Too Li the Little Q.T.

If I say that Too Li could charm the pants off a lawyer, I am only a few inches into Metaphor Land. She is absolutely adoreable and lately she has used her magnetic charm to attract squeaky speaking, baby talk talking La La loving women, to then growl at them and nip their hands. I am aghast. I am damn well aware that sometimes dogs manifest certain behaviours in order to illustrate this to their charges. Which is good and fine when observed from my point of view; Not when I have to look at myself, however. I prefer to be lazy.
Here is the problem with walking the boundries of Metaphor Land. Somehow one has to be whole-y in both places and yet keep up the appearance of sanity. Lot of work. Courting one while married to the other. Excuse me while I go giggle.
Too Li is a miniature Dachshund. German--need I say more? Like my friend Pat said: the Honeymoon is over. Too Li is also a female. Please giggle insanely for me, Dear Reader. Thank you. By the way, you do that very well. Have you ever been hospitalized?
Too Li likes to sleep. Loves to sleep. A real couch surfer, that one. It is morning and she is tucked into one of my sweaters at the foot end of my small couch. Her two long bat wing ears are carelessly arranged around her tiny cranium. She is putting off going to pee, ever though it isn't raining. When it rains, her belly gets wet, running along side of me on my bike. Her legs aren't long enough to get good ground clearance. People actually stop in the road to see this sight; some maniac is dragging a sausage on the end of a leash. Why the hell don't he get a dog?

Last Light of Day

It is the last light of the day, the final song of the late-to-bed-bird ended, the last swoop of the last Swallow and the time when the flitting shadows of bats appear against the sky curtain. This time, before the stars wink on, planets first, then those more faint, is the only time the bats can be seen, in siluette, their choppy flight different from that of the day hunters. The graceful Heron flies to night fishing spots, along the waterfront, where electric lights attract curious water creatures and the harvest is abundant. The Heron is one of the few animals that have gained some advantage from the vast sprawl of Humanity. The Heron flies without hurry, large wings flapping gracefully, occasionally shrieking a croak that sounds like it should have died with the dinosaurs. I have seen them gather by the scores in a field North of town, hulking and sulking, conspiratorily, collectively digesting the nights’ catch, in silence, with a discreet distance between each.
This is the time when the colors of the world take refuge, a long day of dazzling done, melting into the distance and replaced by a thousand shades of gray. This time, when Humans begin their night rituals, of bedtime tea or hot milk, the days’ tools put away and pillows fluffed; of the electric memories of candles and fire and television dreams, I like to walk the dark-end streets.
The picture window glow of the houses seems so inviting and comforting. I feel homeless and alone, a primitive creature, animal without culture, vaguely hungry and tentatively lost. My own memories are pasted to the soles of my feet, held cautiously by shoes that don’t fit or don’t fit well enough. Shoes that resent each step and are too distant.
It is best to walk without aim, taking delight in the stray; furtive freedom of escaped dogs and the silky night-prowl of cats. Of the affinity the empty asphalt parking lot has, finally, a brother to the dark. The eerie light humming from street lamps, lamps that paint the sidewalks gaudily and occasionally. Shadows that borrowed from coal their essence.
Each house a fortress and the twenty odd feet between stretched thin no-man's land. Houses that have become obstacles and stumbling blocks to more than the chill wind. I shiver and wrap my arms around the aimless one. Drawing from the well of ancient thoughts, of stories told and retold in endless cycles, as water that has made the ocean to mountain journey a trillion times. Water that feeds the curiosity and quenches the fires that burn black behind every tree trunk and under each pebble.
I have my closets, too. Not just to hang clothes that I don’t need, nor wear, but with doors closed so that no light intrudes and interrupts the brooding and foreboding. On the dark street the closets can’t follow. They and all my self-help books stay at home, courting a even denser layer of dust. Useless as my thoughts, any thoughts, an hour shy of midnight.

In the Shade

In the shade of a pink flowering cherry, a red tulip survives. Underneath that densly branched tree, itself overshadowed by another, taller, light greedy pine, that tulip pushed a small yet, intensely glowing bloom. A miniscule rising sun; a beacon in the deep-green dark.
What little light she gets, is carefully saved; pennies and nickels, coupons and favors, she uses to survive. Not enough for a daughter, nor a showy crown. Just enough for a short-lived and intense spark.
She rejects no light. From the porch, a faint electric glow. Tall lamps that hover into the street. Passing cars and that light, the memories of summers, that fall at her waist. Brown leaves dropped and pine needles. From the cauldron of the earth she licks those trace drops. Saves. And hopes. And survives.

The Puzzle

Yesterday I went to my favorite store, the Soroptomist Second-Hand resale place. Also known as the: Score-optomist, for the deals to be had there. I am somewhat addicted to shopping and only my financial limitations keep me safe from the ravages of Nordstroms and the Mall.
There I spotted an item that appeared to have no purpose, except perhaps, the exchange of a dollar, which was the price. It is an artifact made of two pieces of chain, linking two horseshoes, with a metal ring in the center. The metal was worth the dollar but I felt, in my hands, that it had another, silent use. Perhaps it was some kind of puzzle. I began to intuitively manipulate the horseshoes and even though logic screamed that I was wasting my time, within seconds the puzzle solved itself. The metal ring dropped to the ground, deftly extracted from the clutches of the limitations apparently holding it prisoner.
I am a metal ring.
I am a puzzle.
I am my own limitation.

This morning I experienced a slight shift in my world view. I wonder how long that will stay in effect before I go back under, into the sleep of complacency.

Tulip Festival Starts

The descent of the tourist hordes on my little town; not good. Not bad, either. It was like Thanksgiving, festive and the town was just over-stuffed. Cars kept pouring in like whiskey at an Irish wake and the sidewalks groaned and complained over the treading they were getting. The merchants must have been rubbing their hands with delicious delight, as the “ching” went ka-ching-a-ling and isn’t that what it is all about? An Easter egg hunt without the eggs, just the color; the green. The portraits of the presidents changing hands like trading stamps.
Too Li, the dog, drug around with me, reluctantly, at the dog-end of her red leash. Me on my trusty steed, firm grip on the reigns; or at least the handlebars. Navigating the streets, for once outracing the crawling cars. Too Li gets the eyes. She, short and little, long and cute, catching the delight of those from far away. “Look at that cute dog!”
At the market, where I go to have coffee and hang out with a couple of guys, she charmed kids and adults alike. She was a lap dog before she came to live with me. Now she is a star.
At night, the streetlights rain an orange glow on the shadow asphalt. Lights in the windows, last songs of sleepy birds. The town, not quite so tall, less fat without the rumble of Harleys and the buzz of business, smiles as Too Li and I go walking. We stroll the streets that just hours before were filled with strangers and rubber wheels. The night is my time.

A Single Snowflake

Are we really so small? Unnoticeable in this Universal expanse, We, individual Humans? I look at my hand. Skin full of bones, ligaments, cartilage and fluid. My restless heart, stoic soldier in time, marching, marching. My sense of self, memories and a name.
From frigid heights, a single snowflake falls. In the womb of it's conception it grew; cloud creature, crystalline dancer and to an end it comes, indistinguishable in the vast white. For a short time it existed, then faded in the heat and returned to the Pacific.

Too Li

Too Li is a dog. Small dog. A small dog, a poor dog that lives with a poor man in a small trailer. Too Li likes to sleep and eat. She doesn't eat much, just a handfull of dog food and carrots and asparagus and broccoli. She makes up for her small belly by a voracious appetite in the unconscious dives she takes on the small man's small couch.
Too Li(ttle, too late; her full name!) sits outside the damn effing library while the s.o.b. hacks away on a keypad, feeding his srawlings into a whack machine. Idiot. She is tied to the bike rack on the effing bike that that ahole pedals around while she is forced to trot along. Bastid. Can't take the time to sniff, get to know the neighbor hood. Effing hummins i' whacked. Sniff.

The Rock

The rock; bare and bold, legs spread and feet deep within the earth. Shoulders above the sea of grass and trees. Grimacing and tightfisted; resolute, silent and alone.
The lichen is stone come to life. A mineral flower. Patient and humble. Unassuming pioneer. Forever fasting and frugal. Tightfisted.
The Rock and Lichen begin to battle. The meek and the proud. Time? Time means nothing. The ages are short breaths; blinks, really. Even rocks have to exhale. It is enough for the lichen. A little bit of breath, a drop of sweat. Stale bread and water, a feast for the penitent. It chews slowly and thoughtfully. One bite a season; a hundred bites brings a fracture. Another hundred and it becomes a hairline crack. One crack lends to another and the lichen, steadfast and sure, worries loose the little scraps, tugging and cajoling; endless chipping and nagging.
Thought the rock calls in it's allies, the pelting rain and the scouring wind, the lichen's talon grip, anchored in the raging storm, holds fast and It plans. It plans a massive undertaking; a grand voyage; a marvelous cathedral.
After a thousand bites it has enough and the lichen morphs to moss. A little here and a little over there; holds the wet and traps itinerant dust. Stirs the acid brew that adds more wrinkles to the once-smooth brow of the rock. Moss spreads and draws birds and grazing animals; soon grass appears. Tough grass with staying inclination and wire roots that store water for the lean times. It endures.
Thrown by a heaving gust, the lightest, topmost cone of a near pine, caught by a tuft of grass, leaves a few seeds behind. A seedling emerges and carefully grows. Stunted and starved it clings to that massive rock; short, dense trunk; roots like crowbars, swelling in the heat and uncrushable. Gaining purchase, tapping hammer on chisel, slow ripping of the mineral fabric.
More trees grow and die and those that live and thrive, carve gashes into the defeated stone. Covered with trees and underbrush, it hulks above the valley, a magnificent grove, squeezing drops of metallic blood from the stone, riding regal on that well-saddled back. Tamed the impossible, a massive undertaking; lichen come to fruition, majestic firs towering into the sky and tunneling deep into the center of that hill.
I live there; a block away.

Mixed Messages

Four ornamental plum trees, thick with flowers, shout the news of Spring's arrival. They are intensely pink, dense with blooms; lofty bouquets, street-side sentinels and proud with perfume; busy planning the secret crop of shiny, thick-skinned and juicy marbles to come.
Early arrival hummingbirds, puzzled by almost April snow flakes, sit impatient and hungry over flower beds snoring with late sleepers. The ground is white and wet. Thick fall of flakes; confetti celebration of Winter's end. A battle of the seasons, Winter versus Spring, on this day of mixed messages.

The Still

In the very center of the hurricane lives the Quiet. I am that Hurricane. The Quiet lies there, in a deep cave, far beneath my feet. It is like a sweet water spring that sends drops and trickles into the world around me; drops fragrant as night jasmine; of satisfaction hard-won; of experiences and foods well digested. In the Aha! of intricate understanding that comes as an orgasm and shifts the mind into a snug cocoon or a parachute bloom. Of expansion, a fog that comes from the ground and holds hands with the clouds. A star filled night; the everlasting, the infinite. The farthest reach, the center of the desert. The oldest wood of a massive and ancient oak. An attic full of cobwebs and memories. The windy tip of the tall mountain. The deep mossy heart of a cedar forest. Next to a growing pearl. In the closed flower before dawn. Held by every rock and in the nearness of you; the Quiet.