In the Service of Her Majesty The Queen

I had a teacher who said I had the gift and wanted me to publish. I write best in pain, melodrama being my forte, and went for years without any, so the gift languished on the shelf.

Today, I have need and have been told, twice, by two different people, to write. And so, because I have no other place to go, I am. If it is inappropriate, and I hope it's not, it can always be deleted.

You should know that the writing helps me and keeps me on track. Without it, all would be chaos.

I have an update, to follow.

 

Why are you in pain? Perhaps we can help you share the burden. :blank:

 

From the distance, the buzzards have moved closer, circling overhead, lazy swoops that bring them near enough to see the separation of their wing feathers. They call to one another: harsh croaking calls that I would normally associate with crows. Crows seem infinitely friendlier to me. I would will them away if I could, and refuse to look at their shadows on the ground, on the porch, refuse to listen to their calls, see no beauty there whatsoever, none.

I burn Dragon's Blood on the porch, send what energy I can spare to banish them, send them back to whence they came. I will not claim them as mine, they are not creatures of the light. The light, I have been told, is ever present, even in the dark, being part and parcel, together, but it is hard to see the light in buzzards, death's minions.

This work I am engaged in is drudgery, my mind's defensive granite fastness heavy, stout, unyielding; me with my small pickax, picking picking at the stone. My feet would rather dance, on bare toes, pirouetting, tiny silver shivering bells chained to an ankle, tinkling in time to music hidden in the ether, written on ethereal pages, a calling I hear that I am told does not exist.

Lo, it does not exist.

Whence then, I cry, does the power issue from? Whence? It issues forth, so goes the response, from your own imagination, from within the fastness you must pick at to open
up a portal. And then, I cry again, what then? You must pick up the bridle, the exorcist replies, and that is when the real fight begins.

The real fight begins? O my God, shelter me, shelter me.

He will, says the exorcist, you are merely learning faith; do not look ahead, but burn the Dragon's Blood, find beauty: today's task is to concentrate on the pickax.

I listen, I chip, I pick.

 

I share what I can, in the writing.

You do help. Your responses help.:hug: The main thing is not to become isolated.

The exorcist gives me guidance, so I am not drifting lost, but cannot always be there for me, thus the writing. It stabilizes me.

Last night was hard. I was mainly on my own. Your post was helpful. Laughter is always good.

 

Aye, lot o good lads here for you, M'Lady.

 

For the first time this spring, I see the squirrels, catching the last of the sun plunging down to death. Tails flicking, they dig the acorns they buried last fall under the live oak. Five of them, I count.

One little fellow, for they are all young, finds a perch on an old healed over silvery stub, left behind it's branch when the hurricane visited 3 years ago, and sits nibbling, pieces of shell falling to the ground, his cheeks inflating in and out, tiny hands busy. Smart little squirrel, his back to the tree trunk, protected, sitting up, round black eyes watching my blue ones watch him.

A red-headed woodpecker, or perhaps a flicker it is so small, spends a last moment picking out ants from off the bark of the live oak; I hear the rat-tat before I find it. Looking in the trees, I see the nests the squirrels slept in all winter, that I have not
noticed before, things in my surroundings to find that I never used to miss.

Ahhh, I have been away from myself for a long time, truly gone, that I did not notice the things in the wild, that I loved searching out, once upon a time. Is this what pain brings? Does it open my eyes, my ears, even as it tears apart my heart? Is pain, then, a gainful thing? My cynicism says it is simply the cigarettes on the porch, but in truth, I do not know, and I would rather it was the pain.

Let it bring forth a bounty, the pain that eats me inside out, shakes my hands in time to
my pulse, the pain that makes driving dangerous, twists my words up and tangles them,
so face to face is out, and keeps me captured in my home, my sanctuary, my prison, allowing me to go only on the porch, fending off the buzzards. Yes, I would prefer that. I beg the black damning pain, matching note for note, beat for beat, measure for measure the tinkling of the tiny bells: give me something.

Breathe, breathe, I hear the exorcist say; I hear my own voice say the same thing, repeat the advice, but it is too hard to slow the speeding shallow breathing down when there is no one to breathe with, no one to set the pace: my brain cannot count when it is on fast forward. I try, I cry.

Chasers of death that they are, the buzzards leave with the dying swollen red sun, but they will return tomorrow. O yes, they will surely return.

A moment of clarity: I remember I am merely finding faith. I play Mahler, the purest beauty I can find, Mahler that grounds me, brings me back to myself.

I breathe, I breathe.

 

To all...a good night.

Do I sound like Santa Clause? :yes:

[The elves titter at each other, careful not to catch my eye.]

 

Do not trouble yourself with dark imaginings, for many fears are born of fatigue and lonliness.

Have a peaceful rest, M'Lady.

 

I rise from sleep to meet another day.
Sleep heals and brings distance, so I am
grateful for the time spent away from the pain,
that seems better this morning, some of it's
power subdued.

As I was told, even as I was told.

Am I learning to bring it under control? Or is
it hiding, gaining strength, gathering it's
energy from the sun, from the buzzards?
Time will tell, but for now, I am victor,
not victim, and honor the moment, store it
up for future recalling, a victory bank.


On the horizon the sun is strongly climbing,
the wind is walking the tops of the tall
pines back and forth; too graceful, the
swaying of the tree tops, for them to be
at odds with the will of the wind: they
capitulate.

There is a lesson to be learned, there.

Gusting, the wind blows hard now,
and has swept the buzzards back to their
roost. Squirrels hide in their nests
and the songbirds cling tight to shelter.
No longer gently swaying, the trees
dance, an urgency pulling them;
the wind voices it's whistle,
nature's pied piper.

I am content to let the trees dance, and
lean into my mind's morning calm.

A windchime, somewhere, tinkles.
I think that is a good thing, and will get
one for myself, glass chimes, not metal,
green. Glass to override the sound of the
tiny bells that still sing, the song diminished,
distant, dissipated but still faintly calling,
if I listen. I'd rather hear the wind and
the chimes of the glass, the glass doing
the dancing, not my imaginary feet.

So I listen to and find meaning in
the wind and the chimes.

Green is my color, the hue of life, of clarity,
a saneness color. It so happens that it is
the color that sits the best on me, another
message, another lesson, another given. I
forget, ofttimes, the givens.

It is given to me to be alive; it is given to
me to feel; it is given to me to seek clarity;
it is given to me to be sane. It is not for
me to reject the gifts that have been bestowed
on me...but to have faith in what is given.

This bright and windy morning, I am full
of lessons, brimming over. It is not for
nothing that one of my names means wind.

 

I think I have figured out what is calling the buzzards,
causing them to circle overhead...and it isn't me!

It's my neighbor's garbage can.

It sits out in front of her yard on the street (which is supposed to be a no no), and she doesn't have one big enough to put all her garbage in and still keep the lid on it.

Not being an expert on buzzards, I could be wrong...but it seems likely to me.

So I am going to buy her a bigger garbage can, with a really good lid. And tell her to have the kids put the lid on it when they put garbage bags into it.

We will see if it works.

I used my jumper cables to jump her car a little while ago, and actually had a conversation with her, the first one. She seems to be a nice lady...stressed, but nice.

And HEY! Come on you guys! My last post, imo, was very good. No pain.
I have been working hard and took a big jump forward. Might not stay, but good today.

So where are your comments, eh? Pony up!

 

Patience, patience...

I'm still letting it sink in. I first read it at work and was NOT in the right mind frame to comment.

 

Sorry.

I was just feeling good for the first time in days and days and got a
little overeager to let people know about it.

I am a self centered person often enough...I forget others have lives, too.

Hope you have a better day tomorrow.

What's up with work? Did Nationwide make another cut?

 

Yeah! :joy:

Go look at the really long, fat tubular wind chimes. Low notes, reverberation, unwordly. The big stuff is calming. The little stuff is happy (and annoying, sometimes).

Glass sounds great, but doesn't glass break?

Does this mean you are through writing?

 

Night's mantle falls while
I am covered by sleep; I
miss the sun's daily deathly
dive, but wake refreshed.

There will be a long session
with the exorcist tonight, but
this time I bring good news,
the first in 7 nights, a
beginning, an ending.

Rebuilt, strengthened, I bear
hope fashioned on a shield,
the beginning of faith, and the
ending of a forlorn and foolish
fantasy: my life, taken off pause.

Also, I missed the songbirds' twilight
twitter and the buzzards flee the onset
of night--no loss there, but I do like
to see them leave. If the squirrels
ever left, or returned to their nests,
they went unseen, no eyes on the porch
to look for them, no lips to smile at
their silly cheeks.

Now, late in the night, wailing, the
wind outside continues to race the
storm that follows, that will come in
the early hours, before the sun arises.

I will probably be awake to hear it; I
like storms, more so when I feel safe,
when I am sheltered, when hope drives
away my fears and courts faith.

 

No, I am not done writing. I have taken one big step forward,
but the work has only begun, I understand.

Are you all tired of the writing?

I will look at the chimes you speak of, but I really do not want metal
chimes. Copper might be good, though. So we'll see.


For all of you, have a night of peace. I blow you all a kiss. :kiss: Take care.