Back From The Land Of Dreamy-Dreams

Ya go away for three days and the peas grow an inch, the dogwoods turn white and the wisteria begins to green and send out those grape-bunch blossoms.

And so much more.

Let's not even discuss the laundry situation.

But it's a gorgeous day and I have so much to do. I have had a smoothie for breakfast rather than a Bloody Mary which, I suppose, is a good beginning. Laundry is washing and it is a perfect day to hang it out. I am in that nether-world, neither here nor there, but for some reason, Lloyd and New Orleans do not clash in the ways you would think. I live in an old house, there are pinks and purples and greens and yellows, even if they are mostly bursting on the bushes, rather than painted on my house. I may not have a Voodoo Temple, but I have a Mary Altar. And although I do not have any tiny horses, I do have dogs and chickens. So...here, there, lovely, and the dreamy dreams (thank-you, Ellen Gilchrist, oh you writer of New Orleans tales) are a fine place to float on.

I have tiny stories to tell of the parallel universes to be found in bags and the things they can make disappear and appear again, maiden-hair fern given as a gift by a parking lot,

and god knows what else.

But right now I must hang clothes on the line and go for a walk to un-kink these hips made cranky and sore by seven hours of sitting in a car. I must reclaim my territory here and if I did nothing at all but what I need to do in this house and in this yard, I could be doing it for the next eight hours without a break. And then enough to fill tomorrow as well.

But the tales will be told, there will be discussions of bras and crosses, there will be tumbles and fumbles of words from me as there always are, and as I go about my day I will be trying to untangle them in my mind, like a mother carefully untangles her child's hair with a brush and a comb, teasing out the tangles, making the shining strands of hair lay flat like gold, like copper, like a raven's wing.

Good morning.