Rian spent the day watching creatures. Beautiful creatures, pitiful creatures, amusing creatures and those whom Rian found simply baffling. The woman with the silk poppy in her blue hair who suddenly could not remember how to bag the perfume she sold. The man with a tea cup poodle in a Prada bag. The grubby child dangling a taco from two fingers and his mother, glistening at a handful of change. The barrista who asked Rian if curly locks were a 'life style' choice and then listened long to Rian's foolish reply.
How I adore people.

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Rian is not afraid of dementia, in itself. I have walked often amongst the ill and infirm, the mildly petulant and the childishly baffled.
It is the helpless and the frightened who make Rian ache. The elderly mothers wandering teal nursing home halls searching for long grown toddlers, or the vague eyed octegenarians, head down on the cafeteria tables, silent in horrified confusion.
Rian' mother's mother lives in a Spanish style home in the Ojai valley. Beneath the desert heat she walks on cool tile floors, sorrounded by a once precious collection of Japanese art.
She lives with a caretaker, a dog, a cat and three guinea pigs.
She no longer knows Rian, but she smiled while I fed her lunch and laughed whilst Rian and Aidan performed an abridged version of Pirate Lord and Blankie Hunter atop the giant boulders in her backyard.
She is happy. Rian is grateful.

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Rian spent late morning wandering tide pools, the sea pulled back into the distance. Most of the pool boulders are covered with lime toned moss. The pools themselves are warm and clear, thick with aenemones. The tiny creatures pulled into circles as Rian stroked at their cores.
The Red Tide has sent another animal onto the shore to die. A channel seal this time, rolling on the shore not far from where we with the help of a Beach Bum named, ironically, George dragged Flipper's corpse.
Rian has phoned for aid for the seal.
Tomorrow, Ojai, heat and oranges.

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The apiary faintness has stuck with Rian. Sick and dizzy, yes? Far too little sleep in the last few days. Rian dislikes having to pay for every indescretion.
Although, perhaps it is the leaving of this place. The green and the history of the East. I do believe in another life Rian hunted the woods to feed his family or raised a cabin to shelter her children.
How foolish I sound. Yet, someday Rian would like to have an old house on the Eastern coast and ramble through it alone.
There is a dolphin corpse awaiting Rian's disposal methods on the shore before the Beach House. This shall be morbidly entertaining.

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Bees. Rian has seen the square white bee hives from afar, in the California strawberry fields, and in the Wine Country. Never before so close that they were more than landscape passing by.
Yesterday's reception was held on church grounds. The next door 'vicarage' shares a huge expanse of lawn with the church. Dug into the grass amongst hostas and shade trees dripped a perfectly round pond. And piled near the water, three by three, were bee Abodes, providers of the parish honey.
Rian stood and watched the apiaries for a long while. Twas like glotzing tiny crooked tornadoes. The bees funneled in and out, nine thin streams rising to nine individual clouds.
They seemed stationary until Rian grew brave enough to walk amongst them and then the hum of life, the faint brush of Purpose made Rian light headed.

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Dinner Time Snippets:
Uncle Mo: "So Shannon's latest boyfriend is an Olympic speed skater. Bronze medalist. Some guy no one's heard of."
Rian: "His name?"
"I dunno...Rusty...Rusty something..."
Rian(deadpan): "Blades?"
"...So he's one of those Olympians that works at Home Depot..."
Rian: "Ah? They really exist?"
"Only in Colorado Springs. In the Colorado Springs Home Depot they can't tell you how to install a faucet, but they can get you the parts in Olympic Record time."

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No lightning bugs last night, but a huge rambling, sparse New England church with reaching steeple, patchwork halls and whitewashed floors. The rehearsing Flower Girl suffered from cold feet and the Ring Bearer did not deign to show but all else was ruthlessly As Plann'd.
No lightning bugs, but a dinner of gigantic roast chickens and plenty to drink. An Old Spark zinging and a fully tatto'd Southron creature to quiz. Tears and joy and some nerves.
Today a new commitment is wetted.
Rian wants lightning bugs.

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The dogwoods are still blooming, here, and the hostas as big as Rian has ever seen. It is so very much like Virginia, the woods creep up to the very edge of life. Virginian Rian both loved and hated them. So drawn, so tempted to chase the ghosts that surely walk in the shade. Too long in the green and Rian might become one of them.
Someone Else misrembered proper wedding attire so Rian took the rental car and went in search of a Mall. Remembered how to navigate clover leafs, found the Mall and also the white clapboard church, and then nearly ran off the road and into the green whilst glotzing Mary Goodwin's grave.
Tonight is Rehearsal Dinner.

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Have ye ever had something precious? Something seperate and yet integral to your Self. Something so incredibly beautiful it makes your heart sing? And then one day you show your treasure to the world. The world says: That is no jewel, that is a wasp's nest, and it is filthy.' One sulks for a day or two, yes? And then one has to decide: dost thou believe the Self or the world?

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Dr. Lorimer was correct. MN/St. Paul is a playground of shops and restaurants. This is to distract one from the tire blowing landing? Null Void!
Young Black Sheep has a chaperone.

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Trust. There is little in life Rian despises so much as distrust. I should be taken at my word, yes? We are running late to the airport as Someone Else did not want to pack the car whilst The Paper Boy might see - for fear of 'The Russian Mob'.

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Bits and Pieces

Rian intensely dislikes losing things.

Car keys. The mobile. Checkbook. Aidan's left shoe.

For the most part, I do NOT lose things. Everything in its place, yes?

Today, Rian lost one cat. I saw him in the morning, lounging in the sun, and later, chasing a moth down the front hallway. He watched Rian take Aidan out to dash through the sprinkler. And watched Rian clipper Aidan's head.

But when it came time to take said cat to the boarders' - gone. Vanished. Not simply vanished. WORMHOLE vanished. Rian and a friend took literally an hour turning the house over before sending the other cat off alone. I found Things in the nooks and crannies of my basement I never knew I owned - but no tabby cat.

Rian walked the block, three times. Calling. The neighbors stared and the dogs barked. Not tabby cat.

Fifteen minutes ago he reappeared, of course, as if from thing air. One moment the dining room was empty. The next, a ttch of jingle and a striped tail and proud feline saunter.

Lost, and then Found.

Tomorrow, Rian shall spend most if not all of a day on an aeroplane. And I shall take medication to keep from howling. A good thing, that.

But, in that fog, what will Rian lose? A laugh? A lovely formation of clouds? A particularly bad serving of airline food? The sheer delighted rush as the wheels touch down?

Bits and pieces of a day, unremembered even once the fog wears away.

Dream (Reasons Why)

Lavendar in shade.

Carpenter Ant

Rian has, as of yesterday, started lifting weights. In order to strengthen Inversion Muscles and fall less upon my spine.

Rian weight lifting is, believe me, is an amusing spectacle.

There is little time in Rian's day to pause and...what is the phrase?...Pump Iron. So. Rian prepares lunch with one hand and hoists a dumbell with another. Flips through bills whilst attempting tricep extensions. Glotzes out of the corner of one eye whilst trying to unearth the perfect 'curl'.

Rian has not yet mastered barbelling whilst typing. Perhaps if Rian's toes were a ttch more adaptable.

When Rian returns from California, Rian's valet shall complain: "What have ye in this suitcase, barbells and stones?" And Rian shall smile toothily and say, "Yes."

A small boy with longing in his eyes followed Rian about all morning. He was not even in Rian's class. The child was hungry. Rian fed him constantly. And held his hand until we two were one.

Yet Another Reason Why

Lilies in the heat.

Skin

Why, do you suppose, are we born into the particular skin we wear?

Into one particular slot in this world when so many are available?

If Rian does not glance into the mirror - and Rian despises mirrors - I am more or less defined by my sorroundings. Why I am here, and not stalking game on the serenghetti? Living out of a dumpster in LA? Gathering fallen onions in the fields of Walla Walla?

I am lucky. I enjoy my life. But I do not deserve it.

Today, looking at a multitude of young, dirty, hungry faces, Rian felt prickles at the back of my neck.

Fate is fickle, karma perhaps flawed, and there but for the Grace of God...

Choices

Rian has a recently drug addicted Nephew.

After several quiet family interventions over the summer, even so he was kicked out of college after just beginning his freshmen year. For the last few months he has been under Parental lock and key, attending various 12 step meetings, pissing into regulatory cups and working at the family culvert company.

So. One week and one half ago his parents left town, headed East to Boston, where they are helping their eldest boy prepare for his wedding. The wedding is - ye gods of little fishes - this next weekend. Young Black Sheep was left at home until Thursday when he will fly 'cross country with Rian.

His parents chose to trust him again.

Early this morning, as Rian rambled past the Duck Pond on the way to breakfast, the ducks suddenly lifted in fright, disturbed by the antics of a rushing hound. The hound Rian recognized. And also his dripping, panting, elderly mutt companion.

The two dogs belong to Young Black Sheep's mother. They are her beloved babies, and are not allowed off the property, although in their younger years they were Masters of Escape.

Rian, being pure of heart and free of time constraints, coralled the two dogs and led them up the hill to Home.

Outside the brick house a clutch of neighbors waited in the dawn. They had seen the dogs escape. They had also called the police.

"There was a party in that house last night," Mr. Neighbor complained as he helped Rian lock the dogs in the back yard. "A loud party. And when I opened the back door this morning to see if anyone was home, because, you know, of the dogs, there are strange kids sleeping all over the floor."

"So you called the police?" Rian resisted the urge to peer through kitchen windows.

"I thought they'd broken into the place," Mr. Neighbor pulled his mustache. "Had no idea Young Black Sheep was home. I suppose kids are allowed one or two wild parties."

Unless, of course, they are recovering addicts. One supposes.

"You'd better go in and wake him up. Before the police get here."

"Wonderful." Rian smiled whitely at the world and stepped through the back door.

There were, indeed, a multitude of postrate forms spread over the living room. On couches, floor, and beneath the table covered with party remnants. Rian stepped over the snoring mob.

Young Black Sheep was not in his room, although a friend and his lover were. Rian woke them up because Rian was annoyed. And also the children in the hall. And the fellow in the bathroom.

Young Black Sheep snored in his mother's bed, along with a naked blonde.

He was polite enough, yes? Ready to water the dogs and begin pre-cop cleanup.

But now Rian has choices to make.

And Rian dislikes choices.

Tile In The Lense II

Practice wall. Four feet up, yes, and without grout or upper trim.

Perhaps a Good Thing the Loo will sit before it.

Possible Truths II

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride."

- bits of a Scoorish Nursery Rhyme.

Apple Whiskey

How our ears do deceive us.

Rian dined at a fine restaurant, tonight. Quietly. In a booth that hid most all but the smoky lounge and the (rather new) Jazz band. It was a pleasurable dinner. Little hurry. Good food. The slight pause of Time one can sometimes slip into on a long summer evening.

The most interesting ttch was the creature in the booth behind Rian. Unseen, but such tones! Deep, harsh, warm and amused. Rian, forking up dinner, closed eyes with a smile and tried to imagine the face behind the voice.

"I talk a lot," he said to his companion. "And even more drunk. And this is GOOD apple whiskey."

His companion laughed.

"Very very sweet. Best thing I've had since moving from Seattle. God forsaken Spokane!"

As Rian wondered casually about apple whiskey, Deep Voice's guest asked him how he liked living out in Coville.

"Way out in the middle of nowhere!" Deep Voice groaned. "Emily ran over a porcupine just the other day. A porcupine. You can't imagine the number of quills!"

A pause. Rian imagined slurping of sweet whiskey and wondered why his companion sounded so bored. Surely such a rough, sexy voice demanded some listening enjoyment.

"I'm a city girl at heart!" Deep Voice said loudly, "That will never change. A city girl!"

Eyes suddenly wide, Rian squirmed a bit on leather, trying to tilt and see into the other booth. He certainly had self assurance, declaring himself a city girl in the middle of downtown Spokaloo.

"I told Emily to keep the car away from varmints! Mama, she said -"

As Rian was bemusedly pondering the courage of the Gay Male in an Arayan Steak house, he stood up.

Unfolding long legs, curved hips, a winnowed waist and a torso that might have made Norma Jean grow white with envy.

Not a he, afterall. But a middle-aged she with very feminine features and red curls. The flush of apple whiskey on her cheeks.

Rian did not know whether to have hysterics or fall postrate with shame, a stranger doing penance at this creature's feet.

Boxes, Rian. Boxes.

Buckles

Rian has been gifted with a belt buckle. An Om belt buckle, yes? Rian is pleased and amused.

In order to find an 'unsnapping belt' - read: a belt in which buckles can be exchanged - Rian had to search about town. No luck in the high end, elegant shops. No luck in the trendy markets.

Eventually, Rian found what was needed in a store catering to Burly Dock Workers, or perhaps Harley Aficianados. Certainly, there were many bearded, leather clad cyclers skulking about the shop's dark recesses. And a perfect, thick black belt to go with Rian's Om buckle. Rian feels a ttch like a Dock Worker wearing the thing. But it also makes me smile.

And, think! A belt in which buckles can be flipped about with one's mood. Perhaps, next, a studded Harley Davidson shield. A garish, sequined Elvis memorial? No, no...

...something with teeth.

Possible Truths

"If you would know secrets, look for them in grief or pleasure."

- George Herbet

Perfect

Apparently the secret to a rare, Perfect session at Studio is the distraction of barely repressed nausea.

Poor Rian. From the very first jump and stomach lurch I knew I was in no yogic mood, yes? But the body continues on, as it has learned so well. Habit. Jumping, streching, flying. Whilst Rian, in between breathing, swallowed convulsively and mentally calculated the quickest route to the nearest waste basket.

"Perfect, Rian." The day's yogini declared. "Wonderful, Rian."

Rian's body performs better without Rian's brain. Perhaps it is something to do with fear. Or lack of it.

The nausea remained repressed through an hour of Studio, fifteen minutes of savasana, a dash through sheets of rain to the car (Angel in the store window five feet away) and nearly the entire way up the South Hill and under the towering hospital. There, Rian had to pull over to the side of the road and elegantly puke.

Now Rian is empty, warm, stretched out and...perfect.

Reasons Why III

Hydrangea bluing.

Skull and Bones

The Rat Man is a flirt.

After hours of searching for the Perfect Father's Day Gift this morning, Rian squealed home only to find my spot beneath the sycamores blocked by a pest control truck. People often park beneath Rian's sycamores, especially in the summer. Eb and Flow from across the street move their tiny Geo across every July and August morning at exactly 8am. For the shade, yes?

Rian parks on the 'wrong side' of the streat. Or, rather, Rian parks backwards. And often in an OJ Simpson-esque manner. In case a quick getaway is necessary.

So. Rian parked nose to nose with the Rat Man's truck and hopped out. The Rat Man followed suit.

"I've been waiting for you," he said, and giggled.

Rian generally does not find giggly bearded creatures attractive, but the Rat Man has kind eyes.

"Imagine that," Rian replied. "And I just found a dead one yesterday. Outside."

"Outside is good." The Rat Man giggled more. "I've taken your parking spot."

"Yes, you have. But as I am going out again later, I shall forgive you. This time."

The Rat Man found this remark, apparently, very funny. We parted ways at the bottom of Rian's fourteen steps, Rian to hunt for lunch and the Rat Man to check bait stations.

Yet. When he had finished his trapping survey, he let himself in through Rian's front door without ringing. Giggled his way into the kitchen. Fell a ttch short of asking for lunch.

If Rian did not abhore violence, Rian should purchase a baseball bat.

He is lucky he has kind eyes, yes?

Grout

Rian nearly ran over Jerry this morning.

He sprinted across Lincoln Street as Rian barrelled to the dentist. Despite tanned Postal Legs, he did not move quickly enough. Or perhaps Rian moved too quickly.

Either way, I slammed on the brakes California Style, propped elbows on steering wheel, and quietly watched him cross. He looked tired. One supposes being a Post Man may be much like being a Monk. Little contact with outside world.

Although. Rian has twice seen Jerry chased by rabid women. So perhaps he is a special case.

Grouting was easy, although time consuming. Rian is not a happy floor scrubber. But the black and white tiles are nearly gleaming.

There was a skeletal mouse by the hose. Has the Bird Curse has jumped species?

Worms

Last night Rian dreampt about worms.

One worm, rather. In Rian's dream it was labeled a 'leech', but it was not. Twas long and black and segemented, the size of a garter snake. And in the beginning Rian knew that it was dangerous, and tried to chase it from life, before it could injure Aidan or - odd - get into our food.

I stamped upon it, but could not break it. Then Rian put the slimy thing in a box, and drove it through town to a large shingled house surrounded by red roses. The cottage was full of people dining, but the door was locked. I pounded and pounded, whilst Aidan waited in the car, but no creature answered the door.

So I set the worm box on the grass, beside the roses, and dug a hole in the soil with my hands. The dirt was warm and wet, and came apart easily. But when Rian opened the box, with the intention of burying the worm, it sprung free and twined through Rian's hair.

It wanted to burrow into my ear, I knew this, and I was frightened. For myself and for Aidan, who still watched from his car seat. So I tore the 'leech' apart with my fingers and droped the segments into the hole. The bits were still squirming as Rian shakily scooped dirt over the grave.

I went to climb into the car, yes? But the vehicle was gone, and Aidan was digging in the dirt.

Terrified, I took his hand and began to walk home. The road curved and suddenly we were walking in Del Mar, truly walking Home, to my mother's house.

She greeted us at the door, and Rian felt safe. But there was a cat waiting on the back deck, and while Rian stroked the feline, it skinnied down into the black worm, whole, and speaking in my head.

I loved it, and needed it, the leech insisted. I would care for it and keep it safe and it wanted water because it was hot. And it wanted in. Into Rian.

It slithered up my hand and around my neck, a wet carress, and then into my nose. Rian was terrified and sick, but I knew it was correct. I loved it, and I would keep it safe. Inside.

Atrophic

Rian has been thinking about lost passions.

If we shut a part of our heart away, long unused, does that sliver eventually atrophy?

If an author stops writing, a violist stops bowing, a traveler no longer hops the aeroplane...

...does the desire to do such disintegrate?

And, people. If we say to ourselves: "I should not love this person, and so I shall not" and we shut a door on our soul, does the loving eventually cease on its own?

Everything, I suppose, ceases in the end.

Today, Rian shall grout.

Greed

Rian has been fretting.

Early, early this morning, yes? Rian took a friend on a walk. She is a good creature, a Professor of Sociology, sweet and thoughtful and stubborn mixed into one tilted smile. She is also very wise to the unfortunate twists of life.

At 23 she lost her young husband of two years. At 25, her mother to cancer. At 30, her best friend to a Hodgkins. At 42, one of her four sisters to, again, cancer.

And now her husband, also an academic, is having a crisis of Self after a chance appointment to Deanship slipped through his fingers.

She was in tears often as we rambled through the rain and along sleeping houses. Even when her elderly dog decided to jump into the duck pond and 'race' the mallards, Rebecca was more angry than amused. Whilst unfair Rian bent in hilarity on the shore.

She has had a hard year. But the sadness in her eyes is not what has fretted Rian all day, yes?

We were discussing Chemo.

Rian (rather heartbroken): "Should not they have a cure by now? Years and years..."

Rebecca: "Yes. But. And I do not mean to sound cynical, but, maybe it's like AIDS."

Rian: "Like AIDS?"

Rebecca: "Yes. Maybe it's more prosperous, for Some People, not to find a cure."

Rian (silence)

Rebecca: "Not the doctors, necessarily. But the pharmaceutical companies."

This has been bothering me all day. Does she have a point?

Is there such greed in the world?

Monks

Last night there were Monks in Rian's Studio. I had not expected them, although I knew they were coming. They are renting out the front room twice a month, yes? Buddhist Monks in Rian's homogenous town. An oddity that is not only amusing, but also precious.

So. Rian lay stretched out upon the floor, yes, after a particularly nasty surprise pre-Solstice experience, followed by an extremely blood warming rub down....boneless, drifting...

...and suddenly a creature in full Buddhist robes, orange and yelllow...ochre?...came sweeping through the door, fabric billowing much like a television character. Shaven head. Black socks and black Reeboks.

His followers drifted after, also in regalia. They were having some trouble hauling in chair after folding chair. (Do Buddhist practioner's not sit on the floor for mediation?) They did not look particularly serene, especially when their aluminum table caught in the closing Studio door.

To a one, they all wore black socks and black Reeboks. Is this a new Official Addition to the robes? Surely sandals are more traditional.

Rian, pretending to savasana, watched them for a ttch beneath lowered lids. Rian has always wanted to be a Monk, whether in a Franciscan Monastary or atop a mountain in Tibet. What a life it must be, full of purpose...

The Monks have invited any person to stop by and observe their meditations mext Meet. And Rian shall.

I would like to see if they are rather more serene after they have learned to manage the Studio door.

More Reasons Why

Glotzing Rocks

Chances

Chances, yes? Do you like them? Do you take them? Do you run and hide under the chaise when risks come a-knocking on the door?

As a young creature, Rian hated taking chances. And so, of course, took as many as possible. When one grows up in the shadow of a parent who might 'die at any moment', I suppose one becomes either philosphical or angry. Rian was often angry. And the taking of chances was much like thumbing one's nose at the Fate or at god.

Rian broke into neighborhood houses and moved things around. Simply to take a chance. Ran with packs of older children, growing striplings who believed taking -

Ah. Michael Jackson's Verdict on the radio. Dr. Lorimer said it would come. Not guilty.

- chances was all about taking pleasure. Climbed towering trees and walked branches out over thin air, only to close eyes and jump, when Rian did not first fall from bone deep, sheer terror.

Now. Now, at thirty three, what is the taking of chances? And do they still lure? I believe I have become more philosophical. After all, every one of us might 'die at any moment', nothing is so certain as it was when young Rian walked tree limbs.

I am no longer afraid of death. It walks on my heels. And if I am no longer afraid of death, whence comes the risk in life?

Key Lime Coloured Evening

Sudden Spring Sunshine. The fire snuffed, a dinner of pizza and beer on the front porch, watching the shadows stretch beneath the sycamores, listening to the sprinkler clickclickclick across the front lawn.

Suddenly there is nothing so beautiful as the key lime coloured light through birch leaves and the smeer of pizza sauce on a loved one's cheek.

Rian is Lucky.

Flames

Rian has started a fire on the hearth. At 3pm, on a June afternoon. June! What a land the North is. Where Rian grew up one was always warm enough, even in the very middle of June gloom.

I remember, as a child, stretching across the baked earth under blue sky and simply dozing. Warm, content. WARM. Nowadays, Rian is rarely warm enough, although the Push A Button fireplace helps. My fingers are often blue tipped.

The mortar is in. Twas like frosting a cake, one supposes. Although when Rian frosts a cake, the bread sticks to the chocolated knife and all comes pulling a part in a horrifying disaster. One shall hope the tiles fare a ttch better. The fumes from the 'concrete' made Rian float. Outside the tiny bathroom window it was raining, hard. The black and white tiles wavered.

Rian cannot wait until I can start on the walls.

Bravery

http://www.hawaiitribune-herald.com/articles/2005/06/06/local_news/local03.prt

Rian wishes for the courage to manage such an Adventure.

Tile in the Lense

Tiling Phase Uno

Tiles

Rian's palms hurt.

Tiling is rough on the body. Nippers nipping fingers. Back groaning as the saw roars. Perhaps Rian should have put the wet saw on a table, yes? But the garage floor worked just as well. Four hours of putting a black and white puzzle together on Rian's bathroom floor. Tomorrow I shall mortar, yes? Dr. Lorimer says 'Mortar patiently.'

Rian is never patient.

A third dead bird today. The Bird Curse Returneth, indeed. Rian used an overly large shovel - as Rian's trowel has been suddenly stolen by Gnomes or squirrels or little hands - to dispose of the small corpse. Meaning the corpse on the shovel blade, yes? And the bird tossed into the ivy. One of many small victims.

Rian would not be a very good Undertaker. I do not cry at funerals.

Air Currents

There is a mylar balloon floating about in Rian's sun porch. From the screened window to the door to the floor to the ceiling to the window and back again. Wafting in an endless circle, and it never QUITE made it through the door.

Rian stood frozen watching it for quite a long while.

Hands

Rian...



...has a love of hands. Not mine in particular, yes? Although Rian's hands are fine enough. The hands of other creatures. Long, slender, graceful fingers calloused from years of playing guitar. Short, bony knuckled hands, rounded and soft. My grandmother's hands, little more than ligaments in loose flesh, as they tremble in her lap, shadowed by dementia.

Rian also enjoys being touched. A passing nudge. A long stroke. A staggering embrace.

Yesterday evening.......Rian attended a hot tub gathering. Stripping down to bathing clothes in the rather cold evening. One of Rian's companions, a tall, strong creature nicknamed Ham, found the new tattoo'd marks upon Rian's body fascinating.

Not Rian. But the etched lines across my form. He could not keep his fingertips from them. Tracing a curve over and over as Rian sweated in the bubbling water, relaxing beneath the soothing rythm of hands. Then Ham spoke of a place Downtown, where those that wanted certain things could hang from hooks in the ceiling by one's own flesh.

Rian moved away. He is a kind soul. But after that remark Ham's hands reminded Rian of pain.

Today. Today at Studio Rian was lucky enough to earn an adjustment. A different kind of touch, that. A tugging of head and neck muscles, a kneading of shoulder blades. Yoga hands are not particularly calloused. Elizabetta's hands are strong and wiry. And every time she clenches fingertips around the base of Rian's head the world turns white.

Yes. For an invisible creature, Rian is rather obsessed with hands.

Verity

Rian's Kitchen Aloe Vera has jumped from window sil to dish disposal.



If the Vera ministers Rian, who ministers the Vera?

Vague Discomfort

Rian should have been born a ghost.



Hovering about, here and there. Watching. Listening. FEELING.

Never confined to one haunting. Never confined to flesh and bone and blood. There is beauty in invisibility. And an uncommon clean.



Here, I am invisible. And self absorbed. I cannot see you, and so you do not exist.

Today the mailman fell down the steps. Fourteen steps. A bundle of mail.

Poor Jerry. He skinned his lovely knee and lost the mail into the red fronds of Rian's Japanese maple. I ran out to help, yes? Guilty, because the stairs were mine. And he was getting blood on his socks.

Rian crouched to gather missives from the soil and Jerry, dark features screwed up in embarassment or pain, mopped his knee with the sleeve of his jacket. He would not come in for judicious nursing. But Rian sent him away with his somewhat damp burden and a Spiderman Band-Aid.

Tonight Rian shall sit in an old fashioned hot tub with a grump of Bored Intellects and watch the evening freeze.

Orchid

When...



When was the last time ye felt such perfect joy that the very flesh on the back of your neck quivered in response?

Blue Bottles

Rian is a spoilt creature.



I want this. I want that. Things. People. Places. This is only human, yes?

Beauty. Passion. Pleasure. Places. Even people.



Growing wise is learning to put such wants in their places, lock them away? Locked boxes. Would that not be boxing away a part of my Self.

Chai

Dreams are sometimes more brilliant than life.

When Rian was a child, I slept in a room with window seats and glass walls and a tall French door to the North. There was nearly always sunlight, from dawn to dusk, and the sound of the ocean through the open screens. The shadows of giant Torrey Pines falling across cushions and the floor. Twas a lovely place during the daylight hours.

At night, it got very dark, yes? Rian slept in the farthest room from the center of the house, and so the porch lights had winnowed away to nothing by the time they hit Rian's windows. The neighbors seemed very far away, over the fence and across an alley. And the bedroom door was Always Shut.

Most childhood dreams were, in truth, wonderful. Flying across the moon. Hunting treasure in the Amazon. Chasing deer through a yellow forest.

Yet, several times a year, the dark French door loomed in Rian's sleeping mind.

The creature that came through it was tall, stretching, faceless, strong. It would seep through the door from the night, and stand at the foot of Rian's giant bed, and watch. In my sleep I was awake, eyes opening, looking back, unable to move.



When Rian was small, the dream was frightening. As I grow older, it became intimate and beloved.

One morning, perhaps in my twenties, in a room that no longer had a French door, Rian woke in a sweat to the realization that this formless, featureless, unbound nightly visitor was perhaps a dreaming mind's conjuration of my Self. As I had been? Wanted to be? Was?



After that understanding, the decades old French Door dream simply stopped.

Occasionally Rian misses it.

Fete

Once upon a time there was a creature who respected the Dance Steps of Fate and yet continued to Dream of something more.

http://home.comcast.net/~rianseeking/LaTulipe.html

Rian is no longer seeking, but the fete is just now beginning.