|Mortification w/out the cat o' nine tails
||[Jul. 10th, 2007|04:16 pm]
The other night I was interested in doing two pieces of sleuthing in this Ghost Train Diary, one being about who reads me here in The Land O'Live Journal and I counted ya all and there's not a whole hell of a lot of you "that I know about", but enough to feel like I have an audience, but I really wanted to find the rest of the story chapters of "The Diary of the Magpie Woman" which is what I call that great long chapter-a-night Dickonian series I wrote in 2005, and while finding them all to edit and mebbe make something of, I also discovered I had over a hundred entries (which isn't alot when I looked at some other Inkslingers) in this convoluted thang called Live Journal, called the Ghost Train, called my diary, which is just a chicken-shit way of saying what I really felt when I put it online which was The Holy Ghost Train, but never mind my lack of courage back then or large amounts of stupidity, I found, thanks to Leafy, that I could tell my story, I could talk and not have to duck lest i get smacked, slapped, belted across the face by an adult called Mother or step-father, or any other relationship a child might have thrust upon them. I could write poems, complain, wonder at the joy of stray cats, holding hummingbirds, nursing acorn woodpeckers, loving my sons, loving the world, and a buncha you that are in it, holding peace vigils, whining about high bills, etc etc.
And I have written I noticed these last nights at least four great big huge heart-naked essays about telling the truth, because this was the place I could do so. Now, the stupid part comes in by the using of my own name, but I tried in the beginning when leafy set me up to have a false name like most of you, let me amend that, not false, but secret poetic name, because it's not my place to call you false or not and shame-on-me. I wanted, oh how I wanted to be , "Jane Red Shoes" or "Redbud Jane" cuz redbud is a basket-weaving material and it grows right here on our Tomki River as well as back in the Carolinas where my family lived happily before they were forced to march in that damned Trail of Tears and the Cherokee in me sings for it, and "JANE" is one of my favorite girl names; but I just couldn't write true and clear and real, so I had to gulp, take a leap and scribble right out here for the whole world to see, (as if they were lookin') Robin Rule, little knowing people could google my name because I DO have a bit o' fame and well, I most recently WAS googled by two of the people I admire the most in the world.
A woman who shall be called Tea, cuz that's what her loved ones call her and she's a national letterpress typesetter who is gonna make that tryptych I mentioned a week or so ago with a poem of mine, Dan's and one of her own and sells them to universities for hundreds of dollars, AND THEN, googled by this semi-elderly gentleman (How's that for half a description, Harry?!) who i thought I might get to know in the more regular old-fashioned way, like he walks by my caboose with a friend and I show him my garden and then I bring him some cuttings of stuff for his garden and then we'll have tea (but I had that molar out) and I have sort of known him for a year or two, as his daughter used to be my boss when I taught at a different school and his daughter and I share the same birthday and she's a long slim cool drink o' water and beautiful and dignified like an elven queen, and man, I wish I were like her, but I'm not. I'm the rough-n-tumble gypsy girl whose hair is always gonna be mussed up (I'm always gonna be like Marie in Twelve Night) and my skirt, like Jo March's, will always have stickers on it or a burn or a teastain, honestly ya can't take me anywhere... anyway, this is all just a preface of finding out about Harry finding out about me
So, today's been one of those hot muggy days which looks like it wants to rain, but it probably won't and I'm watering the garden, because if you water, it surely will rain and I see that my English lavender has finally begun to bloom and I have to start cutting it back. I cut Raingirl a huge swarth, which I do every year and mail, and I like to put some in Dan's sweater suitcase against the moths. You see, when we first moved into the caboose, there were no shelves and Dan, being an absolute stone shelf builder, made shelves in the bedroom that looked just like luggage shelves in a train room. Come on, you've seen a movie or two where you walk down the long train corridor and there's doors and a tiny window with curtains on the inside and ya open the door and there's two bench seats and shelves above them where ya put yr hat box (yes, i have hatboxes) and yr luggage...well, dan built some shelves like that and I bought old fat suitcases from the forties (and wish I had more) to put my clothes in. Boy, how I digress.
Well, there's still lavendar, so I think Harry will want some of this, because he is one of the most elegant men I have ever seen. And Dan agrees, as he had to take my hand-written note to him when I had to stand him up for our afternoon tea the day of the molar extraction . He came back and said, "He twinkles." I said, "Yes, I know. That means something, Dan". Harry also dresses in the most beautiful silk feeling white dress shirts that are soft at the sleeve and the back with the most delicious looking chambray trousers or just really old soft blue jeans. I do not exam too closely when I am shy. But it's definately his eyes that knock one into a modality of kindness and truth. I don't believe I could tell a lie in front of that man if my life depended on it. At any rate, he was counseling a couple (oops! and I knew them, which could be embarrassing I guess. I hope not.)and I didn't get to stay as I had hoped. I said I brought you some lavander for yr sweater box against moths and a book of my poetry and one of my hand-made books which I have to mail to Raingirl (he'll be careful raingirl I just know it) in order for you to get to know me better. And he twinkles, tells me he's googled me. Now, my name comes up a kinda buncha times if you look long enough, (through all those round robins. gak!)And the first thing that comes up in my mind is: My BLOG! and he says, yes, he's been reading my blog. oh my oh my oh my. This is the beginning of all those essays about telling the truth. It's now time to put my money where my mouth is and accept myself as that rough-and-tumble gypsy girl that someone might be interested in reading. Or NOT. Harry might decide I'm too rough for his taste. I DO have excellent tea party manners. Leafy can attest. But since my father died (and i DO NOT look at Harry like a father, though I sure as heaven wish he WERE my father),and since Dan's father died I haven't enjoyed an older man in my life and I DO like an older man in my life. I am quite sure it IS because of growing up with no father and Fathers seem like foreign Heads of State or a ride on the Orient Express. But I like to talk and I like to listen to interesting people. I never went to college, and I like to learn and this man is definately a learned soul.
This man has been a fighter pilot, a Prespytarian (sp) nnnnnnn minister, a councilor (still), from the looks of his garden and parlor, Buddhist, he likes poetry and several other things he told me and I forgot. I want to talk to the minister and the gardener, but I am curious about all of him. He is courtly, lives in the house I have secretly always wanted to own in this small town (it has beautiful grounds) and I haven't even seen the whole of the inside. But when our dog The Duchess was alive and well, Dan and I would walk these streets and play, "what's yr favorite house".
So, we talk a little bit longer and i keep trying ti leave, because i know a therapy hour is fifty minutes and I don't want to be rude, but he's casual, puts his arm around me and i put my arm around him and (that's when I felt that shirt, oh that is a grand shirt)he just keeps talking putting everyone at ease and then I 'escape' because of the couple. So now I have his phone number and I'm to call and come for tea, but I'm so shy and I got home and there was a message from the furniture store about moving our bed in, which we have paid alot on, and hopefully get the check from the woman who bought my $1,000 book to finish paying for the bed, and then, maybe I can have time and even invite Harry over for tea. What a day.