She Speaks to Me, Even Now

The castle is in a sort of disaray as the Queen Witch tears apart her workshop so that we can paint it a Witchy sort of purple color that agrees with her creative process. I am not impressed with the paintability of this slick wall board that they wall these manufactured domiciles with, so it seems it will take at least two coats in order to conceal the sins beneath. On top of this color purple she intends to sprinkle silver stars. I think I could murder Martha Stewart simply by inviting her blindfolded to this abode and removing the blindfold without warning as to the eclectic nightmare she is about to be faced with. Our eyes, though, are easily bored, and all this colorful business pleases us much more than the sterile "high" art that some, most often those with sufficient funds to toss to the winds, would find palatable. It IS a clean machine, my friends.

THE resident offspring continues to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in regards to the tender mercies of her heart. I would delve into all this drama further save that sometimes these people related to me in one manner or another take offense at how I deal out details of some of this life, so I defer this time and leave it to suffice that, quite bluntly, shit happens.

While searching for an available box of suitable proportions that we might use to send a certain someone some material creature comforts, I once again had an opportunity to peruse some of my late Mother's sketch books, chock full of the beauty of a mind once so musical with artistic creativity it could hardly be contained within her beautiful five foot frame. The things that we do, in so many ways, if properly respected and protected by those who loved us during our lives, can reach beyond us long after our souls depart for distant shores, perhaps the sunny beaches of someone's personal Summerland, where one can watch the waves and never fear a burn. Thus I have these records of my Mother's artistic expressions, and there are several items of note that I wish to share with you this post.

It never struck me in all my experience with this woman, or even with my wife while she knew her, that Michele knew of pagan ways, paths, or Gods, but amazingly I continue to come across evidence that even then the Goddess was having some influence upon her. Mom was raised a good little Catholic girl, and fell away from that path as easily as I did, perhaps due to the oppression she suffered at the hands of masculine society and the judgement of her gypsy/artist lifestyle by an unforgiving institute of Christ. I now enjoy a certain certainty that my mother is now painting quite a few portraits in Summerland in the company of the likes of Picasso, Michaelangelo, and Renoir. Only now she does it strictly for pleasure, and not for rent.

Tonight we shall enjoy more bounty from our garden, some baby Lima beans and green beans still producing strong on these vines. Then, after dinner, we will prepare our care package with loving care, and hope that the sum of everything we place in this box adds up to much more than all the individual goodies we can cram in. I would like to think this box is full of love, and gratitude.