Quarrel, unhappiness, miscarriage, anxiety over a loved one, desolation, sleeplessness

The tarot has it out for me. I drew the Fool which should blunt the Nine of Swords but I'm no good at these, and I feel small and tired and used up.

I kept thinking "I should write a thing," and I even did a little poem stuff tonight, but it's terrible dull. Even this post is sort of useless. Do you want some old pictures of things? I've got some.

Leopard frog

Tulip poplars are about my favorite tree.

Damsel fly leftovers.

Girl leftovers.

a lithe figure alert and awake to unknown dangers

It feels better for me to think of yesterday as some sort of arduous native purification ritual, as it contained many of the disorienting hallmarks: extreme heat, emotional blankness, fasting, unsolicited visions of my own death.

I keep trying to articulate what was going with me, but the closest I can get is this sense of not being myself. I've always prided myself on a certain sense of self-understanding and an ability to articulate my moods and resolve them, but now I'm at something of a loss.

If this was a better blog, I'd at least tell you exactly what happened so as to provide context clues to my dramatic, vague statements. Long, lost hours on a narrow road hearing the deer give their alarm-snorts somewhere out of my sight, or about the fishing, the dark water, or about the nice wedding, sitting out by the lake after, the drive home today. I caught more small fish than I could count. At some point, I found myself in an empty church parking lot and I tried to write a little with a marked lack of success. (This is becoming such a pattern with me that it's almost not worth mentioning.) Last night I fell asleep with my tarot cards in my hand and I woke up very early before everyone else, even Travis. I paced and prowled.

These days now are the longest days of the year and they remind me of being anywhere in Scandinavia during the summer. The sunset takes hours. The light now reminds me of Oslo, which I remember as being such a happy place. There was a kind of gentle, wide-streeted rosiness to the city that you wouldn't expect in a notoriously dark mountains and deep fjords sort of place. Even the castles were friendly, with warm big stones.

Right now, I smell distinctively like lake water and iron which is to say that I smell like blood.

you were always gold to me

I'm sleepy. Up too late. Tomorrow I'm going to be very well-behaved at work (and who wouldn't, since the CEO offered to buy me a donut?) and go to the downtown farmer's market and buy some tomatoes and then eat them for dinner tonight. I'm thinking about sleep and drinking red wine. This weekend was good.

Fairytales

'The world is big and cold, little child, and you are so small. The world is full of evil and wickedness, and it will hurt you.'

'No, no. I am young and warm. I have warmth enough for everyone. I am small and good, and want to share the good that I have.'

'Princess, the forest is dark and the roads are dangerous.'

'But you are with me. You are great and strong, and can easily defend us both.'"

Sunday

Tonight, I finally got to do the work that needed doing in my garden: dead-heading, clipping, pruning, weeding and transplanting my dying lavender out of the fine shadows of the orange mountain lilies, which are sentimental to me for growing wild on that one farm last summer.

This weekend contained many beautiful physical things: a rose moon, a handful of anise, a brushfire, a clutch of brown and murky bluegreen mockingbird eggs. Saturday night, the last coherent thing I remember is drifting off  all nuzzled up against Travis's leg with a sweet beagledog in my lap, which is so much to say that I cannot or should not complain, really, about anything.

pour a little salt; we were never here

Long, mixed-up, sad, cold, exhausting day, punctuated with forlorn sneezes from the office dog, Snowball, who has terrible allergies. I spent three hours mucking with a graphic. The shape of the mountains made me cry. This week will get worse before it gets better.

I think I need to snap out of whatever this is and do something productive. I'd really like to write something real again; I did so much good research this winter when I had my head together. I want to write a poem about Okeus and how he was grim and evil and appeared to almost every Powhatan as a young, handsome warrior in the woods--which is a convenient form for a god to a warrior people who go about in the woods. I want to write one about throwing beads into the James to pacify him as they'd canoe past his alter. I want to write about this giant quartz crystal divining stone they had at the temple at Uttamakin that was said to be so clear, you could see a man's face through it and that they buried there when they had to flee. Those are the poem I'd write if not for the problem, the problem being probably mainly that I'm tired and listening to sad music. 

Real content

Ahh, I bet you are thinking that this girl does not update her blog except for stupid vague poetry things these days, and that is true! But here is also a few other things about my life and general feelings.

* Work is going well. I feel like I'm really good at it. That feels good.

* I made some very tasty homemade spaghetti sauce tonight. It's been a while.

* I have quite the yellow jacket sting on my arm.

* My garden is being perfect and there's no one to see it. I'm at work all day and no weekend garden parties like in the old days.

* Full Moon Lunar eclipse in my sign tomorrow night. Don't worry, nothing can go wrong ever.