked twice, because the first time only kept her heart in rhythm for less than a day. The new medication she was sent home with caused her to feel like she was experiencing congestive heart failure. Fortunately, the doc halved the dose, and she is making a slow comeback. I was ready to take her to the emergency room at one point. I worry, worry, worry about her. I also am feeling a bit guilty leaving for my little getaway. One of my sisters is already in Spain and Italy on a trip. Another one is leaving early in the week for a destination I cannot even remember. That leaves only one sister here to look after Mom. ::sad face:: At least I will not be too far away should I need to get back home quickly. And Mom is adamant that I take this vacation. I love that pushy dame. (Okay, so I am the pushy dame...she's just cute as a button and no bigger than a minute!)

All of the little things to do before going anywhere are making me frantic. I doubt that I will be posting again in this journal before I leave Thursday. 'Tis possible I will do the self-portrait challenge on Tuesday, but that is a quick entry...if I can get around to taking the type of photograph designated for the month of August challenge. Right now, it is low on my list of things to do.

I soooo want and need this little trip to my beloved Chicago. Oddly enough and very much unlike when I am at home, I sleep like a baby when I am in a nice hotel. Go figure!

And that is that for now. A happy week to all of you.

"A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking." ~Earl Wilson

BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THIS "MAN"

Helpful tips: Often seen wearing ruby slippers. Armed with a lidded picnic basket. Considered dangerous to the eyes.

Any information that leads to his arrest will be rewarded. Oh yeah, and I guess he should probably be caught alive. That is your choice, though.

THE MOTHER OF ALL NIGHTMARES

I awoke from this nightmare to the sound of my own screams. Yes, I had spent my dream in the very bowels of hell.





::shudder:: Somebody please comfort me.

U IS FOR UNZIPPED

Usually when I unzip, fun is about to be had. ::grin:: But, this time it is my mouth that is being unzipped. There have been some newsworthy events that I wish to discuss, and I am not the least bit concerned about being politically correct. Never have been, never will be.

Before I begin, I do want to express my sheer delight seeing Tiger Woods repeat as the British Open winner. Bravo! The man is beyond amazing, and he is certain to be the greatest golfer of all time. And my heart melted when he broke down and sobbed after the victory...the emotional toll his father's death had on him was more than evident. I wish for him many more victories in all areas of his life.

Now, this topic enrages me. I do not know how many people have followed the case of the young man (age 16) whose Hodgkin's disease was treated last year with chemotherapy and has since become active again. The boy and his family have been seeking alternative therapy to treat his disease, because the boy felt sure he would die if he had to go through stronger doses of chemotherapy that would be required. Enter our lovely court system with its disparities in the rulings issued depending upon the judge, the state, etc. Long story short, the court has ruled that he HAS to enter the hospital and receive the chemotherapy. WHAT? Oh, and his parents have been found guilty of "neglect" because they allowed their son to have supervised alternative therapy at a clinic in Mexico. Now the parents must share custody of their son with the county. ::shaking my head in disgust:: I am a firm believer in looking after a child's best interests. However, nowhere in anything I have read regarding this particular case have I seen evidence of the parents pushing for the young man to do anything. They are following HIS wishes. And at the age of 16, many children are pretty solid about knowing what they can and cannot handle. Clearly, this teen is adamant that he does not wish to suffer the sometimes-deadly side effects chemotherapy has to offer. It did not work for him the first time he was treated, and he felt it was going to kill him. Up the chemo doses this time, and it would not surprise me if he did die. Sad thing for him is if he were but two years older, he would not have to do anything he does not want to do. Gotta keep those pharmaceutical companies in business, don't we?

Which brings me to this. Have you ever wondered why so many people are getting cancer at alarmingly young ages? I suppose we could chalk up some of it due to the fact we are more aware of cancer and detecting it in its early stages. Stop and think about this, though. If you compare the life expectancy from decades ago and the current life expectancy, it seems obvious people are living longer. It appears that the modern marvels of medicine have been a boon to all of us. Yet, is it taken into consideration that infants and children died at very high rates decades ago? That certainly skews the averages back then, doesn't it? Sure it may seem we are living longer...and children definitely are...but when you no longer have to average in infant mortality, we are not living very much longer at all these days. Perhaps a two-year increase at best? I have always thought, and continue to think, that our heavy use of pesticides, fluoride in our water supplies, and hormones injected into our livestock have messed up our bodies. Ripe for cancer to invade...or perhaps even causing cancer. Decades ago, prostate cancer just was NOT attacking men in their thirties and forties. It was an "old man's" disease. Cripe, in my real world, I know three men who have gotten it. One passed away. All in their forties. Ditto for breast cancer. I will not even get into the number of people I have known who died as a direct result of the chemotherapy treatment they were receiving. Yep, the cancer did not nail them...the cure did. (Disclaimer: I DO believe chemotherapy has been a godsend to many, many people, and I am not saying it does not work its miracles. It definitely does...sometimes. But, it is also a killer. And that's fact.)

And Christie Brinkley being cheated on? For the love of God, what man in his right mind would cheat on her, with a teenager no less? Methinks her husband is an aging, weak, and foolish man looking for his own youth through fresh bait. Ick on him. Double ick.

Paris Hilton is publicly displaying her sensitive side. Why don't I care one iota?

President Bush (yes, I do like the man) gets caught uttering a swear word. ::gasp:: I feel sure he is the only President who has ever done such a thing. ::eyeroll:: Give it up, folks, and move along to something of substance. For instance, get on his case for using his very first veto to squash the stem cells research legislation. That is far more worthy of people's time and attention. I am an avid stem cell research advocate. When you see enough people suffer through diseases that are horrifying but could possibly be eradicated via the use of stem cells, you just might find yourself leaning toward or outright in full support of those precious cells for potential cures. And I have seen more than my fair share of sufferers.

Final rant. I do wish people would exercise their right to freedom of speech by displaying at least a little bit of decorum. Anyone can swear and jabber and picket, but how many can do it with some class and still get their point across in a powerful way? More importantly, how many can complain yet deliver a workable solution to the problem?

Now I think I will go unzip in that other manner. After all, the kids aren't home at the moment. ::wink::

"A dress that zips up the back will bring a husband and wife together." ~James H. Boren

DIAPHANOUS~July, Week 4, SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE

There are times I feel as though I am barely visible to anyone. And that is okay with me. In fact, sometimes it is my preference.

(The theme for July is "Self-portrait as...") See some wonderful images others have submitted at Self-Portrait Challenge.

DRESS UP

Is there any woman alive who did not play dress up as a child? What little girl did not have a large trunk of treasures to be rummaged through in search of the perfect combination of garments and accessories?

Oh, the grand delight to be found in sliding into an oversized dress and tugging it up high enough to be able to fasten a belt around our tiny waist to secure the excess fabric. This enabled us to be able to walk without tripping on the hem. Jewelry was a must. The best pieces were earrings that dangled. We would turn our head quickly from side to side to be able to feel the earrings slap at our flesh with each movement. There was the careful winding of long strands of pearls around our neck. Too many bracelets adorned our wrist. Metal ones would clang together. We loved that. A hat perched on our head in the perfect manner, so it would not slip down over our eyes. A giant purse was a necessity. We had important items we needed to stash inside a roomy purse.

But the single most crucial element was the shoes. And that meant stepping into some very high heels that belonged to Mommy. Three- and four-inch heels added enormous height to us. We would shuffle through rooms and up the stairs frantically trying to keep those high heels on our minuscule feet. Garbed in our spectacular attire, we paraded throughout the house taking care of "grown-up" duties.

Part of the fun in playing dress up was being seen by others. After all, wasn't it time we were recognized as being more mature than they thought we were? Dressed that way, we had found the magic that would enable others to view us the way we wanted to be seen. We were, for a time, elegant. Princesses whose size belied our perceived maturity.

::smile:: I remember very well the times I played dress up. My most favorite accessory was my mother's wedding shoes. I had to grab them quickly before my sisters snatched them. They were the prettiest shoes I had ever seen. Ivory satin with ankle straps and VERY high heels. With Daddy being more than a foot taller than my mother, she needed that height. I have always felt Mom was extremely sweet to allow us to play with those shoes. But, I would imagine it gave her warm and loving feelings seeing those particular shoes gracing the feet of her children.

Time passed, and we outgrew the desire to set aside time for dress up. It became a babyish activity, and we moved on to other interests. However, did we really outgrow it? Or did it remain unchanged to a large degree?

I love to dress up for different social events. To find the ideal dress, purse, stockings, undergarments, and jewelry. And don't I feel very much the way I did as a child playing dress up? Do I take a glance at myself fully put together and perhaps think I look a little magical that nite? The need to be recognized as an adult is gone, and it is replaced with just the urge to look the best I can to please the eyes of not only myself, but others around me.

Ah, but in private, do I not still play dress up also? ::wicked grin:: Of course I do. I adore lingerie. And I have virtually every color imaginable among the many styles I have amassed. It feels wonderful to be scantily clad in those "dress up" items. Far more glorious to be appreciated while wearing them.

It seems some of the little girl in a woman is always there.

"I married a German. Every night I dress up as Poland and he invades me." ~Bette Midler

T IS FOR...

...

The little stick people in those letters are moving nonstop just like my mind is. All of the time. And I am so very, very tired.

"And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower, then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created." ~D. H. Lawrence

IS IT ANY WONDER...

...that this kid sits alone at the back of the bus? Would you want YOUR child sitting near him? Did I mention that this is not a long bus?

Check out the lunch box he carries. Is it any wonder that other kids push him down and take his milk money?


Hell, even I want to knock him down.

SELF-PORTRAIT AS A PUDDLE, SP Challenge, Week 3, July

(SELF-PORTRAIT CHALLENGE, July, Week 3, Theme: Self-portrait as...)

Sometimes I am the rain...and sometimes I am the puddle.


When I am the rain, I am feeding something of value to others, refreshing everything my drops touch. I am nourishing those around me, and sometimes even helping others to grow and thrive.

Ah, but when I am the puddle, I get jumped on. Driven over. Splashed about. Or completely avoided.

Except for those times when children find great fun playing in a puddle, I think I prefer being the rain.

MONDAY MUSINGS

Today is my hubby's birthday. Yay! We will not be doing anything spectacularly exciting, because we already did it. A week ago Sunday we had a surprise party for him. He was VERY surprised, too. And I am not sure he is past being a little annoyed with me for that. He had a mountain of fun that day and evening, but he had specifically told me to never give him a surprise party. Oops. What could I do? His close friends and my son really wanted to have one for him. Plans had already been made. People invited. All he had to do was just suck up the embarrassment of folks yelling "surprise" and go with the flow. ::smile:: It was very amusing to watch his reaction...and also whip his head around (a la Linda Blair) to glare at me. Again, not my fault! Anyway, he had a blast, so I am counting that as his birthday present. For the most part. I do need to hit the stores today to find something a bit special to give him. And the four of us will be going out to dinner this evening. A quiet meal at a lovely restaurant is in order.

July's birthstone is a ruby. I treated myself on Saturday to a beautiful one and had it set into a ring I have that already had two diamonds in it. The ruby sits nicely between those two diamonds. I call it my "love" ring. Both of my children are April babies, and the birthstone for that month is a diamond. I told the hubster that this ring represents the three people I love most in this world...him and our son and daughter. Hence, the love. What else I bought at the jeweler's that day has nothing to do with anything except I was in a very heavy bling mood. This coming Saturday, I will be sporting one heckuva new ring on my left hand. I incorporated my original engagement ring diamond into a new setting. I have never been one to trade up diamonds. That specific diamond was selected by us as a newly engaged couple, and the sentimental value is far too great to part with it. So, I just chose a honker big diamond to go next to that one and also purchased one that is the same size as the engagement diamond to go on the other side. A nice three diamond ring. And I earned that rock that will reside in between that diamond and the other one I purchased. It is going to be fabulously beautiful. Hmmm...maybe I can count those things as hubby's birthday presents? Nah.

Mom is going into the hospital today. The doctors think she will be in there for four days. IV heart medications will attempt to restore her heart to a normal rhythm (the pacemaker has been unable to do so) and help with her atrial fibrillation. Unfortunately, they have told her she will most likely need to have her heart shocked back into rhythm (cardioversion). She has had that procedure done once before, but its positive effects did not last. One more go 'round, and hopefully, that will do the trick. God love her. She has requested a private room. They said they would do the best they can to try to fulfill her wish. With all four of us girls and our spouses and children, it can be extremely boisterous when we visit. She wants us to be able to see her and make her laugh without worrying about disturbing a roommate. We have all had such bleak and horrifying experiences with that particular hospital, and it would be nice to be able to put aside those memories for a time and help Mom make the best of the days she is forced to be there.

I want to urge anyone and everyone who reads this blog to stop by another journal called, "Hunter and Hunted: The Dark Rambler." Click on the name to be taken there. It is one of the best fictional stories I have read in many moons. It is written and published by Bon and Mal, genuinely good people. Quite a chilling and fascinating tale they have created. And, it is not finished! Yay. More chapters to come. Do read it. I feel certain you will not be able to tear your eyes away from it once you begin.

Our tickets for the King Tut Exhibit in Chicago have arrived via mail. I am very much looking forward to those four days there. Aside from the fact I love that city with an intense passion, I want to get away. I NEED to get away. Relaxation mixed with visiting some of the many sights I have yet to explore will be good for my spirit. For all of our spirits.

And with that, off I go. Much to do today.

"On Monday, when the sun is hot, I wonder to myself a lot: 'Now is it true, or is it not, that what is which and which is what?' " ~A. A. Hodge

FOR MY RED SNEAKERED FRIEND

What? You do not like it? ::clutching my pain-filled heart...then giggling and skipping outta here::

FLEURS

Little have I posted in recent weeks about any of my feeble attempts to become an artist! I always have a painting in progress. I feel somewhat lost if my drafting table or easel sits free of paints or pastels. At the very least, I want a sketch completed and ready for the stroke of a brush or a pastel. (Although, I sometimes do not sketch anything before painting.)

Anyway, I had previously written about my experience in the one-day pastels class I took in June. Even though it is a messy medium, I like it. I decided to do a couple more paintings using it, so I would not lose what I recalled from the class. The sunflower I began in the workshop and completed at home. The other two I have since done. Yes, I even had them matted and framed. All three of them. It does not mean I think they are really good enough to spend that kind of money to have professionally framed, but I was getting a fair amount of heat from family and friends to start framing my work. Eh, I have certainly seen far better by others.

What interests me the most is how people respond to each painting. Of the three pastels, it seems quite varied as to which each person prefers the most. The various people who were involved with the matting and framing at the shop all had their particular favorite. There is one painting I actually intensely dislike. Yet, it was the favorite of two of the frame shop's employees and also my son. Funny how people see or are attracted to different aspects of a painting. It can be the color, the subject matter, the shading, or any number of things that pull them to one specific painting that makes them say, "Yes, this one is my favorite."

Here they are, poorly photographed (dang glare) and in the order of when I painted them.

Ewwww, the one makes me cringe. It is ugly to my eyes. Very ugly. Figures it is the one four people have told me is their favorite.

Since I finished the rose, I decided to put away the pastels for a time and bring out my acrylics. I had taken a photograph of my daughter a couple of years ago that I have always liked. I was taking pictures of my daisies out in the large flower bed in my back yard. They butt up to some pine trees I had planted, too. My daughter came over to see if the daisies had a scent, and she leaned down to smell one. ::smile:: I know they have virtually no fragrance, yet I still find myself doing the very same thing. I snapped the picture at the moment she began to breathe in. It is a challenge for me to see if I can paint that photograph using acrylics. It is very far from being finished. I did a rough sketch of her on the canvas, but left the rest empty. I have never done a portrait with acrylics, and I am struggling (and wishing I had instead chosen to do this using watercolors). I really need to take at least one class in the use of acrylics.

Anywhoooo, here is the early stage of that painting. Still very much incomplete and in need of details, shading, leaves, stems, and the like.


And that's what the simple folk do in their spare time. ::smile::

"Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely. Light and colour, peace and hope, will keep them company to the end of the day." ~Winston Churchill

S IS FOR SCRABBLE

Oh yesssss. This is probably one of my favorite graphics I have made. It was tedious, time-consuming, but downright fun! I grab my fun when and where and how I can. ::grin::

Yeppirs, Sex Scrabble. Now would that not be a fun game to play? Do you have any idea how much further I could have taken this game board? Too bad the space on it was limited.

Maryanne, my little SIC, are you proud of me? Is this the type of "S" entry you wanted or expected from me? ::giggle:: Alas, anyone who knows me well or even slightly knows I enjoy the eroticism of good sex. Hot. Romantic. Kinky. Tender. Wicked. Sinfully delicious. It is all good, whatever style it might be.

I am thinking I want to play this version of Scrabble, but I will revise the rules so that all words associated with sexual activity~even the slang not included in Webster's fine dictionary~are allowed. I wonder how long it will be before those letter tiles and game board are strewn all across the floor while two bodies are going at it? Hmmm...methinks not very long at all. Just how I like it!

Oh, one final thing. The last word that appears on the board in my graphic? It is that element, that emotion, which makes for the most gratifying and fulfilling sex of all. Uh huh. Love.

"Sex is a flame which uncontrolled may scorch; properly guided, it will light the torch of eternity. ~Joseph Fetterman

A REFLECTION IN MY EYE (Self-Portrait Challenge, July Week 2)

We stand in front of a mirror to wash our face, brush our hair, apply our makeup. We are looking at our reflection as we do each one of those tasks. And we see our reflection in that mirror. Sometimes we just might approve of what we see looking back at us. Occasionally, we might shrink away from the reflected image. Our mood and the little workings of our mind seem to dictate which way it will be.

We have mirrors, photographs, films...each one telling us and others a little bit about us at that particular moment. It might be a fleeting moment, but it is captured permanently or for a mere few seconds. We can never fully capture the depth of a person via those means.

How many times have we put on a nice smile for the person with a camera, and the resulting photograph portrayed a seemingly happy individual? To the casual observer, it does appear to be the case. Ah, but we know otherwise. We view the picture, and we can see that our smile did not reach our eyes. Genuine smiles always reach the eyes, casting a bit of a twinkle in them. Only we and those who love and know us well can see the real emotion that photograph has caught.

Yet, we keep on trying to fool ourselves.

(Self-Portrait Challenge theme for July is "Self-portrait as...")

SWEET DREAMS ARE NOT MADE OF THIS

Doom and gloom do not become me. I do not wear them well. Most of the time I like to dress in sunshine and flowers and hear laughter and music. The glass is definitely half-full in my world.

Except when I sleep.

Numerous times in this journal I have mentioned that my sleep is plagued by disturbing dreams. Every single nite. Once, erroneously, I recall writing in here that these "bad" dreams had been occurring each nite for the past two years. I meant to go back and change it to the correct number. Which is four. Four years of nitely (and even daytime should I happen to take a nap) doom, gloom, sadness, pain, confusion. It takes a toll. Why do I have to remember them? Why can't I just wake to nothingness? No leftover melancholy or tears to haunt me.

It is no coincidence, I am certain, that bleak dreams replaced any good ones right after my father passed away. I have yet to make the connection as to why. I have zero regrets about my relationship with him. He was the quintessential loving father, and I was the loving daughter. No doubts there. Maybe his death shocked my brain and rattled out all of the darkness that over the years had stealthily crept in via the newspapers and television news and ugly people with ugly mouths and vile actions.

Anyway, Thursday was a difficult day. A hard day. One I despised. From the moment I awoke to the moment I fell asleep, I felt no happiness. I had seen and felt someone else's hurt. Agonizing hurt. The wounding of a soul. I looked forward to sleep. I cannot think while I am asleep, I recall saying to myself. And I immediately fell into a hard, deep sleep. And I dreamt. Of what? Let me share...

There was a cemetery. Vines were everywhere. Tangling around our feet. Climbing on top of headstones. My father was being buried. My entire family and our friends were gathered around while he was being lowered into the ground. Yet he was not the only person being buried at that time. In nearby places were little graves. New ones with the dirt still piled and dying flowers resting atop the tiny rectangles of children's graves. There were some burial services going on while Daddy's was. All of them were little children who had died. Amidst my own grief, I saw the stark faces of extraordinary pain on the mourners for all of those dead children. Families clutching one another, sobbing. Wails permeating the stillness. It was a glimpse into the epitome of pure, raw pain.

Then I woke. Horrified. Sick inside. As I tend to do, I sat and revisited the specifics of the dream, pulling together some sense of it. I have had death dreams previously, and none of them have ever foretold of someone I know dying. I generally dismiss that as a cause for such dreams. But this one shook me wicked hard. And then it all came together. I know what it meant.

Daddy being in it represented how much I miss him. Every day. And those tiny coffins and burial spots of little children? They represented the little deaths I am currently experiencing in my life. The death of hopes, wants, needs, relationships, and the future. Oh, yes. Little deaths. Each one marking my heart with a knife. Scarring it.

Maybe I have grown accustomed to having such extremely tormenting dreams, because while this one bothered me, analyzing it helped me get past its effects a tad sooner than I otherwise would. It made much sense in the light of day. More importantly, it fit all too well with the angst that had comprised my Thursday. I saw a little death that day. I felt it. And that nite my dream ran with it.

The good is that there will be new hopes and desires to replace those which have withered and died. Their time will come. When it is the right time.

"I believe in everything until it's disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?" ~John Lennon

R IS FOR RIVER

This is my river. No, it actually owns me. It is 231 miles long, and it winds itself around me each and every day. Miles of memories are kept in my mind. New memories are constantly being made.

I cross this river in my car on an almost daily basis. There are three bridges I can take depending upon where I am going. To get to my mother's home, which is six miles from mine, I must cross one of the bridges. I have yet to ever be on that bridge and not take long looks at my river. Each time I seem to "see" something different.

This is the river where childhood friends and I would ride our bicycles. Our destination was typically the dam. It looked so powerful with the water pouring over it, sparkling in the day's sunlight. We would sit and eat our packed lunches and ponder just how we were going to walk across the base of it to reach the other side. Ah, the stupidity of youth and the fearlessness of the dangers we were dismissing as we contemplated which stones would be the ones we would step on to make that trek to the far side of the dam. We never made it completely across, but we sure made it halfway before turning back.

Some days I am taken back to those very early times in my life when I learned to fish. Daddy took the four of us girls to the river, bamboo fishing poles and minnows in our possession. He had a friend who lived on the river who gave Daddy carte blanche to use his dock to teach us how to fish. I can still remember him laughing when either one of my two older sisters would feel the familiar tug of the fishing line, and my younger sister and I would dash to that exact spot to hopefully lure a fish to our lines.

I remember the lazy Sunday mornings when he would drive all of us along the river on the narrow road that ran parallel to it, so very close to the water. Mom would join us for that outing, and we would take in the changing seasons' effects on the water and the trees. It was heavenly. It was comfortable. It was familiar.

There are those times when my car comes to a stop on the bridge, awaiting the traffic light to change. I glance to my right, and I look longingly towards the area of the river's bank where we had our family portrait taken on several occasions. The setting was beyond perfect. The last time we had a family portrait taken there was just prior to the onset of my father's illness.

I also laugh myself simple recollecting other things, newer memories. When I met my husband, he liked to fish. I happily went with him to my river. I had long since learned how to cast a line. He thought he had it down pat, too. And so we would fish. One time I laughed so hard I cried. He was having an awful time with his casts. He blamed it on the line. I said nothing...until he brought his arm back, flicked his wrist, and cast his line right into a bunch of overhanging branches, snaring his lure and line. My, my, but he spoke some very colorful words while tugging and yanking at the line he ultimately had to cut. Say goodbye to the lure securely nestled in those branches.

There was the time the hubby and I took our boat to my river for a day's bit of skiing fun. It was the first of our boats, and its modest motor was not powerful enough to pull a skier when very many people were inside the boat. My eldest sister opted to sit out on the rocks along the shore while I skied. Hubby steered the boat, and my two other sisters sat back and took in the sunshine. All of us noted my eldest sister waving to us. We waved back to her. We saw a man approach her on the rocks where she was perched. Nothing appeared to be amiss. She looked to be chatting a bit with him. Yet, she kept waving to us. We kept waving back. ::smile:: It was not too terribly long (but seemed like an eternity to her) before we realized something was wrong. I dropped and climbed into the boat, and we took off toward her. The man had disappeared, so she was alone. Shaking. Upset. The fellow had asked her if he could massage her toes. She politely declined, but he was fairly insistent. She freaked out. Thus, the waving at us. It was a plea for help that we misread. We embellish the story sometimes and talk about him wanting to suck her toes. The thing is, a couple of us DO recall her saying he had suggested sucking her piggies would accompany the massaging. ::cracking up::

My children have taken a shine to my river. They boat on it. They learned how to ski and go tubing on it. Both learned how to fish there. Hubby and I taught them. They have seen and admired the beautiful falls located a mere stone's throw from our home that feed into my river. Both have fed the many birds that flock to the water's edge. When my son was in a crew rowing league, one of their regattas was held on my river.

These days, I find a tranquility when I go to my river. I bring bread crumbs and other goodies to feed the ducks. I find the perfect rock to sit on, and I toss my offerings to them. More and more congregate once word is out that food is to be found in abundance. I discovered a curious and amusing thing about the ducks. They all become synchronized in their focus on my proffering hand. It was by accident that I discovered that...and then my almost sadistic nature kept me doing it again and again, accompanied by nonstop giggling. I had brought back my hand to hurl the piece of bread, and just as I was bringing it forward, I stopped. I decided I had been tossing the food in the same spot too many times and needed to alter where I aimed it. Well, it was comical to watch a huge flock of birds move their heads at EXACTLY the same time and way. Synchronized movement if I have ever seen it! So, naturally, I did it numerous times just to watch...looking for perhaps one duck who realized I was faking them out. Nope. None did. They kept up that mirrored movement all through my hysterical laughing. Yeah, I can be sicko at times. They were rewarded, though, with hefty treats of bread for a good long time afterward.

My river can bring out the bawdy side of me, too. Driving along that very narrow portion of the road that parallels the river, I found the perfect spot to have car sex. Climb into the back seat and have hot and sweaty sex. Hubby was not happy I wanted to do such a thing in public. Pffft. I put the top back up on my car, so it was not as if anyone would SEE us. He begrudgingly and nervously joined me in the back seat...his eyes fixed to the back window. ::grin:: He soon forgot about passing cars. He soon forgot about being in public. But, he won't soon forget about how utterly delightful that back seat was.

Ah, such a wonderful river. Right here close to me. Always to be a part of me. Here before me, here while I am here, and here long after I am gone.

"How could drops of water know themselves to be a river? Yet the river flows on." ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

FOURTH OF JULY

Travel safely, eat heartily, and enjoy the celebrations!

1st Self-Portrait Challenge of July

The month of July's Self-Portrait Challenge is a curious one. We are to portray ourselves as a chair, Marlon Brando, or anything we wish! The challenge is "Self-portrait as ..." Yes, we decide just whatever it is we want to be or are or could be.

I elected to portray myself as a tree. A Weeping Willow tree to be precise.

During a television interview some years ago, Barbara Walters asked Katharine Hepburn if she could be any kind of tree, which would she be. Hepburn's response was that she would be an oak tree. Walters was mocked and ridiculed for having asked what most felt was as an incredibly stupid question.

I took exception to the criticism thrown at her. First of all, Hepburn was the one who compared herself to a tree during the course of the conversation. Walters simply followed up that remark by asking her to specify which tree.

Second, I find it to be a very interesting question, and the response can be quite revealing.

Yes, I am a Weeping Willow tree.

Willows bend with the movement of the air around them. They almost seem to lean impossibly far in strong winds. One would think they will surely snap from the extreme force. Yet, they do not. They return to their upright position. They are flexible that way. I like to believe I, too, can handle the harsh occurrences life gives me and that I bend with them...but do not break in two. I am oftentimes quite strong like the deceivingly fragile Willows.

I love the feeling of the wind blowing my long hair, much like how the slender leaves and hanging branches of a Willow sway from the gusts of wind or slight breezes. The branches provide shade and comfort and privacy to those who gather around the trunk. I invite my loved ones to nestle around me and look to me to console them and find peace around me. I will guard them from any and all harm that I possibly can.

I am tall, and most Willow trees are, too. They also grow rapidly. ::smile:: I shot up six inches in one year (from seventh to eighth grade). Unfortunately, I only gained 15 pounds, so gangly would be a kind word to describe my spindly frame at that time.

Ah, a WEEPING Willow...I do weep. Not often so others can see, but the depth of my feelings about almost anything and everything causes me to scamper off to a quiet place where the tears can flow.

Most importantly, a Willow has a tenacious root system. Incredibly powerful and capable of breaking concrete and wreaking havoc on underground lines. That root system nourishes them and gives them their strength. I find my strength in my roots. My family is my root structure. A supportive, vital, integral part of my existence.

So, you see, Barbara's question was not a foolish one at all. In fact, I am glad she asked Hepburn to name a specific tree, because it made me think of just which tree suited me.

*Thank you, Tish, for the suggestion that I enlarge the image.