3.30.17 Forgive my obsessions

Hundreds of Robins feeding in the fields, in the late afternoon rain. 
Thousands of Starlings greeting each other in the oasis trees, calling and laughing and talking and greeting and celebrating, with a big murmuring out into the fields and then back, now and then.

https://www.facebook.com/GwenMcClellanWordsandPictures/videos/1271286069574841/
  
To be clear, it's not that my little tiny phone can record things remarkably. It's more that I am completely taken with lives of others, and powerless in the face of obsession. Is all.

https://www.facebook.com/GwenMcClellanWordsandPictures/videos/1271288169574631/

https://www.facebook.com/GwenMcClellanWordsandPictures/videos/1271289372907844/

3.31.17 Beneath the tree

The coffee-and-cream of the puddle

beneath the tree on the corner

 shimmered in the 

overcast evening light

3.31.17 Down by the farmers fields

3.30.17 Here, in this place

     Here in this land, you can be really tired while having done nothing. You can wake up with some juice, or awaken tired and spent. Russian roulette. Crap shoot.
     But these days, there are preparations that must be made. So I'm a weak wobbly Formula 1, scooting around a bit, and then cruising into the pit to fall over, as my tires briskly get changed out, as an invisible pit crew repairs and resettles this and that. 
     Here in this place, I get up and get set and get my husband off to work. He loves his work. 
     I apply herbal anti-microbials to him while he does his injection, I slip a rich salad in one glass container and a bean entree into the other, and hang the bag on the doorknob.
     I put liquidy things ,that keep his blood outrageously rich, even with chemo. They don't understand why he is so well.
     I fill empty capsules with digestive formulas and demulcent formulas and anti-bacterial formulas from my plastic herb wheel container, and then fill his little box with the correct supplements for now. 
     He takes and drinks and puts on and inserts until he's done. I say "Free!" as I hand him his lunch, and he grabs his bag ,and kisses me soundly goodbye.
     I make my breakfast and stare at mounds of dishes, and instead, clean out the laundry room ,and then scrub TSP on a little table. And then delightedly scrub it with a wire brush, watching the paint magically swiped away.
     There will be a new person here soon enough, a renter, and the necessity to clear and wipe and settle things is as welcome and delicious as cream pie.
     I lie down and rest on the hot BioMat. and the big boy dog comes in to lie next to/on me.
     The big old old black cat comes in for one special cat cookie, and then steals my pillow, as I lie next to their huge purring self, running my fingers down his spine, aligning this vertebrae, settling that organ.
     So I lie curved on the bed, whose sheets are in the washer, reading a book, loving the wet rainy deep color day from afar.
     I get up and make lunch and give the dog a little bone from the freezer just to blow his mind, and lie down again, like an electric car, try trying to juice up.
     I lie on my unmade bed between the folded laundry piles and the now big ball of clean white sheets that are waiting to get back on the bed, and out the window a huge bird drifts by, motionless. 
     My dog and cat and I all turn expectantly to the next window, where the big bird emerges, and glides out of sight. Not moving a muscle. 
     We all lie back. I try to imagine being able to do that. Being born being able to be a bird doing bird things. Looking far far down from so high up. 
     An old white cat comes in and perches by my side, smiling in purrs as I release her neck and align her spine. She stays for awhile, curled into me, then spends some time cak cak cakking at the chipmunks out the window , who bop about, and then watch her, imperviously. 
     I get up and put socks back on and go wash windows in the Previously Known As Dining Room, soon to be rental room. 
     The exquisite new rug, with quiet leaf patterns,is curled on its side. The back door , soon to be somebody's front door, is painted a creamy pale slate blue. The little chunky wooden table, found by the side of some road some time back, is now dry. 
     I lug in the blue blue paint , slip on the mask, and begin brushing the beautiful color along the old wooden sides and top. 
     Later, we'll clean the floor once more. 
     Later, I'll sit by each outlet, affixing shiny new covers. 
     Later I'll wipe over the new windows , and then unwind the rug, and stretch out the spotless new doormat.
     For now, in this beautiful quiet, I stand in the room, imagining the best place to take a photo. 
     As I gaze out across the conservation fields, through the delicious spring hues, and the quietly pattering rain.

3.30.17 Your own private crap shoot

Somewhere out there are friends and acquaintances having their own private crap shoot. Big pain, little pain. Intolerable vertigo, more peachy vertigo. Bigtime stiff lame, smaller stiff lame. Everybody with their own private oscillations, stretching across space and time, thoughtfully imagining being the other.

 

3.30.17 Splushy chocolate mud

Mud mud gushy wet deep thick 
splushy rich chocolate mud.



https://www.facebook.com/GwenMcClellanWordsandPictures/videos/1270006703036111/

3.30.17 As if a second thought

Down by this corner, on the edge of the farmers fields, it's quiet, save the occasional truck passing by, as the hundreds of starlings gather in the trees overlooking the stream. And the day reflects upon itself, as if a second thought.