Dancing with a Memory, Crying Teardrops of Her Own

I can’t remember the last time I heard Dwight Yokum’s “Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose.” It’s at least been five years. It may be closer to ten. But sometimes I find myself singing without realizing I am doing it and this morning, I was singing that song, from start to finish, like I knew it. Which, I guess I do. The brain is a funny thing. How music lives in us is strange.

I submitted a couple of stories.. I asked around about some others. I did all I can do by this weird thing that consumes me. And now I’m going to work on an afghan.

On Beltane Eve

Those of you who have cattle to run to the summer pasture, go right ahead. The rest of us are going to stay here and discuss creepy children. I don’t believe that everyone gets reincarnated. I remain completely uncertain about what happens when we die, if anything. But whoa dogey (for those of you still on cattle duty) some of those stories gave me the reincarnation heebie jeebies. I tell you what, though. I hope that, if your chance at life gets fucked up, like you get cancer when you’re three or some asshole murders you in your driveway, that you do get a do-over. I also hope that, if your life was sad, you’re not forced to try it again, if you don’t want to.

Also, the idea of these quaking aspens, just being alive for five or ten thousand years. It’s kind of creepy. Forests grow over them. They come back. Forests burn off. They come back. Deer eat them. They come back. When you think about something that lives for that long–and apparently they have one that’s 80,000 years old–it kind of gives me the willies. In a good way, but it gives me the willies. How long it is. How many different bird songs and animal noises came and went in that time. You’re 80,000 years old, almost all of your life was before the arrival of humans.

Evidence of an Unseen Flood

The dog and I tried to walk, but it’s too wet back there. We did, however, find firm evidence that the creek flooded this weekend, though it never made it far enough into the yard for us to see it. Thank goodness.

Notice that all of the greenery that usually lines the creek is gone.

And the concrete thingy that used to be under the bridge is now next to the bridge, which is looking even more perilously related to the bank.

The tell-tale knocked-over irises

The imprint of a stick and the stick moved by unseen forces.

Some swept-away leaves.

Another berm of leaves, marking a brief shoreline.

Here’s a lovely explanation of the day and thus a good explanation for why A City of Ghosts is divided how it is.