Journal Excerpts
December 30, 1997
I’ve been considering lately my own feelings of immortality. I mean, we’re ALL immortal, to my current thinking, but it’s always seemed to me that, as long as there are no accidents or bizarre diseases in my future, my current incarnation (let’s call her “Lana,” shall we?) will live forever. That’s part of the reason why I’m fairly content to wait for things to happen (or “react rather than act,” as Erla puts it.) I’m aware of the otherworldly protection I’m so blessed to have, but even that has it’s limits. I’m sure Deepak Chopra’d say that this feeling is purely natural because we CAN live forever, but I’ll pass. I don’t WANT to be a short chick that long. CAD can have ALL that. I wanna learn what I need to know here so I can return as a benevolent stardragon somewhere in the Sirius system. Yes, I’m Sirius.
What an incarnation THAT’LL be (if I haven’t already done it,); to be a star somewhere, to burn so bright and hot and long, to aid in creating life and then to sustain it, to have my light travel (almost?) infinitely distant through the vastness of space, to be part of a constellation. To become an omen in my last days, collapsing in on myself in a brilliant supernova, spending a quiet retiredom as a white dwarf or pulsar until even THAT is no more. How intriguing. Yes, it seems to me that that’d be a future incarnation, that we humans are well below stars on the evolution-of-the-soul-o-meter. The more I think on this, the more interesting correlations I find. I’ve come to believe that when we finally get the main cyfrin we’re put here to get that we die more or less immediately so that we can move on to the next incarnation and the next set of soul lessons. If we look at a star as an advanced being (how many civilizations considered them Gods?), at its burning the embodiment of its soul force, when it
"dies" in a supernova it (generally) takes everything around it with it. It transforms planets (and native life-forms) by engulfing them in its final blaze of (enlightened) glory. This seems logical to me, so I’ll hang on to it until something comes along to refute it (if ever...)
I love it when stuff like this makes itself clear to me. Another area where CAD and I differ; he chases thoughts down to their logical conclusions, expending time and mental energy to do so, I perservere, and have faith that eventually all I need to know will be revealed. How many times (in the midst of Mundania) has a profound thought planted itself in my cerebral cortex from out of nowhere? Much like someone leaping out of a doorway to surprise me, but leaving me struck motionless (for a few seconds) and gaping in awe (for far longer) rather than shaking and trying to catch my breath. I love that. Seems to me that people can “frighten” away cyfrin like hunters overarduously pursuing deer. Sometimes you just have to sit quietly under a tree and one’ll walk right up to you. To further correlate, this is the instance when the hunter loses the desire to kill, when he knows that to merely gaze into those soft, living eyes for five seconds brings infinitely more satisfaction than to hang the poor thing’s head
over his fireplace for all to see. Besides, if he doesn’t kill the deer, it continues to multiply.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that overarduous hunters never get to look into the deer’s eyes (on the contrary, really,) they just expend a lot of energy to do so. I’m not saying that’s wrong, either, it’s merely a different path than mine, and if you know me then you already know where I stand on THAT. Blessed are those who follow their own path (which we ALL do, inevitably, anyway.)
January 2, 1998
I’m beginning to wonder if maybe intuitives (or “psychics,” if you will) aren’t picking up vibes from the world around them as much as they’re CREATING said vibes. This fits, in a way, with my “whatever you believe, you’re right” theory. I see an eight of spades when I touch the back of a card and the Great, Mysterious Something obliges me. I have bad luck with cars because I BELIEVE (and therefore expect) to have bad luck with cars. Other people can either reinforce or negatize your field with their beliefs (which is why I like to maintain “purity of thought” by keeping the secrets I do.) I realize I’m getting off my original point, but this tangent’s relative to it, and I’m QUITE prone to this aimless, mental wandering (as any journal reader can tell.)
I finish this shift soon, though, and I wanna jot down other things, like the predominant seasonal weather conditions around here (annoyingly so, usually.) Fall is wet. It rains and snows FAR too much in the fall. The woods are beautiful, but too damned swampy for hiking. Winter is windy. Not bad enough that it’s c-c-cold, we gotta add the wind chill factor. The trees are bare, so there’s pretty much nothing to slow down or interrupt the biting wind. Summer’s obnoxiously humid. I can deal with heat, but must I be forced to do it through a relentless, soupy atmosphere? At least on Long Island the Ocean breeze carried the humidity away (or at least kept it circulating.) Living here in the Summer’s like living in an old sponge. Spring I’m still trying to figure out (like everyone else, no doubt.) I’d almost have to say that it’s a Winter without the wind until sometime in May, when it finally drags itself out of bed merely to stick us in the fishbowl of Summer’s impending humidity. Actual “Spring-like”
conditions seem to last a mere week, sandwiched like a slice of lettuce between the two quarter-pound hamburger patties of Winter and Summer.
There are, of course, benefits to these seasonal conditions, but I’m running out of time. Besides, these conditions prevail merely because I have come to BELIEVE they will.
January 3, 1998
...let us return to my seasonal musings, let me add another whiny line about Fall before we move on the the pluses. Even worse than the Autumn rain is the constant cloudiness. It seems we get three PARTLY sunny days from October to December. Gray days sap my energy, physically and emotionally. By the time Winter winds come to blow the clouds away I feel as dried out and lifeless as the cornstalks that adorned my house at Halloween.
Okay. Now on to the GOOD stuff.
Fall is, perhaps, THE most beautiful time of year, here or anywhere. The leaves become a living rainbow, and on those few days when the sun peeks down through the clouds on our little planet the forest-rainbows glow in that light jewel-like, and I’m nearly unsure whether it’s really the sunlight or it maybe it isn’t the leaves, themselves, burning away the last days of their lives in a purely egocentric (and understandibly so) display. If you’re willing to brave the swamps, expect to be greeted by no less than an endless myriad of gem-leaves,
topaz, ruby, garnet, and amythyst, each fluttering in the soft breeze as if trying to out-do one another in their silent clamor for attention, some so crazed in their burning that they detatch themselves inadvertantly from their trees and flutter to the ground like dying fairies. Even the rain compliments the woods, as though coating it with varnish, deepening the magic hues until the bright sunset colors glow against the nearly black bark of the trees as though each leaf were backed with a small light bulb of the same color. Gazing in silence as these wet, dark-yet-bright forests I realize that no painting I could produce would ever capture the wonder and beauty of that which holds me transfixed. Indeed, even no photograph could ever do it justice...Besides, I was born in the middle of October, when this wonderous, almost otherworldly display is at its peak. What greater gift could I ever receive?
Winter. Sure it’s cold and windy, seeming devoid of life in its silence, but stars are also cold and silent (in their way,) and both can still strike me dumb. What greater peace have I ever found than that of a quiet, lazy snowfall? In the hours which find “normal” people sleeping I wander out to listen to the profound nothing of Winter. My footfalls, crunching in the snow, are like the steps of the first creature to come from the primordial soup onto the dry crust of land, and as the sun rises on new-fallen snow, those tiny, impossible crystals glitter like a blanket of intricately cut diamonds. Winter’s wind throws them playfully into the air, and the resulting mist, aglow like opals, takes my breath away. The season of death offers us the opportunity to return to our youth, as though each snowflake winks at us and says, “I remember when you were seven. Grab your sled and let’s reminisce.” If you manage, somehow, to resist that lure, the back of an unsuspecting friend’s head always PLEADS to be assaulted by a snowy projectile (personally, I think the snowflakes are expert ventriloquists...) In the cold, clear, night sky our conveniently bright asterisms have free reign, sparkling so like the snow, unhindered by refractive heat and humidity. If you can not see beauty in danger and destruction, I strongly advise you to have a long, CAREFUL hike in an ice storm, when the world is weighted down under a heavy glaze. Familiar trees hang their limbs low, acquiescing to such deformity to be allowed to twinkle in the sunlight like galaxies, if only for a short while...
What can I say of these bizarre Springs? If the sun’s warmth seems long in coming it does wonders for building excitement. Even as I watch an April snowfall I know change is near, and I can hardly stand the suspense. The first, tender, light green leaves unfurl blissfully and returning birds sing appreciation. All that had been laid bare to Winter’s inevitable onslaught is again enriched and cradled in the freshness of rejuvinating life. Spring is a humble guest, not meaning to intrude, clasped in loving embrace where it goes. I fling open my windows, inviting it to move in, and we make excellent roommates. It shares with Fall a wonderful tendency to cloak the world in a mysterious, inviting, cloying fog, a lure I can never resist, and in case I needed it, Spring puts its reassuring hand on my shoulder and whispers, “NOTHING dies forever...”
Summer; when I can skinny dip in a moonlit lake again...Need I say more? If ever a season forcibly dragged me out to play, it’s Summer, harping at me all the while for having let my skin get so PALE in its exasperated, mile-a-minute voice. If the humidity oppresses me, the resulting thunderstorms are AMPLY qualified to free me, arousing the mysteries in my heart and coaxing from me awed applause to match their thunder. The world is vibrant with life--a miracle too many take for granted--and I set time aside specifically for appreciating it. The ground begs to be run or lounged upon, lakes and rivers plead for swimmers, and the sky assures us that yes, we can fly...If Spring reminds me of life, Summer DEMANDS to know what I’m doing with it, and before I can answer it says, “Not enough! Not enough! What are you doing standing around talking to ME, anyway? Darnit girl, go LIVE!” At which point it shoves me, still stammering, out the door.
So you see, although I may kvetch about things, they are but trifles in my reality. If I don’t twist and writhe, how will I get out of this cuccoon and fly? Let it be known from this page on, that any bitching I do is purely a mental exercise geared toward learning from my experiences. If we don’t see the bad, we’re certainly not going to see the good.
Gotta jot down something I was thinking yesterday...There can be no Grand Unified Theory of Physics without including the metaphysical. A more romantic way of putting this would be to say that you can’t know everything if you disinclude magic from the equasion (and magic is inequate-able, as far as I can tell...That’s what makes it magic...) How do you calculate the cosine of a dream? If X=32 and Y=ESP, what is 2X+Y? What is the common denominator of all divine inspirations? If A+B=good luck, what are A and B? I know one thing; if M is a Grand Unified Theory that DOESN’T include metaphysics, then M is inherently wrong, and since we can’t assign scientific axioms and mathematical formulas to metaphysical things, there can BE no Grand Unified Theory. The physicists of the world can quit now. I’ve just spared them an eternity of wasted time (and me with no “formal” education!) They’d be better off living in the world than examining it under a microscope.
“Hey you! Carl Sagan, buddy! Stop chasing that deer and sit under this tree with me. If you wanna know where the “known” universe ends, put your vastly impressive and expensive telescopes away and stick your heart under the microscope of your own mind. Sure, I could tell you where that boundary lies, but it’d be MY boundary, far beyond your own and therefore inconceivable to you. Besides, if I just TOLD you where to look, you’d miss all the gems hidden along the way. Trust me! Oh look, here come some deer now...”
A learner’s permit in metaphysics outranks a doctorate in ANYTHING anyday, and being a metaphysicist isn’t so much a title as much as it is an unending, rewarding journey.
January 31, 1998
Jeff and I went to the river--the sky was so beautiful--clear, with a setting, young moon. He was working on starting a fire--I thought it wasn’t worth the effort and went to watch the moonset through hazy clouds over the frozen river. It was a beautiful sight (never does nature disappoint me in things like that,) but I got kinda sad about not having anyone to share it with and ended up crying quietly. Jeff came from the pines about twenty minutes later to tell me he got the fire going (and grab more firewood.) I went back with him and was still sad--not despondant or depressed, just kind of melancholy. So I stood kinda silent by the fire, occassionally getting teary-eyed and turning around to wipe my eyes under the guise of warming my back. I’d’ve killed to have been able to just stand there and cry, but not with Jeff there. Actually, total truth be told, I’d’ve killed to rest my head on his shoulder--not in some hopefully romantic way, but just to be supported by a friend. I agonized over that last night--
the BS of societal "norms." Dammit--if I need to put my head on someone’s shoulder why can’t I? Why do I have to sleep with someone for that priviledge? That’s just it, I guess. To someone as overtly affectionate as I, such things should be RIGHTS for ALL people. I mean, why is it that only people with significant others get physical contact? What’s wrong with THAT picture??? It’s like giving an alcoholic a bottle of vodka. Hold a lonely person today--they’ll love you for it (and they won’t start stalking you, either.)
June 23, 1998
9:40; Lana goes to Mom's because Mom told her the previous night that she wanted Lana to get her a few things on her way home from her car appointment this morning. Mom has evidently changed her mind. Lana heads uptown on a roughly 5 mile stretch of Highway #3, which has been bogged down by 3 areas of construction which started, evidently, while she was in Orlando, nearly a month ago. This is actually beginning to annoy Lana a bit, if only because it's so inconvenient, as she lives on Highway #3.
10:00; Lana gets to Murdoch's Tire to, as Mom said, "Get the air conditioner FIXED." Mom gave Lana a piece of paper, so that the nice man will know what parts it needs (a receiver/dryer, lines, and the O-ring at the compressor. (She's been dealing with this mess, which is a WHOLE other story, for so long she actually remembers what it needs.) Lana passes this list on to the nice man who's working on the car.
10:45; The nice man returns, and says, "Yep. That's what it needs. When can you bring it in for the work? Lana inwardly shakes her head at her Mother for this complete waste of time and makes an appointment (that gets pushed back to "sometime next week" because the parts won't be in until then.) The nice man tells her to bring a book or something, 'cuz it's going to be a couple of hours, anyway. Lana goes home, back through the 5 mile construction slowdown.
11:00; Lana "reports" in to Mom, telling her, so very subtly and politely about the hour she just wasted. Then she employs logic and appeals to Mom's sense of sympathy to allow her to take Hooker (a male cat her Mom’d inherited from a local bootlegger as a kitten years ago and promptly threw outside, not being a “Cat Person.” He’s also Lana's dear friend since she tamed him up) to the vet. Hooker is a totally outdoor, fully clawed cat and gets into fights all the time. Sometime in the Winter he got a little scratch on his ear, and he hasn't been able to leave it alone. Right now 1/3 of his poor ear is gone and what remains is all scabby, bloody, and (no doubt) PAINFUL. Lana fears that left untreated, he will lose his ear. She knows he needs a satellite dish for his head (to keep him from scratching it) ointment, and antibiotics. Lana's pleas finally reach her Mother's ears (especially when Lana says SHE'LL treat Hooker 'til he's
better, roughly 3-4 weeks, she just can't stand to see the poor thing suffering like this anymore.) Lana goes home and makes the vet appointment for 14:30.
11:30; Lana updates her homepage a little more, dances, sings, plays the recorder, dances, paints, deals with e-mail, and dances, although not in that order. She also calls her doctor to see what the verdict is on her broken/cracked/developed-that-way/who-the-heck-knows finger (it was broken--or maybe not, the doctor’s haven’t been able to give her a definite answer--roughly two months ago and shows little signs of getting better, even though it was supposed to be good as new a week after she had it looked at.) The nice receptionist tells her that “the (new) x-rays show nothing wrong with your left ring finger.” In her living room, Lana holds the oddly bent and still swollen finger up in front of her face and says, “Well my EYES show something wrong with it.” The nice receptionist says that if it’s not better in a week (which Lana knows it won’t be,) call back and they’ll set up an appointment for her to see an orthopedic surgeon. The thing that upsets her most about the
whole broken/cracked/developed-that-way/who-the-heck-knows finger is that WAY back when she went to the hospital about it she explained that she’s left-handed, and needs to be sure that the finger will be okay, since she paints, draws, and plays the recorder. This is when the doctor’d told her that it’d be good as new in a week. She scowls as she thinks of this now, and thinks that it’s little wonder that Canadian Heath Care is free, because who would PAY for this level of ineptitude?
14:15; Lana gets a method of vet payment from her Mom, who also now requests that Lana pick her up a bottle of Tequila and lemons "if she can." Lana say's she'll try, 'cuz Hooker has no collar and leash, and if he manages to bolt while she's uptown he's as good as gone (although she does secretly believe that he'd find his way home.) Lana calls Hooker from the woods, traps him (as he saw it) in the car, and takes him to his appointment. He is crying like a BABY and quite obviously perturbed before she even pulls out of the driveway. She tries to sooth him as she again braves the construction-lag.
14:30; The nice vet receptionist, seeing that Lana is trying very hard NOT to let an aggitated, 14 pound, white cat get away, puts the two of them in an examining room, where Lana promptly releases Hooker to let him check things out, hoping he'll get more comfortable. She notes, however, that he's merely searching for somewhere to hide. Finally Hooker leaps onto the counter and spots the small hand-sink. Evidently it's purrrfect (or as good a spot as he can find,) so he curls up in it (somehow--he's a LARGE cat, don't forget,) even hiding his head down in one corner. He does not BUDGE from this position until the examination is through (some half hour or so later.) The vet is a very nice, older gentleman who not only sympathizes for the cat, but also treats Lana like an intelligent human being (she likes this...most of the locals are not the brightest, but then when they CONDESCEND to you, too...*grrr*) The vet pulls the thick scabs off of Hooker's poor, crusted earstump and wipes the bloodied
cartiledge beneath with cotton batting and the cat literally does not budge--as previously mentioned. The vet remarks that the cat is very well behaved and asks if Lana can do this, because it will aid his recovery. Without hesitation, she says, "Yes" (she really feels kinda nauseated by the idea, but if her pal needs it, she'll do it.) He gets a satellite dish, ointment, and antibiotics for the cat, and says that if this doesn't work, Hooker is looking at expensive surgery to cut off his ear because the tissue may actually be turning cancerous (a particular problem, evidently, in white cats.) He then opens doors for Lana, helping her get a newly squirming, unleashed cat back to the car, where he curls up right behind the passenger's seat, hiding his head again, and resumes his nonbudging. Knowing he's mad, Lana decides that Mom's tequila can wait, she again drives home through the construction to get her buddy home and comfortable first (and, again, to report to Mom.) She doesn't want to just drop her
fairly wild pal off at her house and just leave--he'd been through enough stress, and his submission to paralytic reclusiveness showed it--so she leaves him in Mom's back porch--where he used to come in from the cold, occassionally, so he's comfortable there.
15:15; Lana makes ANOTHER two trips through the construction to return with Mom's tequila, lemons, and a litter box and litter that Lana needed and Mom paid for because Lana’s just way too broke these days.
15:45; Jeff calls. He seems certain he's leaving Friday. She can't be sure, since he’s definitely been leaving for two months now, but she decides not to take the chance and miss him, so she checks on Hooker (who's still mad, but otherwise okay,) sets up his litter box in Mom’s back porch, and goes to see Jeff. The evening is fairly uneventful (she's already said goodbye too many times.) They have a little fire in a mutual friend's backyard, she fixes some HTML on his page, and they go for a short walk to take in the stars (which she has taught him about, and so has he given her his telescope.) Over the course of the evening she gives serious thought to "What do you want out of life?"
23:00; Lana gets home to find the door to Mom's porch locked. She doesn't want to wake her Mom or disturb poor, stressed Hooker, so she goes home. She'll get the cat settled in her house in the morning. She takes in the stars again (since there are so many more of them in the clear, dark, country skies,) and begins to write about her day...
"What do I want out of life?"
DRUMROLL PLEASE!
(This started out as "normal" writing and ended up a poem, but still answers the question, somewhat.)
More than anything else
I want someone to share love with,
As it has always been...
A partner to end this solitary confinement
An Other to come home to and hold
Someone who not only SAYS they love me,
But who TREATS me like it, too
A hopeless romantic who can just kiss forever...
Someone to convince me
That sex is about love, not use
If my current situation improved,
If it worsened,
More than anything else
I want you...
NOTE: Hooker, suffering from skin cancer, was put out of his misery on Jan. 8, 1999, at 2pm. He was, is, and always will be one of the best people I've ever known.
August 25, 1998
It STILL refuses to rain here. I can't remember the last time it did. We were supposed to be getting wicked thunderstorms for the past four days, but...nothing. Greyness, a splash of lightning here and there, and the sun breaks through. I went outside the other night to yell at the grey, wind-blown clouds; "You've been threatening us long enough! Bring it on, you chicken!" *KeeeeeeeeeeeRASH!!!* Lightning and thunder, instantly, answering with; "You DARE challenge ME???" I ducked back into my house, humbled, and after a twenty minute temper tantrum of flashes and booming complaints, the sky returned to it's angry, dry brooding. It looked really foreboding yesterday, so I decided to wash my car (knowing that it would ensure rain,) and voila--the sun broke through. Cedar Bay (the beach a mile from my house) has been far beyond safe algae levels for months. I went last night with a friend and it was like freaking quicksand it was so thick. Had to go down the road to Wildwood Beach to rinse off, and the winds
we've had for the past 5 days really whipped up the waves. It was ALMOST Oceanic, and made me miss my beloved Atlantic more than ever, but it was still fun. He was half drowning. I told him never to brave the Ocean if he was having trouble in the piddly Lake. He simply decided that I was a mermaid. He's not entirely wrong...
Still I pray for rain, watching the seed pods fall from the trees dead, watching the birds so listless you can walk right up to them before they make a move to flee, watching the grass grow brown and sere, the earth dusty and cracked, missing the passionate, hours-long thunderstorms I've relished every Summer before, seeing the vast fields of Southern Ontario corn (the best corn in the country) stunted and hopeless, hearing of wildfires burning for days within miles of my house, thinking of how barren this Fall will be, taking instant running water for granted less and less every day as the world dies all around me...
Droughts are hard on dryads.
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