Thursday, January 6, 2011
Nothing But Everything
I dreamed last night or this morning that my entire purpose with the blog had become the way I see things. In my dream, I was looking through my camera's view finder and framing a picture and that, that was the purpose of it all.
Started with words, became visual.
Well, I don't know about that. I still don't even know how to operate the camera properly.
I think that writing and photography are two of those things that everyone looks at and says, "Shit. I could do that."
We all see (mostly) and we all use language every day.
And in my heart I do not take these things seriously that I do with words and pictures. Not one bit.
I woke up this morning after that dream and since it had rained all day yesterday the dogs had not been open to the suggestion that they go out last night to pee and poop and so what greeted me was...well, filthy.
I looked at a river of pee, flowing down my hallway and I said, "Well. It's going to be that sort of day."
And then I looked outside and this is what it looked like:
Light pouring in over winter's bones and moss and dripping left-over rain drops and glory everywhere and the downed branch with the resurrection fern like some dinosaur femur, green covered and alive again, somehow, rebirth even as the branch itself rots into dirt, slowly and with great dignity.
This, this is what is happening in my back yard while my soul feels like a hardened, small nugget of failure and bitterness, enclosed in this old body, enclosed in this old house and I am not paying attention and as I wrote to Ms. Bastard-Beloved already this morning- am I just peddling along here, waiting to die?
And I record with pictures that anyone could take and with words that anyone could write and meanwhile, the real raw reality of it all is that my floors desperately need mopping, my lines desperately need learning, my husband poured and took with him all of the smoothie and the blackbirds are still with me, right over my shoulder, eating like demons, and a cardinal is fussing somewhere and the dogs don't give a shit (!) that they are fouling my nest.
Well. The loquats are blooming like I've never seen.
They are full and heavy and are waiting for the bees to come and make love to them and the train whistles and comes charging by and this is life and this is my small part of it and there is no one to blame for filthy floors but me, no one to record this life but me, no one to write these specific words, to take these specific pictures and already the light has changed, the sun gone behind a cloud that was not there twenty minutes ago and here I am.