Sunday, October 18, 2015

/ here / where I love / plus: voodoo doll dog toy / update #1

here /
it’s while walking the path to the river one damp grey morning that I smell the smell that reminds me of itself, of autumn, the damp dry leaves and the moist duff and the dry flowerheads cloaked in the morning’s mist, flowerheads still so full of seed – some spiky some fluffy – on brown brittle stalks that nod just a bit as I walk by, on the path through the meadow, surrounded this slate grey morning by views of summer now spent: shades of brown. Ahead trees rise to line the river, protect the river, shroud the river, and to get sucked in by the river during raging spring flows but now – those that have survived – rise with slick dark trunks to shake golden tassels, crimson locks, to dance and set free on a breeze golden leaves that loop and spin through the dim morning light, like sparks of light in the dawn, but it’s a predawn light, a light that exists before light is shed, a light that allows everything to be just what it is: twofold, binary, duplicitous, both darker and brighter, dry and damp, and I notice the smell of autumn because I can / I can pause and breathe and live / here / where I love.

Walking down the drive toward the road (later), the drive of green grass (clipped) now littered with yellow drops of maple, curling, slightly, and the smell of the earth and the air and the trees and the leaves and the crumpled thimbleberries laced with blood-red vines; decay and the mushrooms that grow thick and rich / the smell is rich, chock-full, can be taken in so deeply, so fully, so full down, and I imagine sinking into it one day / if not now / and I know, after all, one day I will. – drop away, smell of earth and damp and dry and decay as all pieces of me melt and sink and rot and dry up and dissipate, rise up, get torn away, maybe carted off by eagles and crows and dropped, perhaps, in the mouths of babes and chipmunks – chipmunks who will gnaw at my bones and if this tickles I will laugh and you will see a light breeze move through the tall grass, the wanton weeds, and there I will be / but no more / except here / where I love.

Of an afternoon I stand at a window and clouds scuttle by as there has been such a wind, a westerly wind, and the yellow leaves are lifted high and spun and twirled and dashed about with alternating partners of sky, grey sky and blue sky, dark day and light day, and the leaves just look like sparks and twinkles and magic carpet rides dancing my way, any way they are blown, and the clouds are dark and they try to look threatening, to scare – oh my! – but they get pushed away by this trickster wind as the sun plays and plays / here / where I love.


Voodoo Doll Dog Toy / Update #1
How I used to love being in Wrigley Field in the front row of the centerfield bleachers where the park, the game, the fans, the crowd, the weather stretched out before one on a lazy afternoon of limitless time and the trains rumbled by just behind. Part of the feeling watching Tuesday night as the Cubs beat the Cardinals to advance to the National League Championship Series was this immense happiness for Wrigley Field, a dear old friend. Some like to call Cub fans “long-suffering” – Bah! The amount of time I have spent enjoying being a Cub fan far outweighs any suffering. And now! Now! We are enjoying this moment of winning, and with the face ripped off the Pirate Voodoo Doll Dog Toy and the stuffing pulled out of the Redbird Voodoo Doll Dog Toy, it is time for … (drum roll) (please) (ta da!) … Quackers, the Mets Shmets Just Ducky Voodoo Doll Dog Toy! Have at it, Josie, and may we all have a bit of fun on our way to victory (for some) and defeat (for some).

Oh. I see Josie’s already had at it with Quackers.