It's fucking cold here and it's going to get colder tonight. Damn. I do not like cold weather. When the Canadians were here they were talking a lot about how cold it gets in Canada and I, freshly orphaned and not in my right mind and not being polite said quite bluntly, "Yes, well I live in Florida for a reason."
Of course this is true but the main reason is that I was brought here at an early age and have mostly stayed here. I lived in Denver for a year and a half and hated it and high-tailed it back to Florida as soon as I found a good excuse to do so which turned out to be a fella, of course, since I was nineteen years old and here I have been ever since. But I love Florida and I love to be a tourist in Florida and Florida offers about three different geographical areas to visit and I enjoy them all. I could be wrong about that three different areas but I will say that North Florida is far more like Southern Georgia than it is like South Florida and we have definite seasons and it does get cold and although I love the fact that this allows me to grow camellias I don't like the cold.
I hate the dreams I am having. They make me feel all disturbed and are shot through with fucked-upedness and I could definitely live without them. Having experienced more than my share of different mental states of unhealth I fear being stuck in one.
I guess what I'm saying here is that I hope I'm not going crazy. I don't feel depressed especially but I do feel jangled and unmoored as if my soul is traveling a bit too far from my body at night with completely different dreamscapes and dream-fears and dream-scenarios and they are not soothing or pleasant and I wake up from them with my neurons upset and jangling. I suppose this is completely normal but I do not like it. Quite frankly it's all been a little too much since the end of November when the Season Of Insanity began and there was Thanksgiving and then Christmas and then New Years and I got sick and then Mother fell and then died.
I mean. Really.
Add to all of that the many, many pictures I've gone through in the last few days from my childhood on to the weird things I've found in her files to the newspaper clippings to the jewelry to the constant reminders that nothing, nothing is the same and never will be again since Mother died in that hospital room, one slow breath coming after another, pausing, halting, beginning again, slowing more, then finally and at last ceasing, those swirling molecules of change and I guess it's not a big mystery why my moods and emotions are a bit...labile...shall we say?
I just looked that word up to make sure I was using it correctly and I am told that it comes from "late Latin labilis, from labi ‘to fall.’"
Yeah. That sounds about right and I suppose I can feel the ground beneath me shift and threaten to go out completely and I do not care to fall, not one bit.
Well. I am doing my best.
Part of me wants nothing more than to resume "normalcy" whatever that may be and part of me wants to flee like a scurrying rat and head to Cozumel where nothing is normal nor expected to be and no street I walk down can remind me of any damn thing except for the other times I have walked down it and have always, without fail, been happy and the water of so many colors is at the end of all of the streets if you just keep walking long enough and the bats boil out of the jungle at night to eat mosquitoes and the swallows dart and soar and the iguanas bask in the sun with their sternly sour look of disapproval and little children smile at you from behind their hands with their merry eyes dancing.
Or something like that.
No trips are planned, however, and not likely to be. Therefore I am taking comfort where I can find it although the ham and the chocolate cake no longer seem to be working. I told my darling Lis a week or so ago that my greatest comforts are my chickens and Keith Richards and I was only half-joking. I cherish the idea that Keith (as Hank pointed out) is my spiritual totem animal and perhaps the chickens are my earthly totem animals and if this is so, there is nothing wrong with that.
Of course my grandsons bring me great joy and my children and my brothers and my husband too but they necessarily bring up all sorts of genetic and heart-connections and these things do have a tendency to lead directly back to The Mother and now that I think of it, I am now The Mother and there you go.
Neither the chickens nor Keith Richards are related to me in any way and like the streets of Cozumel, lead only to pleasant places or at least humorous ones or dancing ones or eggs.
Which reminds me of the way Keith bestows blessing/thanks on his audiences and on other musicians which is hands to head, heart and balls and I guess that's a rasta thing, I don't know but it sort of sums it all up.
Also? I am not the chickens' mother nor am I Keith Richard's mother and the egg fits in the palm perfectly as if they were made for each other and huevos is the Spanish word for egg and also Mexican slang for balls and honey, all things are connected I guess and there is nothing for it but to call Mother's eye doctor and inform them that Mother will not be needing any more shots in her eyeballs which are not unlike eggs in shape and the shots, the shots and I think of how they gave Mother a shot of morphine when she was dying and I thought of the Rolling Stones song Sister Morphine which was, perhaps not quite appropriate as a dying song but which, perhaps was in fact as appropriate as anything.
I do not know.
It is cold.
I am going to go let my chickens out and then take a walk. Things, I feel, will go from there.