Degrees of Freedom

Greenhouse Dream

Can a greenhouse even be three acres? Is that a thing?

The dream:

K and I were standing by the well, talking about the hives and whether planting buckwheat would untowardly affect the flavor of the honey. She ran a damp bandana around the tool she held, massaging dirt out of a groove, and said that if we only planted a little it would probably be fine, since we had three acres in here and could plant plenty to balance the flavor, letting the buckwheat provide a subtle earthy note. I handed her the bottle of tool oil and thought of petrichor. Water gurgled from the roof reservoir down the small waterfall on its way to the koi pond.

Liu Xiaobo, 'I Have No Enemies'

"I am an insensate stone in the wilderness, whipped by fierce wind and torrential rain, so cold that no one dares touch me. But my love is solid and sharp, capable of piercing through any obstacle. Even if I were crushed into powder, I would still use my ashes to embrace you."
---Liu Xiaobo, 'I Have No Enemies: My Final Statement' (Nobel Lecture)

Died on 13th July 2017

Saturday Writing

This morning started off with even more writing, after a serious bout of it all yesterday and into the evening. There is some really good material here, I think , and it's getting uncomfortable and difficult and all the more powerful for it.

I was tempted to skip writing group this morning so I could keep writing, but got talked into showing up. My main misgivings are that there is a lot of recitation of personal drama as a random social hour that doesn't really do much for me since I'm not really a social person. I write; I want to read what I write to other writers; I want to hear what others write and comment critically. It's what makes us all better writers. That's the point for me.

This morning's drama report was dialed up to eleven. We talked. A path was identified. I have no idea what will happen. It's not my story.

I came home and made eggs and tea and finished a book that is just amazing.

What I learned today is that I'm not interested in giving my power away any more. I already knew that, but the reinforcement came at a pretty important time for me, so for that I'm grateful. The Universe has its ways of speaking to me, if I will be still, open up and listen.

It will likely take me all day to process through the emotional roller coaster that was the alleged writing group.

On the upside, I have some really good work that I wrote yesterday and this morning, and the energy seems to be carrying me into the evening.

And there is a newfound clarity in my soul, washed and polished to gleaming by the tears that helped bring it to light.

Noir

And so there I was, minding my own buisiness, when out of the clear blue
sky this dame walks up to me and says. . . . No, wait a minute; I’m
getting ahead of myself. She was gorgeous. And I don’t mean the kinda
pretty that happens to catch your eye on the way to get a cup of coffee
on the corner of Fifth. I mean this broad, this lady, had looks that
the first time you see her you think you are making it up, maybe need
some sleep, maybe you should lay off that second pot of coffee or start
living right. And then she looked at me from under her hat, a midnight
blue number with a brim that left her eyes in shadow, her eyes, those
eyes that possess a gaze that possesses you when it finds you, when it
found me.

I should have walked away, turned my back on her and waltzed right on
past the file cabinets and the desk and headed for that cup of coffee or
something. Anything. She was trouble.

But instead I closed my eyes, soft strains of her perfume playing in
my mind, and when I looked at her again she was still there, holding
my face in the grip of her gaze. Oh, she was trouble all right, and
I knew it. But I couldn’t help it: I closed the filing cabinet,
ground out my cigarette, and took a deep breath to try to slow my
heart. Even so, my “Evenin’, Lady,” came out a little scratchy
feeling, and I took a pull on the coffee on my desk which had been
something resembling hot an hour ago.

"Good evening,” she replied, finally letting my vision go, my
sense of equilibrium returning a bit only to be knocked for a loop
again by her voice, low and quiet, the soft accent adding to the
disorientation while gentling the tones to a purr. But you could
just smell the growl that was in there somewhere, like a panther
lying longingly in the sun, sated relaxed.

I followed her attention to her hands, covered in black leather,
soft, fatal and supple like her voice. “I need your help,” she told
her fingers, moving the tips slowly around each other, a play that
made me think of incantations. The words traveled through the smoky
air like a foglight cutting the mist of dawn over the sea. For a
moment my mind spun, taking the room with it as I tried to imagine
what type of help this woman would ever need and how on earth she
decided to look to me for help. And then she looked at me again, and I knew
that how on earth wasn’t the question; earth didn’t figure into this
dame at all and here she was, standing in front of my desk on a hot
August evening, the cars passing through the rainslick below the
window of my walk-up, rain which had only left my shirt sticking to
my back instead of providing any relief from the heat. Her gaze was
as hot and relentless as the weather.