For skittledog II

Leo, Under House Arrest.

For skittledog I

Freddie, Free to Roam.

Juice

Rian has one strawberry plant. It lives in a strawberry pot along with a fern and some pansies and a few cradles of moss, yes? It must be in The Perfect Spot, because every year it grows and grows and blossoms and fruits.

Every year Rian watches the handful of berries begin and fatten. Every year Rian thinks: Mine! And every year Rian loses them to the birds, or the squirrels, or the sneaky Leaf Neighbor.

This year - ah, bliss! Rian watches a single berry mature. Every morning on the way out the door, minute glances. Mine! followed by Patience! Tis not yet ripe!

Rian did not truly expect to beat the birds, for they have a Sense of things.

Yet, this morning, before full light, as Rian staggered out in search of the newspaper...

Rian's own Sense went off. Mine!

And it was. Sweet and fat and bursting between Rian's teeth. The taste of Summer enjoyed on a chilling near Fall morning. Perfection in a tiny red offering.

Mine.

Lab Rats

So.

Rian was, last night, once again at the airport baggage claim, once again waiting for a precious package from NW cargo.

The aeroplane was, as usual, an hour or so late. And then, as the baggage handlers are on strike, Rian had another wait of 40 minutes or so before the parcel was unloaded.

Rian spent the hour plus sitting alongside a rep from City Parcel, idly chatting. He was an affable enough fellow, with a very long, very obvious comeover and a crooked smile. We rambled on about the strike, and the people in the airport, and the very sloooow baggage process.

As we waited another creature wandered by.

"Hey, Joe," the creature said. "Here for the Usual?"

"Yep." Combover replied, playing with the pens in his pocket.

"What," Rian demanded, "is the Usual?"

"Guinea pigs." Combover said, "And a coupla crates of lab rats."

Rian found this oddly speech evaporating, and simply stared.

"Every Monday," Combover explained. "Guinea pigs and lab rats. For Holister Stier. Usually four or five crates. But today I've got fifteen."

"Fifteen," Rian said slowly. "Fifteen crates?"

"Yes."

Well, thought Rian. I am an enlightened creature. I know that lab rats are needed. I know that through them scientists discover cures for diseases. Holister Stier, for example, often works in pediatric meds.

Nevertheless....

"Every Monday," Rian repeated. "They must...eh...go through them rather quickly."

"They take really good care of them," Combover insisted. "And only one in twenty would survive in the wild."

Rian took a moment to imagine guinea pigs galloping through wide open plains.

And I decided I would be firm and adult about it, yes? Enlightened, yes. This is the way life works. I would not trade my son's health for one hundred guinea pigs any day.

Then they started bringing the crates out, one by one. Cardboard flats with see through cellophanish windows.

Three piles of flats, each taller than Combover. The guinea pigs were little more than still grey blogs. The white mice, however, ran here and there in their tiny cells, tiny creatures with pink noses.

Rian's throat lumped and I considered the logistics of a mouse break. And then I took my own package and hurried away, leaving the tiny creatures to their fate.

I would not trade my son's health for 500 guinea pigs any day. But sometimes Rian dislikes being enlightened.

Violet

Eb and Flow across the street had a giant purple couch delivered today. In the pelting rain.

Rian pulled hat over hair and long coat about shoulders and, barefoot, went to investigate.

"Nice couch," Rian said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Eb as the delivery men grunted the couch from the back of a truck. "Purple."

"Mmmm," said Eb, doing a very good imitation of Rian.

"Very large," Rian included, knowing well that the interior of Eb and Flow's tiny cottage is cluttered with all things Danish. And rather yellow.

"Grand nephew's coming back," Eb admitted. "For the school year."

This did not explain satisfactorily the Mystery of the Purple Couch. Rian, now cold and wet and defeated, wandered back home.

Foiled. Drat.

Remembered Beauty

http://www.history.org/media/index.cfm

The Fall always makes Rian long to return.

Chicago

Rian is afraid of wind.

Not the gentle breezes that ruffle Fall leaves, but the hurricane bluffs that bring trees across asphalt and shake buildings.

Rian did not know Wind until Rian lived for a handful of years in Virginia. Hurricane edges were regular, there. I remember huddled in the shop basement with fellow employees and grumpy customers, absently counting book spines and listening to the windows rattle above.

Wind is more frightening, to Rian, than the quaking of the Earth. Wind is sneaky. Earthquakes are forthright and businesslike. Wind hisses about, promising violence, sometimes fufilling, and sometimes not.

Rian prefers to face most fears head on. MOST fears.

During the fading edge of a hurricane, Rian stocked out onto Virginia grass to swear at a torn gutter. The wind and rain hurt my flesh. And the gusts ripped the gutter from roof and tossed it at Rian's feet.

I do not miss the Wind.

Edwin

Edwin is Rian's barber and co-conspirator in Self painting.

He is a lovely being, olive skin and wide dark eyes. Ringlets of black silk from crown to neck. Always dressed in black, always laughing. And an ego nearly as big as Rian's and the growing tattoo of a Geisha on his ribs.

In Rian's mind he is a slightly vulgar Raphael.

This morning he shaved his ringlets to stubble and moussed a small mohawk down the center of his skull.

"You," he said, as he played with Rian's piercings. "Need another tattoo."

"Just because you have spent nineteen weeks on yours." Rian scolded, lashes lowered as blondish clumps of hair rained to the floor.

"It gets easier. I fell asleep on the table, last time. Next I'm getting a Japanese warrior on the other side, and a dragon down my spine. I'll be going to Connie forever."

"Hmm." Rian said, "Edwin is addicted either to Connie, or pain. Which is it?"

"Beauty," he replied, and made Rian smile.

Boo!

Rian saw the Grim Reaper today.

Truly.

As Rian was driving down The Hill to the local nursery, Rian passed through a tree lined neighborhood of old houses. Standing in the deep shadows beneath two very thick trees was...

Well. A creature. In a black hooded cloak. Tall. Just standing. Very still. Too shadowed to see face or hands or shoes. Just a still, dark, BLACK cloak.

Rian started. "Yip! Do not stop the car, Rian. Do not stop the car. Curiosity be damned, do not stop the car."

Yet I craned my neck the entire way, peering into the rear view mirror. The Reaper never shifted position.

"Something for early All Hallow's?" Rian argued with Self. "Or a very tall, motionless child dressed as a Sith and waiting for a friend. Yessss....that must be it."

Drat. I am still getting goosebumps. Thank the gods of small oceanic creatures that I did not see signs of a faucet.

Yellow Fruit

Emma and Rian were last night, rather vaguely, discussing obscenity.

As in, what makes something obscene? What IS obscenity? Can the definition be pinned down, or is it entirely subjective?

We were referring to literature, yes? But the puzzle applies to any part of life. What Rian finds obscene bob* may not. What the President finds obscene, Rian may not.

What, in Rian's world, is obscene? Murder. Torture. Excess. Waste. Purposeful dishonesty.

Not, however: Self mutilation. Mockery. Harmless sexual proclivities. Or even the oddest of odd Art.

As for literature, Rian cannot, off the top of my head, put down my finger on any work I have read that I consider obscene. But. Then. Rian vets my reading material rather carefully.

*bob's weekly mention

Dilemma

Rian's publisher has 'gently' suggest Rian attend Cascadia Con. As he will be there at a booth, and apparently it would be handy to have Rian's face about.

Also...Ms. Hobb will be attending the convention. What joy!

But.

Eh.

On scrutinizing the calendar, Rian has a previous commitment that same weekend. The first of two Race for the Cures that Rian has signed up to run, yes? With a team.

'Honour thy father, and thy mother, and thy previous commitments.' Drat.

Quack

Rian took the Other Professor out to feed the ducks.

Twas a lovely nearly Fall day, odd colours glinting in the trees from the shadowy sun. Yellows, greens, the brown of fading annuals.

Rian keeps bread in the back of the refridgerator for duck feeds. Usually my companions are little people. But there is nothing quite as heart opening as the hypnotic toss of bread over hungry beaks.

"Let's have coffee," she said.

"Let's walk to the park and feed the ducks," Rian said. "And if you behave, I'll take you for pumpkin pie."

The ducks were loud and hungry, the reeds nearly waist high in some places. Rian spotted three blue dragonflies and one turtle. We sat on a fake marble bench and tossed hamburger bun at the mallards.

She talked. Nonstop. The kind of low chatter that is a constant request for reassurance. Statements that have a question mark at one end, yes? At one point she grasped Rian's hand and plucked my fingers.

I am fairly good at sitting still and listening. I do not know if listening, in itself, helps.

Afterward we continued on up the cobbled streets to the local bakery and gorged on pumpkin pie. Do not tell Rian's yogini.

Starry Night

http://faculty.concord.edu/rockc/articles/vangogh.html

Waltzing Matilda

Rian's Other Professor telephoned. She wants to come over tomorrow, for a visit.

Rian finds this a ttch odd. Not unusual, but odd. She is more of a 'get together for dinner' creature, yes? Not a 'stop by and let's chat over Poison' variety.

She wants to ask Rian something, perhaps. I wonder what?

Whilst we were camping, she told Rian that her husband is sinking into a black spell. Does she suppose Rian has the answers that will somehow keep her husband afloat? Or does she want a sympathetic ear?

You laugh at Rian's puzzlement, perhaps. But this is out of character for the Other Professor. And her want lately has been tangible. AND it troubles Rian that I cannot quite put my finger on what she needs. I like to give souls what they need, yes?

Hope

Young Black Sheep has gone Home.

He has agreed to live by his parents' rules, select a class at the local community college, and return to his counselor.

Rian is hoping fervently for Success.

Reasons Why

I know that you miss Finny
but I hope this card will make
you feel better.
Bluebells are blue
Tulips are pink
When I see you
You look pink to me.

As dictated by a little person and inscribed by a larger creature.

Possible Truths

"I want the shiny people over here, and the happy people over there."

- D. Leary

Winsome, losesome

Once upon a time there was a girlchild named Beatrice by her parents but called bob by her twelve siblings.

At one she was a pretty baby, at five a precocious kinder whiz, and at sixteen, the bell of the Christmas Angel Ball. By twenty-two she had taken over the world several times, built a rickety water park in her Nana's back yard, and learned how to split Important Particles simply by quirking one brow.

But: alas, alack. For all was not to remain tea and TimTams. As bob's thirtieth birthday approached, the Worm Turned and odd things began to happen after dark at chezBeatrice.

It all began on a Monday, just before midnight, as bob sat before the small glowing box in her eartquake retrofitted American flat, innocently Buffying her nails and slurping lightly Spiked darjeeling.

The knock came once, twice, thrice. bob tossed her file to the floor, paused the boob tube, and peeked out the front window.

Her scream diced atoms and made exotic baryons pause their dance.

Shadow

Young Black Sheep's second Auntie believes that he is on meth.

This breaks Rian's heart. I am not sure that there is any escape at all from that horrible, horrible back water drug.

Meth Town

http://www.spokanepolice.org/meth.htm

Roll On Columbia IV.

Just down the River Dave was serenading this sunset.

Roll On Columbia III.

Prickly Hills.

Roll On Columbia II.

Aidan With Noodle.

Roll On Columbia I.

Desert Beach.

Small Things

Joy

Arrogant Rian has many talents.

I practiced one of them early this afternoon, in the back yard, an hour after the morning fog had burned away.

The sky was blue, so blue. Clear and free of clouds. Pine trees spiraling up and up. Twas almost like staring upsidedown into a bottomless, still sea.

Rian stood on the grass. The soil was soggy and moved beneath Rian's soles, the damp grass stuck between my toes. Just above my head the newly pruned apple tree bobbed in golden sun puddles. There are one or two white blossoms restarting; the tree is confused.

Connected to an orange cord, I bent over the small head between my hands.

ZZzzzZZz. Running the shuddering blades over that perfect skull, watching as small clumps of golden fuzz drifted to the grass. ZZzzzz. Stroking here and there, over a beloved neck and a pink fold of a perfect ear.

"Mum!" Aidan cried from his impromptu barber's chair. "Qwirrel!"

"Yes." Rian smiled, steadying the impatient child. "The squirrels are talking. It is time to collect nuts, they say. Hurry, hurry! Fall is coming."

Overhead the squirrels scolded Rian's impertinence and Rian smiled.

Sometimes life is as perfect as a loved one's small joy.

Bars

The doctors gave Rian's mother's mother an evaluation this morning.

The doctor - we shall call him Dr. Bob - said, among other things, that he has been giving her a 'mental acuity' test once a year ever since she started falling into dementia. A 'normal' human brain apparently scores a 30.

Three years ago Rian's grandmother was a 20. Two years ago, at 10. One week before her heart attack, she was a 4.

Dr. Bob also continued to repeat: "The heart attack should have killed her. She should be dead. She should be dead."

Twas the reiterated 'she should be dead' that made Rian's uncle most furious.

A 4. Her Self is nearly gone, tethered to life by a tenuous thread. Rian imagines a fish on the line or a thread on a nail.

Since her heart attack she must be told to swallow, or she will simply hold food in her mouth.

What makes the body persist so stubbornly against the tide? Or is it those that nurse the body that keeps it from drowning?

Wednesday's Possible Truths

"Then all the colors will bleed into one...Bleed into one..."

- Paul Hewson et al.

Swish

Tis raining, today. A lovely thing in itself, but not the point of Rian's post.

Winshieldwipers. Wiper blades. Swish swish.

Have ye often come upon a moment behind the wheel, in the rain, at a stop light, when ye glance forward into the car parked ahead and realize that their wipers are exactly, exactly in sink with your own?

Swish Swish. Exactness does not happen often. Close, yes. A twinning rhythm, yes. But walking exactly in the same step? Perhaps twice in Rian's driving career.

Early this morning it Happened. Rian watched and waited for a break in the matched set, but it never came. Rian's car and one other, perfectly aligned. What must it take to make it so?

Swish...swish...wish...

Confession

Rian is beginning to believe that a good half of my life is built around battle with Self.

I dearly, dearly want an unhealthy snack - chocolate! Salt! Flour! Pizza? - but shall not allow that weakness to flower.

Prove to my Self a point, a point. Rian is always correct, and Rian is always in control.

Missing

There is a sign posted on a tree along the street on the way to Rian's morning appointment:

Stolen: My 2 cats. One brown, one white and black.
Taken by a blond woman in a green sedan.
Reward: 50 dollars

Rian has been puzzling over this sign for the last two days. It is a sad thing, of course. The animals are obviously loved and missed.

But. Is it not also an ODD thing? What manner of creature drives by and picks up two cats? Were the cats placidly sitting next to each other on the sidewalk? Was there no chase? No fear?

And, as apparently the woman was seen...why did nobody at least ask, "Ma'am? You've left the engine running. And...I do believe those cats belong to Joe?"

Eight

http://www.ashtanga.com/html/background.html

Amusement

"I read other blogs to see whether I get a mention." - bob

Keppet, my love. Rian adored the Last Episode. Fighting dragons, indeed.

And, oh yes. The weather is perfect here tonight. A ttch on the chilly side, Fall scented in the air. But warm enough for open windows and ice cream.

If, of course, Rian were eating any sugar but Mater's.

Keys

Rian dreampt about a heavy silver key. Weighty, yet small and burnished smooth, often used, old fashioned and very similar to the real life key that fits with a protest into Rian's pocket doors.

Rian's dream key fit smoothly into an ornate lock on an unremarkable door.

I stood, expectant, but could not make my hand turn to snick the key.

I do not remember being particularly upset about this developement, or frustrated. I only remember staring hard at the hand that would not turn the key and waiting.

How cliche. But I do suppose there are some things in life that should never be released.

I woke with a riddle in my head: If a secret part of your Self is never revealed, at death does it become unTrue?

Throwing Rocks

Rian spent much of the afternoon at The Lake. Dragging children on 'noodles' through the water. At one point stroking sloppily out through the clear swells in search of a dropped sail boat rudder. Collecting stones. And, for a very short, very precious period of time, sitting still in the sun with eyes closed.

Young Black Sheep has made the family plot of land on The Lake his temporary home. There are three cabins, two of them over 100 years old and mostly run down. The other is more inhabitable.

Young Black Sheep is staying in one of the older buildings. He has no car, so he must spend his days stewing beneath the pines.

When Rian arrived this afternoon, Rian found Young Black Sheep's father standing still and wilted in the middle of the modern cabin.

"I'm going home." The man said, "He's uncontrollable. He's physically and verbally abusive to us and he's been throwing rocks at the Audi."

He looked near tears. Rian wanted to hold him close.

"There is nothing to do," he said. "He's clinically depressed. Nothing to do but wait until he is ready for help."

Waiting is the hardest part.

Loon Lake, WA

Lazy afternoon.

PG-13

Someone Else has a horrible fear of coitus interruptus. I do not know what scarring thing happened to the poor creature in a past life, but the fear goes deep and has always been there.

The Venue of Choice must always be thoroughly vetted for cats; the felines chased firmly away. The door must be closed...nay! not simply closed, but barred with a piece of furniture, lest a small person rise from a deep sleep, grandma suddenly springs through the front door, or aliens invade.

Rian, being Rian, finds this quirk an amusing personal challenge: "Come, my heart. Surely we might christen the servants' stairs this afternoon!"

But that is a story for another day, yes?

This morning, we were alone in the house, Aidan off with a sleep-over for his visiting cousins. The cats deeply asleep somewhere else. The sun barely spreading over the windows sils. There was no need to vet for felines or block the bedroom door with a heavy leather chair. No need for bitten pillows or muffled amusement.

Rian and Someone Else were quite well on the way to ReAquaintance when the telephone rang.

"Ignore it, love." Rian said, snickering into an elbow.

So. We did. Only.

It rang again. And again.

We are, often, good parents. Three calls one immediatly after another means the babysitter. Or an alien invasion.

"Yes, mom." Someone Else said into the telephone, thoroughly disgruntled. "I'll come and get him right away."

Rian, satisfactorily stroked, laughed the entire way down the hall and through a hot shower.

Someone Else spent the morning sulking. No wonder the poor creature is scarred.

Habits

Rian&Co. spent yesterday night at an aquaintance's house, drinking rhubarb wine over salmon cakes and watching her three schnausers chase mice in the back garden.

After the sun set we meandered downstairs through a veritable bevy of sea themed decorations and curled in a bundle of dog and human before her lover's big screen television. The choice of the night was Million Dollar Baby.

Rian rather enjoyed the movie, despite the violence - Rian cannot stand boxing. Two souls struggling to find something more is always engrossing. But the ending. Ah, the ending! Terribly heart breaking.

Sometimes, at odd moments, I find my Self distanced from life, as though suddenly disconnected. A ghost looking down on upon a living snapshot.

Down upon the tangle of breathing creatures before the television. In the dark. The dogs snoring and the small sounds of stifled weeping or held breath.

And Rian, sitting still before my Self on the couch, eyes dry, heart aching, still but for the twitch of one hand against the thumb of the other. Twist, twist, twisting the thick ring that lives there.

"Ah!" Said the disconnect Ghost self. "Rian has developed a new nervous habit. Will it stick?"

Sideshow

Rian's Other Professor phoned this evening. She wants Rian's tattoo, but on her own ankle.

This would be simple enough. Rian knows a clean place, a talented artist, and I do not mind if she wants to use the design that adorns my own skin. As I have said before, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

There is, however, one hitch. The Other Professor's husband must first 'vet' the design. Which means Rian is to drop by tomorrow afternoon for a...for a what?...a test spin? An unveiling of intent?

Will hors devours be served?

...Rian adores my Other Professor. I have a very tender spot for her. But she is also, yes, a curiosity. For as long as I have known her...it will be, what? nearly six years now...she has looked at Rian with eyes that are wanting? waiting for? something.

And I cannot figure out what.

Shower

The rain came down all at once this afternoon, accompanied step to step by an angry wind.

Rian, shaken by bursts of small hysterics, chased first Aidan's swim trunks through the back yard, and then the neighbor's empty trash can through the front.

There was no thunder, no lightening. The world was mostly silent except for the hiss of the wind through old sycamores and the smack of rain across concrete.

By the time the neighbor's waste bin had been corralled against Rian's Billious Juniper, I was soaked through and still humming with delight.

I sat on the porch for a ttch, dripping, and watched hydrangea leaves bend beneath the weight of the storm's influence.

Rian can understand why, sometimes, angry or emotional creatures are compared to storms.

Finished Off B.

Finished Off A.

Paint

Rian is actually, despite BLEAK, in a fine mood today.

Aidan and Rian painted the last of the bathroom trim. Or rather, Rian painted the trim and Aidan painted the bathroom door which Rian plans to remove and replace before winter.

Rian painted neatly. Aidan slopped white paint over the stiff blue carpet, which Rian also plans to remove.

There was no worry about smears or damage. There was only the joy of watching a child feel he is a GrownUp Helper and a Master Paintsman.

Just as the kitten, watching us from beneath the battered playroom couch - also replaceable - felt we was a Master Hunter and King of the Jungle.

Rian's days are often about the small joys, yes?

Bleak

Have ye ever had your heart discarded?

Ye watch as it is tossed away - a slow motion arc - and ye know that it is going to HURT when the organ lands. If you are a creature like Rian, who loves often and deeply, by adulthood you know your flaws and are experienced in brokenheartedness.

You know how to accept dismissal with dignity. You learn how to move on. Sometimes you wish for boiling anger or burning hatred, but in truth the wound developes as a thin skin of ice over a deep void.

Time passes and the ice thickens and eventually Rian stops mourning. But those voids remain, craters in the Self, and you can name each and every one of them, from the little girl in preschool who held Rian's hand all day for months, and then abruptly gave Rian up for a shiny new boy with black eyes to the first college crush to the very latest overwhelming loss.

Life, yes? It is just life.

...last night Rian dreampt that I was torn apart by a cluster of vampires, and in their teeth and nails I found bliss. Simply because I knew they loved me, and would remember Rian when I was gone.

Wednesday's Possible Truth

"Color is my daylong obsession, joy, and torment."

- Monet

For Mater's Entertainment

Something Wonderful:

Rian has, in the back yard, roughly....oh, ten? eight? hyndrangea of a particular variety. They are mopheads, yes? And Endless Summer, which means they will bloom on new growth as well as old. So they will bloom throughout the spring and summer, yes, if one deadheads?

This evening, as the sun began to go down, Rian decided to spend a ttch of time on gardening. A small chore, Rian thought. Deadheading the hydrangeas. The plants were wilting, Rian turned a low sprinkler apon them, and then decided it was hot enough to deadhead IN the sprinkler.

So, Rian stood in the falling droplets, snipping soft, drying globes from their stems. Most of the blossoms are blue. A few, those that did not get quite enough supplement, are purplish. One, which Rian apparently missed altogether, is pink.

I worked for ten or fifteen minutes. By the time I was finished, Rian had a huge pile of hydrangea blossoms on the grass. They are soft, even whilst drying. And as I had purposely dropped them one on top of another on the grass, they looked as though nature had arranged a floral centerpiece beneath Rian's pear tree.

I crouched in the grass, running fingers through shaded globes, admiring, the sprinkler hissing softly at my back, sending false rain into the hot air.

Something Amusing:

Rian and the new kitten in my Abode, Freddie, are having Obsessive Compulsive wars. Rian is, of course, perfect. But a ttch...just a ttch, yes?...OC. And apparently Freddie is as well.

Freddie's food and water bowls are neatly arranged on - for the moment - a blue dish towel at one end of Rian's kitchen. Freddie is a pig, but a thrifty pig. Whenever he finishes or wanders past the dish towel and realizes that there is food left in the bowl, he carefully 'covers' it for 'later'. For all intents and purposes, this means the kitten scrapes up the dish towel carefully about the bowl, trying to bury it. And, Rian must point out, ruffling the dish towel quite off center.

Freddie covers. Rian, with one toe, perfectly straightens the dish towel and bowls. Freddie trots past a few minutes later, and covers. Rian wanders past half an hour or so along, and straightens.

Freddie covers. Rian straightens. And so life goes on.

Something Odd:

There is a noose in Rian's back stair well. The stairwell itself is narrow and sharp. Once used for servants or maids, yes? Two stories tall. No room for a ladder. If Rian ever wants to free the well from their lemon bright paint colour - which, by chance, drives Rian mad - Rian shall have to rent scaffolding.

There is one window waaaaay up high, thirty or forty feet up. And attached to the molding by the window there is a pulley and a very thick rope. The rope runs from the pulley to the ceiling, yes? And then falls a graceful six feet into a carefully tied noose. Just as one would see over a branch in an Old West Movie.

I imagine the noose once, perhaps, held a plant. But then again, it may indeed have been used for offing laggardly maids.

Begin Again

http://www.cdakomen.org/

Orange and Green

Mottled Shades.

Morphine

They have managed an angiogram on Rian's mother's mother.

Apparently she has two completely blocked vessels and one partially blocked.

Because of her age and her mental capacities, they shall not attempt anything further, other than easing fluid from her lungs.

The doctors claim there is roughly a 50-50 chance that she will last the next week to go home, and then, at home, they will try to make her comfortable.

'Make her comfortable' is a phrase Rian often heard in the last pieces of my mother's life. How I hate that phrase! It is the loss of all hope. The giving up and the letting go.

I should not be terribly broken up. She has had a long and eventful life, she is apparently not frightened, enjoying cartoons on the hospital television. She is not aware of pain or fear.

I think...I think, in Rian's mind, she is the last bit of my mother left. I am much more my father's child than my mother's. So, also, is my brother.

It sounds foolish, I know. But in watching my grandmother fade, it is like saying goodbye to the last shadow of my mother.

You Can Never Go Down The Drain

There was a green moth in Rian's bathroom sink this morning.

Not a moth, truly. But I do not know what else to call it. Shaped generally like a moth, the size of half of Rian's thumb, but with segmented wings, like a dragonfly, yes?

It was green, in its entirety. The colour of a lime skin, but so fragile. It had died pressed flat against the white of Rian's porcelain bowl, inches above the drain, perfectly displayed like a butterfly against felt. The creature's wings were semi-transparent, miniscule veins of green forging small roads across the tissue.

Rian stood still, early morning, toothbrush stuck in mouth, and glotzed. Had it been born green? Or had something stained it in the throws of death? The scrolling on its wings held Rian frozen.

Twas the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time. Rian spat toothpaste in the toilet bowl to keep from washing nature's perfection away. And finished ablutions in the kitchen sink.

Then came home from class hours later and washed it resolutely down the drain. Time cannot stop for heart foolish fancy and rarely do precious things last forever.

Pathological?

http://www.lcmedia.com/mind262.htm

Now, in the bread aisle, Rian is being told that it was a large heart attack, damaging both front and back heart. My uncle will not allow heart surgery. There is nothing to be done so they will not move her.

-------------------------------------------------------
This message was sent from a T-Mobile wireless phone.

Apparently Rian's mother's mother last night had a heart attack. A small one, the Ojai doctors think, but they will transfer her into Ventura to be sure.
Having just now heard, Rian is sitting in the market lot fretting a ttch. She is very far gone in dementia, and how frightening this must be for a soul who spends her days playing petting hamsters on the back porch. A child lost amongst the machines and strangers.

-------------------------------------------------------
This message was sent from a T-Mobile wireless phone.

Cous Cous

Rian had raw tuna and cous cous for dinner last night. Over the churning river, the falls spreading far below into white foam.

Raw tuna in a curry sauce. Champagne before and after and creme brulee for dessert.

The tuna was quite wonderful, the cous cous heaven. And the creme brulee worth any punishment after.

Rian commited a Cardinal Sin and stole two forkfuls of garlic mashed potatoes from Someone Else's plate.

There was a man, two tables down, reading the paper and ignoring his date. I wondered what sort of creature could dismiss company and the beauty of the river for black and white opinions. And then I wondered what he might be reading that so absorbed.

Too Much Fruit Fly

Rian dreampt last night of alien bees. Wasps, perhaps. Alien creatures that took the form of wasps. They lived in the chest of human hosts, yes? And chased Rian plus a childhood friend around and around through the halls of an endless church. If one spread low across the floor, covering eyes and ears and nose and mouth, one might escape their attack.

In the dream Rian feared nothing more than that one of the tiny buzzing creatures would burrow in through an eye or ear or nose.

Toward the very end Rian escaped the linoleumed church hallways into the night and there was swamp land all around. Tall reeds waving beneath a full moon. A an ivied slope to scramble down and a pond with fireflies to ford. A lovely white cottage with roses twining across a gazebo and bridge. And a small dark haired woman in a white dress waiting amongst the roses.

She was very kind but something about her frightened Rian. The moon grew higher and brighter and Rian crawled down to hide in the mud under the arching bridge. Through a crack in the planks Rian could see the woman shed her dress and pull apart her ribs and out swarmed hoards of bees.

I covered my eyes and ears and buried mouth and nose in the mud, but I knew that this time I was lost. As I felt tiny legs across the back of my neck, I woke.

Chive 

Friday's Reasons Why

Feline and Child with Peanut Butter, Climbing.

Reaching

Even early this morning, twas very very hot in Studio. In fact, there were only three of us brave enough to spread our mats across the bamboo floor. The room is not airconditioned, of course, as heat is one of the central requirements. Warm muscles stretch.

The walls are thick, so Rian imagines it was cooler iniside than outside. Nevertheless, after several minutes of bending and jumping the air became heavy.

"Today," Rian's yogini said. "We are going to practice holding our breath between each position. This will increase lung capacity as well as give you a nice natural head rush."

"Oh, wonder!" Murmured Rian to Rian's shin. "Today we will get high in the heat."

By the time Rian had done ten repititions, I'd lost up from down. The body keeps going, yes? It knows the order of things. But the head is indeed rushing, the eyes blind, the world flecked grey. I could hear the shrill bells on the stereo, but very little else other than the sea between my ears. Not even the pounding of my heart.

Rian wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

Also, Rian wonders if there will be time to purchase more green paint before tomorrow.

Kites

They have locked Young Black Sheep out of the house, today. Changed all the locks, taken back his car, sent him out into the world with his choices. As he is over eighteen, they say, there is nothing else that can be done.

Where will he go? And how did they find the strength to do it?

Sometimes I wonder what possesses one to become a parent.

And then Rian remembers that life comes with no guarantees no matter where one stands in time or place.

Approachable

Last night Rian had dinner with the birds and the bees beneath a trailing arch of pink roses.

Twas quite nice, truly. The weather was perfect and the company, fine. The food a ttch mediocre.

Young Black Sheep's father attended. He is also known, in Rian's head, as Uncle Hands. He is an affable fellow who appreciates the female form loudly, and prefers to touch it as well, whenever possible. When Rian first met him, I found his lewd appraisal rather discomfitting. Now I have decided that it is rather harmless, although it does continue to make Rian's teeth grit.

Tis rather like having a fifteen year old boy for an Uncle. Yes, exactly like.

Young Black Sheep was carefully not mentioned. Rian does know, from 'inter office gossip', that the boy has been recently fired from his latest job. Apparently he was at least three hours late, daily. And no creature knows where he was off to during that time. This, in Rian's opinion, is not the simple action of a boy who smokes too much pot. He is becoming spiteful and violent. I am beginning to think there is a deeper problem.

So. Dinner. Was lovely. The garden was full of roses and hosta and hydrangea and ornamental grass and succulents and twists and turns and hidden bird baths and shady chairs and a plaster imp's mask hanging on a wall in the sunshine.

We stayed late, sampling wine. Rian studiously ignored the icecream and gorged upon olives and tomatoes instead.

I am tired, yet continue to catch the phantom scent of pink roses.

Digging

Keppet wants Rian to open the blog to replies. Comments? Not replies, comments.

Because Keppet generally deserves what she wants, Rian shall think it over.

Tis an uncomfortable feeling. Rather like the odd difference between SUSPECTING one's parents are searching one's room on a daily basis and DISCOVERING one's father sitting on the floor of one's room rifling through paper back books in pursuit of banned material.

Despite the old cliche, Rian generally finds the known more frightening than the unknown.

More Possible Truths

"They told you life is hard
It's misery from the start
It's dull and slow and painful

I tell you life is sweet
In spite of the misery
There's so much more
Be grateful"

- Merchant

Etiquette

Apparently this is the week for Rian and swimming pools to become one.

After class this morning, Aidan and I drove across town to the Fancy Golf Club, which also has an Exclusive Pool. Rian does not generally venture into countryclubville. It is a ttch too far and the natives are a ttch too judgemental and there are public pools within walking distance.

But, Rian was curious. And the pool is, indeed, lovely. Sunny lounges, clean water, tidy locker rooms and a snack bar waitress that brings one whatever one's heart so desires.

Aidan and Rian swam in the sun. Drank gallons of water. And then decided to avoid the snack bar and attempt the club restaurant instead.

It was, of course, frequented by golfers in various states of dress and heat stroke. Children must eat in the 'lounge' so as not to disturb the 'regulars'. The 'regulars' have white table cloths and linen. Rian and Aidan had hot dogs and french fries and green paper napkins.

Whilst Aidan dissected his dogdog with a fork, Rian eyed the regulars. Most had grey hair and wore ugly socks. One woman, oddly enough, wore a tennis skirt and a diamond necklace.

There is no tennis court in countryclubville, and a diamond necklace should only be worn after dark. So Rian found this particular creature quite interesting.

She was loud, perhaps a ttch drunk, and very happy. She made Rian smile. Until I began to notice that she had not a trace of manners to her. She bossed the wait staff around, never once bothering with a please or thank you. She knocked a glass of water on her companion, and did not bother to apologize.

"Aidan," Rian murmured quietly, "take your foot off of the table."

If there is one thing arrogant Rian cannot stand, it is people who know their manners but do not bother to use them. I am not thinking of salad fork versus dessert fork. Or the correct way to employ a butter knife, yes?

Every adult, surely, should know that one makes a point of saying thank you for a kind word or a thoughtful gift. Or please when making a request.

I have, I suppose, a very bad habit of noticing who uses their manners and who does not. Which makes Rian, perhaps, as judgemental as those I profess to avoid and as lacking as those who have forgotten etiquette.

Pools

Rian spent most of yesterday afternoon swimming in a friend's backyard pool. Twas an Adventure of multiple discoveries.

First. Apparently one can 'wallpaper' a pool. Not true wallpaper, no, but some sort of vinyl or plastic cover. To soften the concrete walls and decorate the floor with any particular colour or design one would like. This gives the pool not only an odd geometric dimension, but also the illusion that the walls are flexible because as one swims up agains the side, the 'wallpaper' flexes against one's skin. Rian found this rather disconcerting, especially as the evening wore on and drinks were served.

If one is drifting about in H2O, does one want to feel that the walls are as unsubstantial as the water beneath ye?

The floor was also 'wallpapered', in a very tiny spray of blue and white squares. Hypnotising. At one point Rian, floating in the deep in, happened to glance down and spot a small white drain circle in the center of these squares. Looking down, the circle and square seemed to spiral away and on.

"This is dangerous." Rian thought, idly sinking down. "This pattern could snatch one away just like that."

As the sun set and the guests became restless, the host and hostess rolled out the motorized pool cover. Mr. Host happened to brag that the pool cover manufacturers claimed it could support twenty people.

So, of course, in a mass rush of doubt and delight we tried it out. It held at least six adults, Rian cavorting in the very middle. The waves of silver churned out and out until they hit the flexible edges of the pool and then bounced back again.

Walking on the ocean and nothing felt particularly real after that.