Crush, big time :))))

Garden

Perhaps I'm less urban than I fancy myself..I have recurrent visions of a garden, planting one, hiding out in one, in a shade, quiet, serene -- a live, growing garden. I park a few blocks from work and walk through back alleys -- the only time I really am aware of nature, of summer around me. The scents, the sounds of a garden behind a  fence are so intriguing.. I like to think of plants and trees I'd have in mine.  A Taurus, after all, I should be all about earth and earthly pleasures..I'm missing out on something big then. A true escapist's delight, a secret garden..I have a collective memory of what I loved in the gardens I've seen --Dogrose bushes, sweet and buzzing with bees,  fragrant currants, bright yellow marigolds.. A screened porch facing in, all draped in vine. An odd  angel, or two..A swing, maybe. No lawn, nothing posh about my garden, it would grow wild with dandelions and tall grass and all sorts of life banned from a formal landscape. Mole holes, burrows, butterfly cocoons. And a dreamy young gardener to keep it this way and make me wreaths of wild clover and daisies.. and roll giant dubies while I sunbathe naked :)..  I do digress, a garden is a dream. A dream I'll plant here for now, along with my dream house, my vast imaginary sea-scapes and terraces of white marble and everything else I don't even know yet I can't live without..

Mid-day dream, part 2

Люди

Интересный человечек живет в нашем доме скорби..Не старый (59) и еще красивый мужик с туманными диагнозами алкогольно-индуцированной депрессии и хронической отрыжки..коренной американец, воспитанный, тихий. В прошлом -- инспектор домов, разведен, из контактов в карточке -- мама, брат и друг. Полчаса назад столкнулась с ним в местной библиотеке где кошу иногда работу с хорошей и разной книжкой..Ромэн Гари, кто нибудь ?..:) Всегда чисто одет и гладко выбрит, высокий, спортивный -- он много гуляет, читает, берет в рент какие-то киношки.. Никогда ни на что не жалуется, и наверное пишет роман века в своей крошечной комнатке с митьковского вида спидником-соседом. До него с ним жил пожилой черный джентельмен, лежачий, со страшными, гниющими  ранами..Когда запах трупного яда стал почти невыносим, руководство предложило моему мистеру другую комнату, но тот отказался, заявив что он единственный кто говорит с этим человеком, и это его друг, и пусть все будет как есть..через пару недель тот тихо умер. Мистер Ф ходит в супермаркет напротив, в кафе, или просто покурить на верандy. Его часто видят возвращающимся вечером под шафе -- через дорогу ликерный магазин..Вполне себе Хэмингуэй в изгнании. Никто не приходит к нему. Никто с ним не общается после смерти старого соседа. И по-моему, он счастлив. Спокоен так уж точно. Какая такая драма выгнала его из полноценного общества -- неизвестно, но мне почему-то очень близок и понятен его выбор. Отстранившись, выбрав предельно простой и скромный образ жизни, но не став при этом отшельником, он нашел себя вне отведенного ему социумом места для статистически таких же "разведенных инспекторов", вне стресса и суеты, вне потребительства и вещизма и страха за завтрашний день присущих здесь почти всем до глубокой старости. Браво, Мистер Ф..И все-таки..кого же вы убили и съели в пьяном бреду и от кого вы так долго здесь прячетесь ?..:)

Mid-day dream

Я хочу проснуться от рокота моря, выйти на белую залитую солнцем терассу и сидеть на теплых мраморных ступеньках, на ветру, в легкой белой рубашке и ждать пока пожилой батлер принесет на подносе кофе и апельсин..

Tea time forever

A day in a life

I've been walking around Wilmette at lunch and peeking in windows..I'm fascinated with apparent emptiness of mansions and stillness of this posh suburban life mid-summer day. No one is home, it seems. To my urban brain this is surreal. How could it be ?..The silence is deafening..where's the bustle, the honking, the profanities ?..Its too quiet, too clean,  a gingerbread village. I get an urge to break a log-cabin mailbox and pee on a bed of pansies. Too perfect ! I could live here as a stray cat perhaps, in another life, but they'd exterminate me next day for sure..For now I imagine myself lost and looking for clues to guide me home. Only it isn't terrifying, rather intriguing and exciting.  Manicured lawns aside, the exteriors look very much inhabited, some sophisticated, others dated, but all cozy and inviting. It must be the architecture, no house is alike, though all are tall, light, airy, with large windows and high ceilings, resembling the descendants of Nordic worriers (or Nazi runaways..) that inhabit them..Very blond blue eyed houses. I caught the news the other day of a "Goldilocks robber" in London -- he is eating the food and taking naps in places he brakes into..I understand !!  And I wouldn't even need to steal. Just sneak in and explore..Be somebody else for an hour, sit in their chair, taste their porridge, fall asleep in their bed. I've done that, sort of..with some men I've been with, when they left for work and I stayed behind pretending to still be asleep..I would put on their shirts and briefs, use their cologne, smoke their cigarettes, etc..Oh, the skeletons I found..No man will ever admit to owning a "stay hard" potion even if there's 5 tubes of it in his sock drawer. I'm horrible. From divorce decrees to weapons to sex toys..My lover's music collection, scribbles of math equations, algorithms and random notes -- I still keep one..My second husband's math books, pages and pages of thesis that took 20 years to write.. My last husband's art on every inch of wall space, from a huge crucifix to tiny prints -- I fell in love with the art first..rubbed a tiny Buddah's belly on a way out wishing he'd fall for me. How careless.  I'd also clean each place spotless, the dishes, the floors, the works -- out of guilt for invading their privacy, I guess..A man that spent a night next to me became an extension of myself not so much through sex but through this intimate bond I'd form with his personal things, his scents, traces of character felt in how he lives, how he takes his tea, the mess left on his desk..or a lack of mess..or a lack of desk. In this one encounter with a man's home I would find out everything I'd want to know about him, and see it all fall in place over time. These casual obsessions ultimately became my own prison, I'd get too involved, too close, because nothing less would do, and you can't stop after a while, can't go back to not knowing, not being a part of someone, at least I can't..but that's a whole different story........

Belated

I'm in meetings all day, mindless tasks keeping me busy and my brain goes numb by 3 pm..while the only place I really want to be at is Gayle's funeral, few blocks away. Gayle. White haired, ethereal, almost translucent being with a smile too big for her, too big for this whole house of pain.. A curious child trapped in an old lady's body. Gayle was 97 but I never thought of her as old. Old women don't glow, don't smile like that, don't have hopes and dreams in their eyes..Not like her. She was an old Girl. I barely spoke to her other than a nod in passing..how I wish I did now, looking at an old foto -- petite brunette, this beaming delicate flower in a ruffled dress, perched atop a stone bench, the card reads -- 1954. Galapagos Islands. Gayle had no one, no one survived her, yet her funeral was said to be packed. She lived in Central America most her life, I imagine her traveling, praying, day-dreaming..she must have had quite a life. One of the original founders of local Baha'i Temple, an honored knight of Baha'ullah, say all you want about them but its a beautiful concept -- she was a vision of harmony and dignity and peace -- exactly what one feels inside a Baha'i temple. She was it. She slowly withered away over a few months, first time ever I saw her sad, lost, solemn..Nobody came to visit..Nobody really talked to her, too busy with their work. She always sat in the same spot, and she's been here forever..Now that she's gone, it feels like someone turned off the lights. Its empty and cold and abandoned. I miss her terribly. Miss the love she projected so effortlessly, so willingly, just by being her, being free..Gayle was free. Of guilt, regret, resentment that so plaque the old age..I think I know why. An angel lived next to me for 2 years and I barely noticed..my eyes are open now, but now she's gone. Amen.