the empty canvas of appreciation

The paper has been signed. Sometime today if the Judge is willing to take care of the last of this years business, the legal papers will be stamped, and the marriage will be over.

It was over in heart over a long time ago. To that I had surrendered and accepted. The surface level of appreciation was there, loyal & bold in statement. But the actions long since vanished, and the level of affection was a shallow pool of empty gestures. In business our relationship continued & thrived in different & more cooperative ways. At home the relationship shifted to one of total disproportions. As if the same man was unaware of the same woman in two locations. He had compartmentalized the activities and I being the adaptable being had readily obliged.

At the studio & gallery where I worked every day I was his wonderful wife. The woman that made all these things possible, at home I was the failing flawed house wife that neglected all her duties all day long & bothered him by making noise when he come home each day to lie down & relax after a hard days painting. It was just over a year ago when I concluded that I love the artist but not the husband. I probably would have been quite happy to have worked for him, as long as I came home alone to my home. But at my home was this man, always relaxing, always hungry, always wanting entertainment & company.
Unaware of the daily chores of living. Unaware of where all the fixings of the home came from. Unaware of mans basic need to participate in life, as the days of slavery were over. We had no maid or missy to cook, clean, wash wax and whisk the world into order.

There is much to be said for talent. When you can preform magic on canvas the way the painter did, you can part the waters of obstacles that others would never achieve. To have the power of the pen to scribble on a napkin & watch someone walk away with a frame able treasure. Very few people possess that power. Caught under the spell as I was for over a decade, the many frame able works soon offer hollow gratitude and no measure of compensation for an empty world of appreciation.

Saved from the wreckage

I was on my way home from the Pawn shop & I flipped my car. Wasn't being recklace or even risque. Infact I was driving my son & friend home after a wonderful day of christmas shopping. The van was filled to capacity. We had gone wild spending. Visited 3 thrift stores, I let the boys buy what ever they wanted. They debated each piece with curious reasoning. The Christmas groceries were on board. Back filled with recycling. To think of all these things suddenly taken & tranisitioned for a moment into a Kaladiscope of confusion & smashed into a mountain.

I live on one of the most tretcherous stretches of mountain roads in the southwest. It raps 14 miles over the summit & to the valley beyond. 189 bends total. I think I chose the best bend. It was not down it was up the mountain where there are jutting rock face of 500 ft of shear cliffs offers no comforting thoughts. I have thought about them many times in the 13 years I have lived here. Vividly when I drove my 70 yr old mother who gasped and gripped the inside of the car as if she was already falling. In the years I have pass endless wreaks. Heard of cars discovered years later & feared the thoughts.

Where I lost it & found the most miraculous intervention was in the slow curvy bend of the lower gulch where the canyon opens up into the valley.

But I digress. I was on my home from the Pawn shop. Not an extra penny to my name I had resorted to my last option. Pawning my Grandfathers watch chain. Not able to put my hand on it I or any other extra money, I was beginning to have a continious lurking thought about my debt & a meager Christmas. On Monday I woke up & just knew where to look, there was the watch chain. I am no stranger to the man at the counter. I have known him for 10 years. In better days I had aquired gold with any extra money, knowing in solid form that it would linger longer than in my bank account.

Did I mention that I anticipated the car crash. I kept having thoughts about the wheels, and was anxious about the Christmas day drive to Winslow through the mountains.

My intention is to trust my instincts more. Guess today I begin that journey again, with different faith & renewed awakening. Realizing that my time in this existance is temporary, and that every moment is the gift. That if I have a thought, a specific thought more than once I should pay attention.

We went to visit the car yesterday. How 3 people managed to survive such a mangled mashed mass of metal is a blooming miracle. I didn't have the permitted time to stand with my jaw dropped & consider that. The employees at the wreakers yard are immune to the stories & emotions attached to each vehicle. So I scavenged and retrieved what I could, every piece more meaningful, because like me they are a token from the wreckage.

A Heart on Layaway

Liberation and constriction. Contraction and adaption. The ebb and flow of influence and source. Once again I am overwhelmed by the current circumstances of fracture. Dissolving of relationship and family from structure and function to dysfunction. A puzzle of pieces that can offer a different picture. A new view to encompass every essential element. Everything has its place.

The Stiff Upper Lip gasket had burst

The tiniest trigger burst my emotional bubble & I have been seeping all day. Inappropriate leaking and dripping eyeballs of tears. All well and good if you are in a intimate space, but I was at work dealing with a constant flow of questions & involvements. Mearly an indication that my peak is maxed and there is an need for an emotional exaust. the stiff lip gasket has burst so regardless of the circumstances it was time to cry.

Since i read Harry Potter and his use of an invisibility cloak I have used that principal of mind over matter to step into difficult spaces. Especially now that I am alone. My approach to today was -my eyeballs may be crying, but I am working. So let them get on with it & I'll get on with what i have to do. A good lesson in the dawning of the age of menopause.. HOw am I ever going to meet a man when I am already batty & about to get hyped in unrealistic unreasonable way. But then the universe has its own remarkable response. To that & every other impossible thing that challenges it daily.

The story would bring silence to a room. A coveted secret to the deeper curiosity of the painter and his wife. Their harmony envied & emulated,their spirit launching & liberating.

Now the story, completely different, brings awkwardness & anger . For few are unaffected by the impact of change.
The knowledge of something so good & right, being deconstructed without reason. A voluntary death of something fantastic.
Or so it seemed. What appears fantastic can also be cataclysmic at the same time. So too, out of this fracture of indenity new universes unfold.

But there are further consequence. A taint of influence has scarred the reflection of beauty. All those who know, cannot regard a painting without a tug of resentment. To know of the tendencies of ignorance is a disappointing discovery, no matter the gage of genius.

Gestation of a Divorce

It has been nine months of this stretch of evolution. Nine months of experience altering adaption. Suspended from the inside with the rebar of the British 'Stiff Lip' approach to problems. But a big picture like this cannot be held in place as such worlds divide. The crumbling takes time, the three dimensional picture

If that is my way of building up to the point that I crumbled. Crashed and disintrigrated into an emotional snotty mess unable to take any of this circumstance any longer. Balling and sobbing so much that the mechanics of my system becomes incapable of pulling itself back together even after endless hours of well scheduled ( my son's one night away) breakdown.

I have held a nobel head in the small community. Brushing off the astonished enquiries with a 'change is good' philosophy, and avoiding the indebt qualifying of my actions and decisions; or rather my responses to his actions. But holding up a front is exactly that. Holding a vast facade of illusion. Its only now with a little distance that I realize that I was probably doing that all along. Living a qualifying facade. A facade worthy of the efforts to make avoiding my own happiness an option.

But that was then. Now the picture is falling from every dimension. The debris a devistating wasteland that makes the past, every impressionistic colorful morsel, hardly worth it. A sad summary for a perfect love story!

Giving up words

Do I look for words, when time would rather I feel and not try to interpret. So I open my heart and in the freedom I take flight on the thermals that will lift and carry me. Waves of endless light. Fragments of dreams dance in endless possibilities and whirl around my head.

So I leave words. I avoid their stagnant translation.

I float I fly, in a world where words have yet to find their form. Only feeling, only heart speaks. A universal chord on which I hum and vibrate, of which I am only one key and all the world creates harmony.

the Kitchen Sink

I don't know what I am more upset about. The fact that my husband left, or that I cannot tidy my kitchen.
I think its the later, My kitchen. In fact I know its the later. My kitchen is shocking. For the daughter of a Doe School Girl from Aberdeen. .. that is the ultimate insult to my mother. There is no one else around who cares. Truely I don't care. I just feel like I am falling apart and this disintigration of domestic order is a perfect example of it. To the outside world it is all somehow working out. But inside the infastructure is dwindling.

As this weakness becomes apparent. I am aware that change is taking place. Deconstruction is the essential part of the opportunity of recreation.

Previous diatriabes will display that my wits are not exactly about me. I am at a befuddled bottleneck conclusion kinda place. Moving from opposing to revealing places. All helping me to understand how much energy is directed me in the wrong places. Lapping after a retreating shore. I have been distracted and chasing that which is destined to recoil from me. But the tides have halted, and the jib altered. I have followed this delta of influence for too long. A new destination is in sight.

Patterns of attitude.

I am a going to have to change my attitude. Because I have buckled and succummed to a space that I never thought I would. The first new man in 15 years. Although this man is adventurous and amourous and fantastic in so many ways the connection is shallow.

I have done more than try and resist. I have told him to leave me alone, me knowing and him knowing that I cannot resist, and don't, as soon as I see him we connect, and I buckle. Maybe that is his purpose for now. For there certainly isn't anyone else and I've got to know the harvest over the last 13 years in this small map of the land. A catch and release technique that really is a strange cross fertilization in a small hemisphere of the globe. and too disturbing to contemplate. Until you find yourself swimming in the pond. OH how different the world looks from within the water. Don't get me wrong. Down here is where it's at. Its reality. Its not down or up, its the now. Now has presented me with an alluring man, that doesn't want me, and seems oblivious to the rarity of our connection.

But if I am not satisfied, then his purpose is served. In this short chapter of time, the season of winter, I have repeated the pattern of my accepting of unacceptance, and I want more. The pattern of my making has easily unfurled at the next available space. IF only for me to observe and learn the lesson more swiftly. Lets hope the formula is ingrained enough that I never repeat it again.

Listening to the cards

Thursday could not have been worse. The Judge ruled in favor of putting aside the default. I expected to be divorce by Thursday afternoon. Not so, there is my plan, and the unfolding of events that are beyond my control. So an attitude adjustment was very necessary. Fortunately Friday brought encounters, and Saturday hard truth. Sunday, helped all of the elements to be assymulated and then provided the most fantastic quiet space to not feel anymore pain.

So the unexpected continued for days, and I am a different person today.

There is nothing finer than a series of coincidents to make you pay attention. Friday gave 3 in a row.
Can I pay attention now.

Little wants and desires, offering themselves effortlessly.

First blossom on Apricot Tree

Was up on the mountain early this morning, long before sunrise. Good long walk up hill helps get the mind quiet. All the time I was looking for a token of the day.

I am a champion on finding a treasure when I want one. A token from the earth that gestures an offering, a symbol. But today no scat or bones, the birds busy. I sat in a new meditation spot. One of the rare nooks on the hill that is other worldly.

My eye have been playing tricks on me recently. When I meditate the field of focus opens up. I am trying to see the space inbetween everything we see. Maybe I am getting short sighted. But when I am around trees and sky its like I see everything as I have never seen it before.

While sitting and contemplating, on the earth beside me I find a old piece of glass. A broken shard from an old thick bottle. Picking it up I consider it my token for the day. At first I think it too simple to be a symbol. Then I hold it up and look through it, I consider it my lense.

What is changing today is my lense, the way I have been looking at life. No more will I be restricted by the limited field of vision. Looking beyond the lense it opens up a whole world.

As I walk down the mountain the blue birds appear and comment on the day. Entering my little yard the first blossom on the Apricot Tree. Its beaming and bright prospects on the stark grey branches a reminder of the emergence from winter.

Yesterday I went to the mountain. Again with a prayer to the spirits, a more humble dialogue. Appreciating that I get what I ask for, maybe now I need to ask for what I need... not what I want. In addition, I have to elevate my own nature to that space, that it will resist the temptation of mediocre and respond to genuine respect. I will know and meet and enter into a different energetic space where in fact I have no needs.

Maybe all this change and evolution is not going to happen over night.
But the programming of though is being reigned in at this moment. I am 4 days away from Divorce. Me and him haven't spoken for months other than 2 sentences each time we arrange the exchange of our son. I don't want to start a conversation, it might lead him along. If I am too nice he thinks we can work it out . I have so many questions that I cannot ask, because he could never explain all the whys. I cannot cut him out of my heart, or life. But he has issued enough devastation in my own confidence that I may be reeling for a while and make unconscious mistakes.

I think I have since proved that I do like sex, ( a lot) and I am not a lesbian, two of his main complaints to his friends. I have enjoyed the prospect of kissing and merging with another man, in fact several other men... But that experiment is coming to an end. It has to, because I am seeking substitutes for a hole that is bigger than the reality, and I can work better on that reality alone, than in the catch and release pond of dating opportunity up at the bar.

I will only go so far in opening to a man. I am innocent to the general human nature, because I have lived in a cocooned village where everyone is family, so trust is a foundation. I function on instinct, but a fracture in my perfect world has got the range and frequency off kilter, and my path is a new adventure as a result.

The curse of the Soiled Dove

I am out of touch.
It has been a week, and with all the instant nature of modern communication I was able to text a generous and honest message (albeit naive) the morning after my frollock in the Airstream with Man of Flame. Thanks to those same devices and forums I know he has logged in 6 times in the last week and not even a nudge in my general direction.

The ball is definately in his court, and I have been waiting and waiting now for days for the ball or bouquet to come back over the cyber fence towards me. Waiting and waiting. All this time in a suspended frenzy, still haunted by what the fuck ! (see previous blog) and the over extended lingering in denial, because at this point in my life disappointment has been the pit stop I have been parked in for too long, especially with regards to men.

A simple note, token or expression would suffice. For goodness sakes he could even poke me on Facebook, a simple acknowledgement that he was present and even remotely grateful for the savage frenzy.

But not a bloody word.
Am I out of touch, I must be.
The nature of a decent man is not standard repertoir anymore. But when you move in a world of society where someone send a card after a dinner to express appreciation, a little cyberpoke after a hokeypoke would be nice.

So for seven days I've been coming up with excuses in my mind to make allowances for the man: he's from Oregon they live differently; the moon was in the 7th house and Jupiter was aligned with Mars; it was Friday the 13th.

The most rational irrational explaination I can coclude is that we were haunted, and on reflection that is very very possible. The building we were in is one of the oldest in this state, and it was at the turn of the last century a brothel. I certainly was unable to contain myself, infact I would say I surrendered completely to him.

What is a lady to think, for that aint no way to treat a lady. If there was a bounty or token that would suffice for a soiled dove, but nought beyond a tossed coin of exchange. Sadly i was just another porthole in his starbord view, and now other islands are in sight as part of his voyage. This man was unaware of his fortune, and now I have adjust from giddy and estatic, to stunned, to gratitude for the lesson a rare alchemy of elements albeit one rare fling.

Finding the soil in which to truly grow

I have always had an appreciation of erosion. The edge of the earth is constantly shedding its form. Crumbling, disintigration, an ongoing example of solid form filtering and returning to dust

Where I live the contours of the earth are mearly the wrapping on a history of time. For a few years all l noticed was the surface, but eventually, like in any relationship, the deeper nature of all things soon gets exposed.

It took time, till my mid thirties, to get a realistic overview of life. Enough to appreciate, and maybe even be grateful for every chapter of my life being essential, no matter how painful or uncomfortable. It was also in conjunction with that, I accepted that no bed of roses is without its thorns. In addition to have really exceptional roses, a bit of shit is necessary.

In an interview on the radio EO Wilson talked about, if he took 1 square foot of soil, he could probably be fascinated and content for the rest of his life. To me that spoke of a scientific and inquisitive mind. Maybe my interest in the earth is also about my inner journey. To consider not just my current life, but the origins of me. Beyond the garden I was planted in. There is the nature of me and how I flourish and respond, or what is toxic and has stunted my growth.

I am at the beginnings of creating a new garden for my own existence. From the roots up there is a lot I have denied till now. It is a strange thought to think of growing without my roots entangled. Without being bricked in by the confines of another. Oh how sweet a flower the possibilities of new growth and a forest of my own.

What we ask for we sometimes get.

What was I thinking!
Which is a more restrained way of saying, What the Fuck! which I did, and I shouldn't have. Except I wanted to, and sort of enjoyed it. But I was in a moment of love and possibility, and he was just playing another game of catch n release.

Its been 15 years since I have done the occasional tango with a different man other than my husband. But life has unleashed me from that formula and instinctively I am open to a new sum to complete my equation of Love.

Yes love, I love easily, quickly and it seems foolishly, but its also about respect. I am certainly not naive by usual standards. But maybe every woman is naive by the standards of modern man.

I work and live in a small community, I love everyone I know. Seeing them day after day, year after year tends to sift out the authentic nature of most people. You can't wear a mask. At least not for very long, because the inconsistency of nature and behavior eventually is revealed. If not this week, then next year. How you handle life, death, community and celebration, is all revealed over a period of time. Why am I saying this. Well my mistake is applying that sense of trust and face value to the rest of the world that filters through our little domain. People from outside of here are part of the other world. They do not consider the wake in their trail. So often anonymous encounters happen where you do not have to look the same person in the face day after day. How they will deal with this impulsiveness of today is not concluded tomorrow.

Now you could say I brought this on. On Thursday chatting with a friend at work about men, and fucking as opposed to making love. We were commenting that many man have no idea how to make love. They only know how to fuck and objectify. Internet porn has given the opportunity for men to wack away recklessly at the click of button, whilst observing the unrealistic domain of something other than femininity and sensuality. Hence when reality presents the real life alternative men have no idea how to integrate and loose themselves in sensuality and making love. To me it all comes down to the Kiss. If they cannot kiss then they are not able to make love. Or rather I should say, if they do not know the pleasure of a kiss, they are incapable of the intimacy that making love brings. They are going to hammer away from the distant perspective of getting their jocks off.

So I declared at the moment of this discussion, that ' I want a man that Kisses'. What do you know, blessed universe responded, 24 hours later. Now I realise the need for being more specific in my requests for manifestation. What I should have said is 'I want a man that kisses, and sees me, as me, not a conquest, will cherish the opportunity and will treat me with respect with regards to the rare union of two spirits.

Is that too much to ask.

Now I am not a hussy, never was, never will be. My mistake in leaping into this particular tango, was because I knew this man. Or at least thought I did. I was attracted to him from the moment we met, last year, when he was in town to teach a workshop. But I didn't realize that was a mask. That was his 'by day' facade, and different than his 'by night' mask.
Hence how easily I slipped when I was all liquored up as this man offered me the most perfect example of a passionate ten second kiss.

Before I knew it we were naked in an Airstream and making our own fantastic kenetic energy. Fabulous... or at least I thought is was. But traveling sales men, move on. So did this one, without any indication that anything meaningful actually happened. It did for me, I have learnt I should be more specific in what I ask for. If I could erase the silly expectation that it would be meaningful to him, I would be fine. Instead I feel a fool. For letting it all go, for a perfect kiss.

Living without a shell

I have always had a problem with intimacy. Part of it is down to the fact that I had very little interaction with anyone in my first 5 years, little communication, little response. So I became a master of observing the feelings, emotions and subtle language of the senses of anyone who entered the arena. For years I had observed quietly from the corner of the room, seen and not heard, as my mothers tradition insisted. Yet I observed insincereties & the ideocincrites that were nature of shallow interaction. The only sincere interaction I was used to was irritation, frustration and anger. Thus most of my life I was emotionally mute. Resigned to a stagnent rigid place of defense and survival. Infact it wasn't until I arrived in America and started to adapt to the continum of hugs and mild insistent love that this hard shelled crab started to become softer shelled, and eventually learnt to exist without pinchers.

Often I joke about my split personalities, but it is more acceptance of the adaptive personalities. The nature of me and the formular of acceptance. The nature of me is innocent and sincere, exquisitely delighted with the opportunity to get lost in the moment, as I am oh so prone to doing. My adaptive nature was to burrow into the center of actitivity, find a purpose, be an essential ingredient in the big mix. Some may view this as transparent adaption. I believe that as long as my intentions are to be a force of good, and to offer selfless support and assistance when needed, I am in a right place of right action. All these threads & offerings stem beyond the immediate gratifaciation and are part of the genuine desire to create a better bigger picture.

As much as the hard shelled crab may have shunned the innocence of such thoughts in the past, I appreciate that the essence of my intentions have never changed. It just took 45 years of trying on all the sizes and options to end up with the original theme.

A scent of possibilities

According to all timing, planetary n such, life was to unfold for me last week, and new career yada yada was to become the complete fulfillment of me.

Instead I am in a puddle of unconguiled substance, unrecognizable from the former self, me, no origins of me, no main ingredients, maybe evidence of washed out me, with supporting paperwork to qualify. As empty as I feel, there is also a sense of optimism, for I've been in an inconceivable place before. From there I came to here, and here was a wonderful place until 5 months ago. But I appreciate the subtle loss and surrender of self over the years, and so now more than ever I know great opportunity is before me. For it is certain to be different from the past. The residue of desires is still fragrant enough that the dilution of years and blending cannot disguise the rare original formula.

I always knew I would never adapt to a normal life, especially if normal was the bland example of existence that was being lived . My instincts signalled early on to tolerate anything superficial and mundane. That sooner of later the world would reveal the magic that I felt was always lurking beyond the surface.

I am curious if it is typical to know that you don't belong as a child. Although I could accept the genetics and family dynamics, I also knew that my formula was the Cookoo's egg in the family nest. Maybe that was necessary so that early on I would develope the skills to pretend to be a bird of a different feather, to hone the qualities and blend. So much so, that for the first chapter of my life, even I myself could believe that i could be accepted by the flock. It was that belief that summed me to consider I was a failure. A message that my mother has been trying to drive home for twenty years. All the while inside me, internally I was rejecting and breaking down.

Certainly I can accept now that this period of my life was a good one. A necessary rejection of the crippled foundation that should have been home. My father, intouch enough with both worlds, to encourage me to flee, leave, reject the predictable path of adaption. His instincts and life on the remote island helped him to know the qualities of a simplier life. Even more , to know the kinship of nature and ones place in it.

I am astounded now that I had the courage to leave London at 27, knowing deeply that I would never return. Maybe it was more of a case of being afraid to stay. That my fear of continuing to live there, and face everyone that expected me to be the robust egg of a being, with the radiant shell of deception. A shell that had already started to crack and crumble and the effort to maintain the facade was taking more effort that I had left in me.

So flee I did. Not quite knowing where I would end up, or how I would fund the ability to get there, but it was in my mind a case of life or death. Death of a personality that is. A personality that was so far removed from the yolk of my being, that the vacume was consuming the facade.

The opportunity of reinventing the self was probably the most wonderful gift I ever allowed myself. Here I am 16 years later, once again in that space. The shell of the last 12 years of marriage all cracked and beyond a fix in any measure. At least now I can see the opportunity. I know what I surrended and allowed to be lost in the process of adaption to acceptance. I also appreciate that life is under nourished if you allow these things to be lost.

So today I am a seeker of new things. All the qualities that I allowed to be absent in my past, are the focus of my future.
This time I will try without the shell. For there is little resiliance left in me. There is nothing I wish to face. I have been hollowed out, so much so, that I feel practically transparent. Life and harshness has purified me. I have tried to be hard and uneffected. But I also found my heart. It was in the process of loosing it all, that you are left with the authentic self. You have the choice to know it and feel it. Options are to avoid it and live from another place




just not a very good example of the

An empty canvas

In a town of 400 little happens to just one person. The ripples in the pond extend far and wide, and ocassionally they cause self induced whirlpools or tsunami's in the outer deltas. To discern the reality is impossible. One might even start believing the tail ends of the story, even if being there at the origins, because the stories can be more convincing that reality itself.

Only a spoon knows how deep the bowl is', Freida had reassured me when offering her token statement after the painter left me. I've held on to that for a while.

This was my life, I was the spoon, the dipstick, the assess of bowl full, bowl half empty. If I was a spoon did that make him the substance in the bowl or the bowl itself. Was he the container, the volume of influence that held a separate gravity that made the vessel contain and giving the spoon a place to rest. Or was he the contents of the meal an offering of mixed fair. An original feast of potent dreams and intent that had dwindled over years to become the reluctant grits of necessity. Just to put something in the bowl, forgetting the original desire and possibilities of the feast and the love in life.

Living over the hill from the center of town much can escape me. Unless I was to make a habit to frequent the key fusion spots where information is exchanged. The post office, the bar and the coffee shop and Town Hall. All offering their lilt to the story. Assumptions the individual seasoning that each teller makes the recipe and influence of their own.

Personally I do not want to add to the ripples, I would rather skirt the circumference and find an acceptable cove to rest in. One without people and stories and the constant hail and impact of unnecessary ripples from a bitter x. So that I can linger in a vacant canvas, as yet uninfluenced by the prevailing winds, and maybe, maybe one day, find my own colors and raise my own flag.

A Twelve Year Cycle

I am here a timid mortal. Old and wise in years, yet born anew in the potential of the future.

In real words, i will be divorced in mid March, a single mum, in a one horse town. Actually a 3 horse town, but my point is made. Our marriage will not make it to lucky 13 our anniversary April 1st. An unintentional date for the wedding... it just kinda happend that way. (thats another story, its a romantic one, and for now, I wish to lament).

So I am emerging after 4 months of unforeseen complications that unravelled during the mother in law's visit for our sons 6th birthday. I can confidently say that if she had not visited we would still be married. But a Cajun catalyst came like a hurricane through our lives with a picnic of poison. She spread her continued threads of influence over her son's world and dealt a fatal blow. That too another story.

Where I am coming from right now is a place of adaption.

Adapting to a world without a man. But my man was never really around, he was here and he dwelled at his leisure. But he rarely participated. Coming home from his day as a painter, he compensated for his giant efforts by expecting the world around him to be taken care of. So my work and effort is still the same. Just one person less in the house to be concerned about. A sad conclusion to come to after all these years. But no matter how content you are for a time, betrayal can slay all the cherished memories. What was was a perfectly framed world, becomes a kaleidoscope of pieces that will never again form the same picture.

So here I am on the other side with out a working formular to continue with, ready for my intentions to unravel in world as yet unseen.
I