Fading

The doctors' latest is that Rian's mother's mother not only no longer remembers how to swallow, but her digestive system no longer remembers how to digest. Rian did not know such a thing was even possible. But I do not think the body could be much clearer in its wishes.

Reasons Why

Rain on the Sycamores

Homilies and Dogs

Upon wandering the net, digging to see if the church has Cat Scratch Insurance, Rian found this:

http://praxis.bainbooks.com/2004/10/homily-october-5-2003-blessing-of.html

Gesundheit

Rian has been invited to a Pentecostal Sunday's Blessing of the Animals this weekend.

Rian and Aidan shall, of course, attend. As Rian is unable to refuse any promise of Adventure. And Aidan shall want to croon 'Woof' at every wagging tail. Last year, apparently, there were three goats and a horse, along with various house pets and a loudly cursing parrot.

Rian has considered adding a personal feline to the menagerie, but I am a ttch fearful that I shall end up chasing the creature up and over the alter and around the skirt of the pastor.

"Holy Cats, Batman."

Three Tree

Rian ran....Rian ran....Rian ran...Rolls off the tongue, yes?

Eh. Rian ran out and purchased three more dwarf spruce to match the Banker's Tree.

They will be Perfect. If they do not grow too much more.

I fear I will have to take up Backyard Bonsai. Rian shall be out in the snow drifts with a pair of tiny scissors fingering mantra beads and snipping spruce. The neighbors will telephone Spokane Mental Health and there will be a horrible scene as I am dragged off waving fists and crying, "Do not let them grow!"

Aidan will be scarred for life and forever more be terrified of tall trees.

....hmmm.

Perhaps Rian ought to return the spruces.

For Mater

A better picture. Rian has removed one wall of siding. Lathe and plaster peeking through on the very left corner.

Fate Laughs

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4274994.stm

Curiosity killed...

'Tea Room' remodeling begun. Just a peek behind the paneling. And DRAT, there are two levels of dry wall. Rian is Doubtful but Brave.

Tree Family

Rian has adopted a dwarf fir tree. The Retired Banker was given it as an office parting gift, with the wry suggestion that: "Since he used up so many mountains of paper in 35 years, plant a tree." (This makes Rian think of Unbearably Beautiful.)

The Retired Banker, unfortunately, does not believe in gardening. Most of his yard is rocked over. The bushes he does have - and there are not many - were properly placed by a landscape company. There is no room for one more.

He was going to take it out and plant it at The Lake, but Rian snatched it up. And spent the morning placing it here and there. Finally Rian decided on the Perfect Home. The ttchy hitch, however, is that....to make a full impression...the fir needs roughly three siblings.

Ah, well. Such is life. Families are meant to be grown.

Balloons in the Morning 

Bits of Crowd 

Racing About The Lake

New Friends 

Monsters in the Closet

Rian had a good friend in Williamsburg - a good friend, who, after a particularly harrowing testicle loss story shall be forever in Rian's mine known as Poor Peter - who grew up in a rather large family. When Rian knew Poor Peter, he was an adult, and living on his own, but nearby said family, as they needed both his help and monetary support.

Peter's younger brother was born mentally handicapped. Rian does not think with Downs', and perhaps not with anything particular other than a few missing chromosomes. Chris was not the gentle creature one often runs into at a Special Olympics benefit. When Rian lived in Williamsburg, Chris was 18, struggling through puberty, and growing very large.

The family could not control him. He would hit his mother when angry, and attack his father. Poor Peter was the only creature on earth who could - quite literally - press some sense into the child.

One Thanksgiving....it must have been 1995 or 1996...Peter's father and Peter's brother had a raging argument over the turkey. Chris stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. Peter's father stood up from the table, stormed after, and dropped dead of a heart attack on the bathroom floor.

Rian often, still, thinks of the poor manchild who did not have the skills needed to control his anger, nor truly, perhaps, to understand the hurt he engendered. And what would such a trauma do the struggling mind beyond the teenager's gangly body? He will live with half understanding forever.

I think of Chris when I am angry. It is a much more extreme version of that old mothers' warning, "Never go to bed angry, there are monsters in the closet..."

It is true. Life does not give us endless time to sulk or swear. We cannot say, "I will forgive next week", because next week may not come.

Sheepish

Rian attended a family dinner last night; a small party for a retiring banker.

Twas held at his home, a cold, stark place of entirely too much matching Danish Modern and absolutely nothing on the walls.

Young Black Sheep was invited, and every adult held collective breath to see if he would show. He did. Three hours late, far after dinner was served, togged in the usual young adult weekend attire of ripped bermudas and a Tshirt stamped with Snoopy.

He did not speak. He served up. The hostess found for him an extra chair.

His aunt asked him about life. "What have you been up to?"

"I'm taking two college classes," he answered, without lifting eyes from his loaded plate.

"On what?" Another piped in.

"Photography," he said.

And that was all. He lifted his eyes from the table only once, when canola oil as fuel was discussed, and the growing of deisel. Other than that, he did not appear to notice one person about the table, especially not his parents.

Rian wonders what he was thinking. Was he afraid? Embarrassed? Indifferent? Annoyed?

Or simply hungry?

Possible Truths

"Wake me up when September ends."

- Armstrong et al

Skunk Screen

Every blog needs one, yes?

Frost

Rian was once a Perfect child and a Perfect young adult. I think perhaps I have said before that Young Rian was convinced that if I was Good, God or the Devil or some Higher Power in between would not take my terminally ill mother away.

Every Thing Rian did, Rian did to please Rian's parents. From the private school grades to the college attended to the proper clothing, the perfect etiquette...to other, more dangerous things. Rian gave up both Friends and Wants at my father or mother's word.

I was playing a game with God, one supposes. Always a bad idea. Does one ever beat the Devil or Genetics at its own game?

The point I am coming around to, yes? Is that when Rian goes home or home comes to visit Rian, even though the game is no longer played, the habit remains.

I paused over the skunk screen yesterday, thinking "I am once again an empty Shell with Rian washed away. And I am happy enough to be empty."

We build foundations when we are young, and if we are lucky we learn to move on, build up upon those foundations. One should never stay stuck in the basement.

Rian has built a tower in late adulthood. I can see the sky from my dizzy Self. I suppse when the elevator stops working, one must again climb the stairs to freedom.

Bob Villa

Rian is, I think, both physically and mentally exhausted. It is a lovely thing to have a friendly parent. A warming thing.

Rian's father shows love with his hands. Builds things, fixes things, cleans things. And Rian, of course, because of either pride or a similar need to communicate love, worked at his side.

Together, we....eh....chased away a skunk from underneath Rian's porch with a giant spotlight. Built and painted a screen to keep the parade of skunks out. Recovered the kitchen chairs with - to Rian's elitist mind - very ugly but very toddler friendly naugahyde. Patched the equally ugly kitchen linoleum. Repaired the basement door. And...eh...cooked some.

This, to Rian, is nearly Too Much. But the Abode will be happy for the work. And Rian's father will go home feeling content.

Childish

Rian does not have anything of interest to blog tonight, and yet hear Rian is, champagne clutched in one hand, white fire burning on the other, keyboard stretching beneath autonomous fingers.

I am, perhaps, too much a creature of habit.

Sometimes I wish to learn knew tricks. Rian would like to learn how to be nasty and cruel. I should like to become a friend of hatred and venegenance. I should like to give mySelf leave to say something cutting and cruel and childish to one who does, no doubt, not truly deserve it.

The diamond on Rian's hand is older than Rian's ancient house. Mine cut, sheathed in tiny wheat sheeves of white gold. It is lovely, coldly beautiful, yet imbued with fire and history and arrogance.

Tomorrow it shall go to the bank, and in all honesty Rian does not love it, but tonight I am enjoying the flash and sparkle set high above one knuckle.

That appreciation, too, musts be childish.

Chilling Effect

http://www.hfac.uh.edu/comm/media_libel/libel/definition.html

Early this morning Rian attended a lecture by the librarian of Gonzaga University.

She was lecturing on the dangers of the Patriot Act.

Specifically, the dangers to libraries. And how librarians are going about trying to protect the individual's privacy.

Did ye know, for instance, the FBI can stalk into any library and demand any individual's past library records. And along with this arrogance goes a gag order...the library effected is not allowed to speak about the investigation, even to the individual investigated.

The Gonzaga Librarian spoke about how libraries across the country are destroying as many paper records as possible.

She spoke about a Seattle public librarian who began his staff meetings every week with the words: "The FBI did not visit this library this week." Until one week he started the meeting without those words.

"Did you forget something?" His staff asked.

"No." The librarian said.

"Are you sure?" The staff fretted.

"I forgot nothing." The librarian replied.

Imagine that. We are reduced to speaking in code in order to protect our privacy.

Gothic Green

The Yard Sale was rained upon. Rian stood shivering in a parka and grinning a rictus at the customers. And they did come, oh yes, despite the rain and the wind. 300 dollars was made. I do not know if this is good for a Yard Sale or not, as Rian is Yard Sale ignorant.

The most interesting creature to wander by was a willow thing Goth with bright green hair and a very pregnant belly. She could not have been more than seventeen, although she looked fourteen. She was being shepherded about by her mother, a squat and wrinkled woman who seemed ruthlessly cheerful.

They dug through a pile of baby items, spreading the clothing over the wet tables.

Rian noted the heavy studs in the Goth's ears, and the metal fang through her ear, and the non judicious use of thick black eye smudges. And Rian worshipped the grass green dye in her shorn hair.

Rian also noted the way she paused occasionally to look wistfully at a wild rain covered Aidan, or to run a gentle hand across the curve of her stomach.

I wonder, I do, I wonder what her life will hold?

An apple a day...

Stand upright, feet roughly thirty inches apart, toes duck footed out, yes?

No hunching. Make sure your shoulders are straight over your hips, spine straight.

Put your hands on your hips, thumbs pressing into your lower back, hard, one either side of your spine.

Inhale. Whilst inhaling, arch backwards, a mini backbend, hands firm against your hips and thumbs digging into flesh.

Exhale. Whilst exhaling, bend forward, all the way down, looking, not at the floor, but between splayed legs.

Inhale and come all the way back up and over, hands still hard as rock.

Repeat three or five times.

Do ye not feel the blood living in your veins?

Fever Dreams

Perhaps the thing Rian hates most about being ill are the Fever Dreams.

They are not brighter than Rian's usual night time adventures, nor lengthier, nor more frightening. Nor, even, are they more real.

But they tend to bring up such odd trash from Rian's subconscious.

Junk

Rian has been casually wheedled into 'helping out' at a friend's Saturday Morning Neighborhood Yard Sale.

This, in Rian's world, is a horror. Not only are Yard Sales EARLY endevours - as in hoardes of grumpy creatures picking through still unlabeled 'treasures' before sunrise - but Rian has been raised to grow bumpy and itchy at the thought of garage sales in general.

"The things aren't washed," Rian's mother used to say. "It is all junk."

Now. Before ye toss rotten bananas and call Rian a Horrible Elitest let me remind ye that A) Rian has always admitted to a Spoilt and Shallow state of grace and yet B) Rian is open minded.

Since moving to Spokaloo, Rian has bravely packed itching cream and gone on Yard Saling Adventures with several wisely penny pinching cohorts. Rian spent one entire summer stoically trailing after a very pregnant and very grumpy relative, hauling her 'finds'.

And if Rian learned anything, it is this: Spokaloo Yard Sale Paraphanelia never truly disappears, it simply moves from one sale to another down the street.

"Is not that the purple elephant vase we saw last week on Garland?" Rian would ask, blinking at the prominently displayed horror.

"Yes," Rian's overheated friend would reply.

"And on Regal, a week ago before that? And surely it is the same we glotzed one month ago, in Hillyard, for there cannot be TWO such beauties in this world..."

"Shut up, Rian."

I expect to glimpse the purple elephant vase Saturday morning as the sun rises over ravening hoards of board Spokanites. Ye gods of little fishes help me.

Waltz

The Beautiful Painter and Rian worked across the wood plank floors from each other today in the Studio.

Yogini had music on, something slow and drifting. Enya, perhaps. The Studio was cold, as the heater has broken, so the only warmth we made was our own and as it was a ttch below the required 85 we were slow.

Practice was a dance, tonight, rather than a battle. Slow and langorous.

And as we worked, the Painter and Rian, facing each other, looking at each other and through each other to our own Selves, we fell into synch, as bodies in motion are want to do. Twist, bow, jump, pause, stretch, look through each other again and at each other again.

It was Perfect. A waltz without touching.

If Rian had been a less honourable and prideful creature, I might have melted at his feet.

Possible Truths

"Nothing can be truer than fairy wisdom. It is as true as sunbeams."

- Douglas Jerrold

Lost

Innocence. Feline. Love. Income. Home. Health. Heart. Youth. City. Trust.

Life is change. We can wail and curse but we cannot battle Fate.

Yet, still, even in maturity, do we begin to blame the Lost treasure for abandoning our Selves?

Prologue or Epilogue

Rian&Co. spent the day at The Fair, wherein we experienced lamb couture, sugared elephant ears, deaf clowns, weary fortune tellers, corn on a stick, and geriatrics pissing in the parking lot.

In between, there was Wee Western Colonial Adventure.

WWCA XII

Farm Boy, Reprised.

WWCA XI

Age Dwarfed.

WWCA X

Hot Air.

WWCA IX

Rare Animals., Sideways.

WWCA VIII

A Carnie's Life For Rian

WWCA VII

Clown Listening and Rian's Finger

WWCA VI

Lamb Couture.

WWCA V

Sleeping Highland Cow in Spokaloo.

WWCA IV

Kiss me, you Fool.

WWCA III

Again, for Narrisch.

WWCA II

Gourding.

Wee Western Colonial Adventures I

Farm Boy.

Possible Truths

"Curiosity is one of the most permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous intellect."

- Samuel Johnson

Sought and Found

Rian's Yogini has - just very recently - found her father. Elizabeth, who also hangs in canvas on Rian's wall, is in her latish twenties. A lovely creature all of muscle and sinew and dark eyes and sun washed flesh.

She grew up in Italy. She says until a few days ago, she thought her heart resided in Verbena. For over a decade she has been longing to return. Scrimping and saving until, finally this summer, she purchased the time and aeroplane ticket.

She was supposed to leave for Italy on Monday, yes?

She met her father for the first time two weeks ago. And she has cancelled her trip to Verbena, "Put the ticket in a back pocket."

Because, she says, she has finally learned that: "Home is not a place. It is not the building or the landscape or even the physical. It is here, in my heart, and I have found peace."

I hope the man is worthy of his child.

Feathers

Last night Rian treampt of the tattoo parlor.

In the dream, Rian lay face down on the grey vinyl bench as Connie worked on my back. She was sculpting into my flesh a single Bird of Paradise, Rian's mother's favorite flower. I could see the colours in my mind's eye as she cut them in, red and orange and yellow and green.

I had my eyes closed, as Connie's knife burned, but twas though I was looking down on my Self, watching the art take place from down the spine.

"This," Rian thought in the dream, "shall please her."

And then perspective shifted. Connie bent over Rian and her earrings brushed Rian's cheek. I opened my eyes, and the earings loomed large, obliterating Rian's view of theh room. Hoops, gold and silver, but adorned with small feathers, miniscule peacock feathers, but painted red and black.

"Bad luck," Dream Rian thought, but I could not take my eyes from the feathers.

Connie moved again, and the earings rustled, and Rian could not look away from their sheen.

Reasons Why

Narrisch.

Reasons Why

Oink.

Fall Bones

When Rian was a child, a Rude Creature broke Rian's thumb. It healed well enough and has caused no real problems, yes?

But in the Fall it aches. Not the Spring, and not the Winter. The Fall.

Rian feels like Ye Olde Sailor: "Arrrgh, me bones are achin'. Must be Fall comin'. Yarg."

If Rian wiggles said thumb about on a good Fall night before the fire, it will crack and pop. The thumb. Not the fire.

Tis a small reminder that life changes, breaks and heals or fails, even as the seasons pass.

Growing

Heartsister is turning Thirty tomorrow.

She is not pleased. In fact, she is weepy over the change. Rian spent much of the morning soothing through the telephone lines.

Thirty was not particularly hard for Rian. In fact, Twenty-Five was perhaps harder. Thirty-Five will make Rian shiver, but that is only because I will feel life wheezing away.

Heartsister's mother has taken, in the last weeks, to phoning her and telling her that she has nothing to show for her Thirty years. That she has shamed the family. She should have been a doctor, or a lawyer, a professor or a business creature. A mother of two and a part time Chef is apparently not enough.

I do not like her to be wounded so. Rian should like to build up walls and keep her safe. But how does one protect a child from her mother? Tis impossible. Especially amongst Complicated Love.

Whimsical Frame

Rian practiced handstands on the back lawn this morning, beneath the pear and apple trees that, twinlike, insist on reblooming after a precipitous pruning.

My fingers spread long and seperated in the grass, a rotting pear decomposing not far from Rian's thumb. Newly seeded grass struggling in the shade and bees tasting hostas in the puddles of sunlight.

Rian stares for a long time between hands before gaining the courage to go UP. How I dislike being upsidedown. The world does not feel different. The pear is still pungent, the blades of grass soft and sharp at one time.

But, upsidedown, RIAN is different. Wobbly. Unable to move as I see fit. Thoughts are less coherent as blood rushings from toes to head. And the heart begins to pound.

What are we, how are we different, lacking or free, when we lose control? Through fear or passion or disaster or simply the turning of the body? And should we not all experience that loss of Self here and there throughout life, does it not cement more firmly who we are?

For the Rian sitting in a calculated, glittering pose at a Gala table is the in truth the same Rian who quivers and wobbles and falls in an ungainly sprawl across rotted pear and damp grass.

Late Summer's Night

Rian has huckleberry wine, an amber gleam, in a deep goblet at my elbow.

For inexplicable reasons, Someone Else enjoys feeding Rian alcohol. I know not why. Rian sober is no less giddy than Rian tipsy. Rian tipsy is no less introspective than Rian sober. The world tilts, but the world does not change.

There is a Bent Man, trying in vain to clean up after his canine, as the dog, no spring chicken either, runs in circles wrapping his leash about Rian's sycamore.

Rian laughs silently from the porch as the man swears and stumlbes. I would offern him a drink, yes, but he looks as though he might swear at the gift.

When I am tipsy - for Rian is never DRUNK - I do admittedly dream about things I do not allow myself to touch when I am sober.

How I long to burst this skin and float free, merge with something more, something greater, envelope and be enveloped. The Fool and Fitz, no boundaries. The Monk and his meditation. The Yogini and her body. The Vulcan mind meld!

To love and be loved and share that passion in an endless circle.

Is this, Rian wonders, w hat some Seek in a god?

Pine Trees

Rian's Iffy Bathroom Scale reads 125 lbs. Which would indicate that Rian has lost 15 pounds in the last five weeks.

So. Either Rian is slowly dying of a Broken Heart.

Or Rian had better recalibrate the scale with bar bell weights.

"Mooooon river...."

Solitude

Unbearably Beautiful has Rian considering Solitude.

There are some creatures in life who cannot stand Solitude. You have met these souls, yes? The socialite who must fill his days with comittee after comittee after comitee. The vivacious blonde in the back seat of your green jag who must fill the entire 8 hour jaunt to Yosemite with chatter.

The elderly woman down the street who slowly wilted toward death after her husband died. Or married another six weeks beyond the funeral.

Rian is not one such creature. Rian's Hearsister is, and I understand - to some extent - the itch that drives her. She comes from a very large family; she has grown up with noise. Silence makes her uneasy.

But Rian...Rian drifts toward madness if there is not some solitude in Rian's day. Someone Else understands this, and kindly makes space four an hour most every evening. Without Solitude Rian gets sharp tongued and ice eyed.

It is not just silence, yes? It is the locking away of the world, the drifting of one's own thoughts and sensations, sudden stillness agains the rising tide.

Is Solitude also, perhaps, the core of selfishness?