Ugly day

Remember Karen Carpenter singing about “Rainy Days and Mondays”? If you don’t, I suggest you do some research. That memory is just about the only thing making me smile (well, okay, Reflections of a Favorite Diarist too, but anyway …) this morning. It is just plain ugly raining in this town today, and it’s the M day as well. Grrrrrrrrrrr. It’s also my first day on the 14 mg patch (after nearly four weeks on the 21 mg patch). They are smaller, which is rather nice. I wonder if the 7 mg ones will be sort of like one of those little round bandaids they make for corns?

The kid people at the party deal on Saturday afternoon all participated in spray painting various names and things on my son’s bedroom walls. (He had made a prodigious start to the endeavor prior to the party.) I actually like the thing. I’m convinced now more than ever of my own madness, but … there is something awesome there.

Anyway, it is also day 28, and even though it’s a very ugly nasty sort of Monday, and I am a tad grrrrrrrrrrr-ish, I don’t want to grab a cigarette, and not only because it would entail doing something as just plain stupid as standing outside in this kind of weather. Here are some whittery bits that have turned up recently. Be well and merry and at peace.

In a moment once
you made me believe
made me feel that everything
in and of me
was wondrous in power and beauty
even my completely cross-hatched
crossing outs
indicating the location of each error
while guarding so carefully against its tracing
or identification

Identity
in one movement through all that pain
you saw us through our birth
made corporal our union here in life
because you found me
even when you weren’t looking
and I was found
even when I hadn’t realized
I was lost
born at some point before time was conceived

~~~~~~~~~~

Speckled
wondering why pastel clothes
mass and lamb
aren’t in my repertoire
never did fulfill me
must be how it never was true
amid my personal chaos

Renaissance is never pale
too alive and mysterious
spring’s breath enchanting many days
its promise reaching my spirit
waking me up past the hour they’ll steal
birds sing of possibility
a path of bulb born beauties to escort me
toward summer’s fruition

~~~~~~~~~~

Room run rampant
wild walls screaming for freedom
blue and green
but red turned out to be
neon orange meant for road cones
warnings

Better here
making a room into art
splendid urban wilderness
young spiritis scribbled out
mad outpouring become nearly beauty

Lives made into self-mythologies
something built of nothing
whole fabric conjured out of air
just life cannot be enough
so each is grown enormous
in each mind

The rain tiptoes in
hesitant and slowly contemplating
what the wind wants of it
hard and lashing or soft sheets
it will oblige
as I lie amidst a record it cannot wash away