from
the sea (5) – merging and menopause, flower storm, part o of 2, by freda karpf
“…the
waves most of us know best are wind waves.” Rachel Carson
There's not a broad band of sunlight on a
field of flowers pulsing with color enough to compete with the memory of her
lover. There are some birds picking at
the grass for seeds. She could hear the
rustle of the leaves and see the shadows of the late afternoon sun. It's all so pretty and tame and her lover was
there too, in everything.
~
She was filled with days and desire.
~
She followed the lines in her hand like a
palm reader and remembered last night’s dream.
It looked like her hands had ropes growing on them; so many lines were
braided and turned. It was daytime in
the dream. The air hung like drapes.
When she was heading home to make soup she noticed the cut end of firewood
on the side of the road.
~
Making soup is a way to make sense of the
world.
~
In the ways that the creatures of the sea
spawn, with sperm left to the waves, with eggs drifting on seaweed, all the
stories of her life came round to her again and met with their necessary
catalyst, sperm, egg or spice to become a part of her life in a new way. Time is a patient cook.
~
Summer’s long stretch of days feels
eternal.
~
The salt water dries on your arms and
pinches.
~
The dream sense of space was small enough
to know as a neighborhood. So it was even stranger when she arrived in the
dream. Her presence caused Mrs.
Scattergood a lot of anxiety. She was
dressed so strangely. She had been
reading about goddesses being stripped of their powers. Formerly, they had gale forces that stood for
their energies. In current times, they
were tuned down to minor weather systems, whims not winds. Middle managers of our lives and spirits, the
gods were downsized and seemingly doomed to a corporate world where they had no
say. Even so, Mrs. Scattergood recognized
Baubo and her breath quickened. Her
chest tightened. She was where she shouldn't be. If she could only recognize that this alone
gave her power and advantage.
~
Mrs. Scattergood asked Baubo, “Why are you
here?” just as she also asked her brain. She talked to her poor brain the way
Shakespeare’s characters talked outside their roles to the audience. Her brain had many conversations. She was their voice. Forced to interpret and
endure a time delay as well, her brain also spoke to her through images. There is no telling when her brain will
locate a dream or an image, or just the right juxtaposition or incongruity to
mesmerize her with its parade. These can
be frustrating ways to communicate.
Everyone knows it is easier to make soup. This is why Mrs. Scattergood returned home to
do that. She pulled this pleasure from
winter to make it year round.
~
In the dream she had long hair and a long
leather coat. There were layers of other clothing. Mrs. Scattergood felt her feet on the ground.
Her eyes focused on her then adjusting to what didn't make sense she refocused. Baubo felt real. Real enough. Dreams are a
part of the life we live, whether acknowledged or not, remembered or not.
~
Thousands of flowers blew by Mrs.
Scattergood. She was in awe of their
colors, the shapes of the pedals. Purple
and yellow snapdragons blew past her face and stopped her from knowing anything
other than purple, and yellow. Black-eyed
Susans were carried by the wind past her.
The eyes of pansies. It was such
an odd thing, a flower storm. Could this
be happening someplace in the world at any given time? After all, the ocean is
currents of eggs meeting clouds of sperm.
Before flowers the world was all green.
That was the time before seeds and sex.
There were no spring colored snapdragons or midnight blue lobelia. There
was no place for catnip to return; making itself at home in any pot or crevasse
as it does today.
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