my red oriental poppies, which I grew from seed, have finished blooming.
the clematis are long gone and the mulberry trees are free of fruit.
they have all yielded the way to the giant azure pom poms of hydrangea,
yellow and orange daylilllies, bright eyed daisies and scarlet bergamot.
i am no longer taller than the sunflowers.

today we sampled the first ripe wild blackberries and today,
as always, I was surprised by a wee little snake
living under the driftwood in the garden. she hissed inaudibly and I yelped,
quite audibly, scaring her away.

i can hardly believe how quickly the beans and tomatoes
climb to the sun.

when i am no longer surprised by these things, I will be dead. 

photo: Kimmy Certa, Bergamot, 2008 

Two weeks ago it was rainy, gray and cold. I saw 5 police cars a few houses down the  block.  

They were in front of Ms. G's house. I called her Ms. G because a friend of mine who used to live next door to her called her that.

She was as old as dust and not very kind. In seven years, there were many  times when I tried to say hello or engage her in conversation.

She grunted or complained about being old or about folks taking pears from the tree on city property in front of her little house.

Perhaps she once knew everyone on our block. Perhaps she had children who played in the front yard and a husband who came home from work and gave her a pat on the behind as he passed her in the kitchen. Maybe she had girlfriends who came over for coffee or was a scientist. I just don't know.

A beat up hearse pulled up in front of Ms. G's house shortly after the police cars left. They took her very scrunched up and petite body from the tiny house.

I do know she died alone. I know that none but the mailman noticed until a week or so later.

Her name was Lillian. She drove a red Ford Mustang.

 Photo: by Kimmy Certa, cotton pods and blue bowl

random photo:

brother and sister conversation tidbit:

 sis: "...and we're baby mouses nibbling on cheese and peanut butter and Daddy mouse is at work and Mama mouse is in the kitchen..."

bro:  "No, Mama mouse is working in her secret room, the kitchen. "

random poem written at stop lights last week:

a hawk in flight
over I-95
is being chased by a gang of crows.

spinning, toppling over the highway,
an air assault.

antlike cars follow the black path
breaking off to their box huts
coughing smoke as-

a flock of starlings sit on a wire
in search of nests where the trees used to be. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm listening to: The Gossip and The Sound Culture

Boychild: Reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and listening to TMBG and Griddlecakes Radio Podcast.

We're Watching: Blue Planet Series

I'm reading: Italo Calvino's  Difficult Loves

The sabbatical was all a sabbatical should be and then some. I returned refreshed and focused (and a little congested). I still acclimating to working 15 hours a week at a bookstore cafe but I'm confident I'll get used to it ... it just may take me a little longer than I thought:) Being thirty four IS different from twenty four.....it really is.

So sticking with the theme of nostalgia, I thought I'd flush out some things from my twenties. If I blogged back then, these would've definitely been entries ;) My twenties were a windstorm of creativity and drama. I could write a book about that time....

The following is a piece I wrote in 1994. It was part of a zine that my ex-husband and I self-published. The xine was called Inevitable Crawl for Mastery. I was working at a subshop in Richmond. I made friends with a few homeless folks. One of whom died just recently. However, this poem is about another fellow. His name was Tom and he suffered from post traumatic war syndrome. He never asked for money..cigarettes maybe and he was a gentle as could be. Corey (my dearest friend) and I would hang out with him at the Village. Sometimes he was present....sometimes he wasn't, especially if the man who ran his group home didn't give him his medication. He was well liked in the area and I've even seem photographs of him in places around town. I don't know if Tom is alive today.

One of the numerous benefits of journaling is the the ability to reflect on one's personal cycles. I have known for a long time that the  inklings of autumn bring on nostalgia...good nostalgia. Some of my friends cringe at the mention of nostalgia because these certain friends tend to be very critical of themselves and wallow in the "I should'ves" or the "I could'ves" and the "If only I hads." I can certainly "If only I had" like the rest of them but not in fall. In the fall, my thoughts turn to all of the people I used to know and yes there are some regrets. Mostly they are regret for having lost touch with so many people, especially after my first husband and I divorced. I was so fortunate to have known so many loving, talented people and if I could I'd tell them each how thankful I am for the parts they played in the making of me. . . even the grittier and more troublesome friends from my past.

While I certainly don't want to seem like one who harps on a subject; I think that having come so close to dying has made me more nostalgic. I sometimes fantasize that I'm sitting at a table with Chadwick, Tim, Marie, Anna, Laura, Jay or even Thomas and we reminisce. Then I listen as they unveil all that has happened in their lives since we last met. They reveal the joys, sorrows and tribulations of their lives and we begin to pick up the threads of our past and weave them into our present.

Idyllic? Yes, but so what.

Nostalgia. Is it self indulgent? It might be. It might also be that it isn't quite completely optimal for us humans to lose touch with so many people from our past. Maybe it is just me. Maybe I have trouble staying connected? I'm not sure. I know that I'm only close to two family members and I am no longer acquainted with friends from high school or grade school. I do still remain very close with some treasured souls from college but not as many of them as I wish. I'm perfectly willing to accept responsibility for my part in easily disconnecting but I'm also willing to accept that some relationships have their place in time.

I feel as if I've lived several lifetimes in my 34 short years and there seem to be a few more to come if I'm lucky.  Will I become nostalgic for my friends of the present? It seems likely. . .

I think this season is especially evocative because I keep meeting up with folks from my past. Indeed, I've been daydreaming about my wonderfully wild twenties and it has been pleasant, yet tinged with longing and regret. 

Something else I've become nostalgic for is the copious amounts of time I used to have for thinking, writing, and other creative endeavors, but that's another journal entry....

Poetry. 

Poetry used to be a very important part of my life. I've been writing poetry since I can remember knowing how to write but in the last seven years I've not been writing poetry so much as living it I think. I have, however, been reading it and this one is quite fitting . . . for today.

The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written,
I am not done with my changes.

~Stanley Kunitz

 *another entry written on the fly, snuck in between naps, diapers, whinings and baths....please excuse the lack of drafts and revisions*