Internal Archaeology

The energy is stale, confused, and moving in a befuddled way.  Time to move big furniture, rearrange the stations of thinking to clear pathways and move on.  I would like some illumination in body and soul; I wonder if this is part of the desire to construct new arrangements.  Create and finish projects. Doesn't matter, it's an adventure.

The old couch is stuffed with horsehair, and has sproinged springs underneath; it's a camelback with clawed birdish feet, as if it could walk or take flight.  The apparatus will be retied, restuffed, and if the gods are good, reupholstered, which is not a job I should undertake without copious amounts of laudanum.  I can't sew for beans, fabric makes no sense, swearing and pitched pincushions melt into tears and I plead with inanimate objects.

But on to further discovery.  The lovely, vintage 1950's sewing machine is a Morse, which was made with a Honda motor, and is the workhorse of the species.  I've decided that I am not tormenting myself with sewing; if I want to be inventive, I will do it by hand.  I'll draw a picture of a jacket to pin to my clothing.  I don't know if the machine works, I'm scared to plug it in as electricity is second on the list under spiders, and I've shaken hands with Mr. Kilowatt once already.  Grace of God, folks.  But to get rid of it to a good home means that someone has to try out the circuitry; send me a post card if there's anyone that you think could use a good jolt..

This has been a month of clarified situations, sudden events, and now furniture and what has rolled under it, whether by physics or paw.  Time for cleansing, shedding the duller skin to reveal new scales; I am leaving discarded books and gadgets down in the laundry room for tenant perusal, I don't even want to haul anything to the thrift shop.  Out.  Now.  Several have been given to the little birdhouse library near the farmer's market, many already there are titles that I wouldn't give to a pigeon; "Office Feng Shui for Dummies" for example.  People tend not to get rid of the good ones, but I did pick up a nice bio of Bette Davis.

Life is about conflict, the key is learning how to resolve it, said a very wise friend.  Yet beyond resolution resides the throne of yippee, a paean to the times when everything is fine, the culmination of years flowing into planned success. More simple but no less astounding are the small joys that can get you through a day, a penny found on pavement, a mourning cloak butterfly flittering in and out of the leaves above your head, a bowl of soup, a day of breathing.

I almost walked into the bathroom, but hesitated for the briefest of moments until I flipped the switch to the light, and there before me was an indoor circus of three the size-of-a-Buick spiders, each set up in their own separate trapeze riggings across the ceiling.  Perfect!!  I am retraining myself not to shudder and hop at the sight of an invader with octo-hairy legs, and this was a great time to practice the Spider In A Box technique I invented that works and makes things come out alright.  Conflict and resolve.

You get the flyswatter and a plastic tub, this is genius, don't know why I didn't think of this before, and hold the tub under the leggedy fangy thing, and gently nudge it till it drops from the ceiling and into the
container.  The spider tries to climb the slippery sides but can't, so you dump it into another, smaller plastic container and put on the lid.  The only caveat is that you need a container for each spider so they don't fight and moreso, if you think I will open a lid to plop another arachnid inside while giving the first or second prisoner time to make a run for it, just turn the car around and go back home.

This saves the spider, who has an important job which entails catching flying insects and being bird food, and it helps my conscience.  I let them loose in the grass near the building and wish them luck in climbing up the eight stories back to the bathroom window.  But it makes me feel as though I did a good deed in not smooshing one repeatedly with the flyswatter at least twenty times to make sure it's dead.  No spider paste or spider legs to wipe up with a wad of tissue while trying not to scream in case one of the legs wiggle.  I will pick up a many many things, including snakes, but have no information why even the idea of spiders gives me the willies.

My baby boy was lying on a fuzzy blanket in the grass years ago, when a giant brown nasty scooted onto it, a businessman on the way to catch a train; that spider was booking and heading right towards my son.  I yelped, but the rise of You Will Not Get My Child caused me to smash it with MY BARE HAND.  Then I did the dance of ick, wiped the remnants off in the grass, and took the both of us into the house.  I later set the blanket on fire just in case.  Not really, but I whapped that thing against the side of the tree to shake anything else loose before putting it through the heavy load cycle. Those brown ones can be bad news.  These days, however, I am saving spiders.

Moving furniture, sorting clutter, both are a great way to begin summer, which will be devoted to art.  Art, art. art.  I am closing in on a newer car, and have many places that I would like to drive.  Corning Glass Factory, Cleveland, Toronto.  Whee.  But now the buildings of the city have gone from apricot to pink, rose, violet, and finally disappeared, rooftops outlined by twinkling lights.  I am turning in early again, for tomorrow is a busy day.  Clear the rooms in your head, let go of the clock, some events occurred for a reason, others will never tell their tale; you go on then, take your paddle and ply the waters of the subconscious, their currents ever flowing, ever layered.  Sleep, you are innocent; dream, you are divine.