Keys. Heart. Mind.

Keys, why do we have such a love-hate relationship?

I admit that I am fickle with you. I put you down, and then I loose you. I forget where you rest. I even have a special spot just for you, but something in me resists my own attempts to keep you safe.

This resistance must be traces of my little-girl self, the one who does not want to follow the rules. She is still finding her way. She doesn’t have everything figured out yet.

“Don’t corral yourself,” my heart tells her. “Let me be your guide to finding your true self. There will be bumps along the road, but there will be lots of adventure.”

“Just do as you’re told,” my mind says to her. “I can guide you down a clear path, a straight path, one that is predictable and safe.”

Why do you, Keys, suffer the consequences? Half the time, I find you in your special bowl. The rest of time, I find you where I look last – by the bathroom sink, or on the edge of the bed, or in the silverware drawer, or fill-in-the-blank.

Logic. Emotion. Mind. Heart. Why do my two selves repeatedly battle with each other so much over something as mundane as you, Keys? I hear my little-girl self laugh and cry each time I find you in my hand. I am not sure who wins the battle. You or me? Mind or heart?

Kudos to the Soul

I recently moved to China, and blogs are not exactly accessible. Neither is Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, Hulu, or any other fun websites. Google and Gmail also do not play well with China.

I was slightly panicked that I would not figure out how to access any of my blogs. How would people know how many miles I’ve run on my thousand-mile journey? How would my friends know what is happening in China? One small part of my brain was hoping that I would not figure out a method. Who really cares what I do, anyway? No one reads these things. I would be off the hook! I wouldn’t have to write.

However, a larger part of my brain knew better. Oh, and my soul also knew better. I slothed through internet jibberish to figure some things out. You are reading this entry, so I succeeded. Let’s just say that I know much, much more about VPNs now.

Thank you, Soul, for knowing me well enough to make me figure it out. I should listen to you more often.

Next Blog, Next Story, Please

When I should be writing my own stuff, I find myself perusing other people’s blogs. I keep clicking “Next Blog” to see what pops up. What else is out there?

Some stuff is just crap. I’m not kidding. I make my share of mistakes, but I at least try to put out a good piece. If you can’t put together a few complete sentences, WHY ARE YOU BLOGGING? Don’t embarrass yourself! I’m quite judgmental, but Microsoft Word created spell checks and grammar checks for a reason. If you decide to break grammar rules, it better be for a reason, and it better be effective!

The God blogs abound! So many people feel God is working miraculously in their lives. I respect this, I do, but those religious folks are DED-I-CAT-ED! They actually keep on their posts, which just irks me. Strike one! They are also grammatically correct. Strike two! I’m completely jealous that God or Allah or Yahwey is on their side. Strike three! I can’t click “Next Blog” quickly enough. I’m certain eternal damnation awaits me.

I’m Disappointed in My Boobs

I’m an artist. The pièce de résistance of a good artist is the ability to draw the human form.  

Let me tell you something … the male form simply is not pretty, at all. There are reasons why artists drew, painted and carved the female form – not the male form -- for millennia. Yes, we have Michelangelo’s David, but have you ever seen a real man look like that?

When creating, we draw from our own experiences and our own references. I understand how the female body connects because I have one. In drawing sessions with nude female models, I figure out the proper proportion of torso to hip by thinking how my own body works and moves.

However, my boobs fail me. When it comes to my drawings, I better use the model’s chest. My boobs don’t help me one bit because I often cannot find mine. Curse my genes!

Just Walk the Rabbit

My mom was so bored that she took my brother’s pet rabbit for a walk … as in collar-and-leash walk … with a rabbit. And yes, Carrotina is a white rabbit. Alice would be intrigued. 

Oddly enough, walking a rabbit is more like walking a dog. I thought it would be more like walking a cat, with the cat pulling against the leash, flopping onto one side, and dragging behind in the grass. I guess a rabbit takes well to the leash, reveling in new-found freedom from a cage, jumping and flipping around in the air just like a young bunny.

Forgotten Memory

“That’s stupid.”

Silence. The jaw dropping kind.

Tension slides out of my chest, pooling in my belly, deep and low and round, drowning my ovaries in its heaviness.

Dread, mixed with Knowing, now take residence in my chest.

Time really can stop. And, Dread and Knowing are a calming combination. Who knew?

Storm Season

The chopper box is flipped upside down, on the barn room – but the roof is gone – and the haymow is gone, too. This is not normal, not normal at all. This is what my parents didn’t want me to see? Ok. Yeah, this is scary. And it’s raining.

It’s more scary to see Dad cry, to run the front door and into the bedroom.

“It took the whole damn thing,” he said. THAT’S scary.

Dark nights pushing thunderstorms around that suddenly fall silent. That’s still scary.

“It.” “It” took the whole damn thing. I’m five. What is “it?” Candles burn. It’s dark outside. A fire truck backs up the driveway, the driver leaning out the door, in his tan firefighter jacket, trying to maneuver the truck backwards.

Now, I would ask, “Who drives a fire truck backwards?”