Friday, September 21, 2012

Losing the Run of Myself


Up on the hill behind the house the cornflowers grow wild.


Seems like that, lately. Three half-read books on the go, a knitting design that won't settle in and throw itself down.  A writing deadline that mumbles around in my head. Half-finished files of the paying kind languishing beside the desk.

A handyman who is thousands of kilometres away but promises to be here next week to finish off some half-completed essential work.

Idiotic paragraphs assemble themselves like soldiers in my head.

"She held herself like a rebuke to the rest of them: tall, spare of flesh and hair, without bleach or cosmetics.  By comparison, her companions looked overly plump, peroxided, lipsticked, almost tartish."
 
I completed a long and winding grant application to sustain me through the weather of writing another play which is in my head and encompasses, possibly, Skype rehearsals. Two countries, one play kind of thing. Unfortunately, I can't afford to hold my nose and jump into the uncharted waters of no income while this gets created. If only dreams were crusts of bread. La sigh.

My sleep-dreams are about my father. A very helpful father who points out the error of my ways and assists me in setting all my (real) ducks in a row.

As my friend the Jungian analyst says to me: when you dream about your father it means that you are slightly (a lot - he is kind) out of control and your inner male is emerging to help.

Daughter arrives tomorrow for a week, having travelled the length (width?) of Canada from Vancouver, tenting all the way just about and on her own. Brava Daughter, the adventurer.

On the home front, Hurricane Leslie murdered one of my oldest maples which was just reddening up for the fall. I felt unreasonably anguished at the sight of her all horizontal, bruised and broken. But the oddest thing, as soon as her branches were chainsawed off, she rose from the dead and righted herself, proud and tall. I plan to reshape her into some garden furniture once she's dry. A picture of this astonishing sight will follow when I gather my vanishing wits and exit with a camera around my neck.





18 comments:

  1. It must be the season for a furrow full of unfinished projects and tasks. I pulled up the drawbridge the other day in order to concentrate & complete just one knitting project. Two days later and all I need to do is stitch the seams.

    Now for the mountain of paperwork!

    Enjoy your daughter's visit.

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  2. But the oddest thing, as soon as her branches were chainsawed off, she rose from the dead and righted herself, proud and tall.

    I think you are in the midst of doing the same thing for yourself.

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  3. I feel anguish over my trees too, heck, i have some I talk too :S

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  4. The maple tree is a metaphor for the life you're living now. All your tomorrows are other days.

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  5. GM:
    I do believe you nailed it, the season of regret, reflection and re-invention, we need to take time.
    XO
    WWW

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  6. Marcia:
    Oh my. Yes. How astute.

    I need to trim down, in every sense of the word. I think I gained 30 lbs on Irish food, it was so good.

    XO
    WWW

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  7. CC12:
    And some I hug too, I feel so grief stricken over this one.
    XO
    WWW

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  8. Marc:

    Everyone is so deep today, yes you are absolutely right.

    XO
    WWW

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  9. Condolences on the damaged tree, WWW. So glad it has recovered, at least in part.

    We're still mourning the big old maple in our front yard we had to have taken down completely a few months ago.....killed by last year's drought and ultra-high temps.

    Ditto to the Daughter - wow - tenting all the way! That was very brave indeed!

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  10. I feel very light hearted and cheerful if that's any comfort to you. Not everyone is burdened down and scattered by the fall. It's a time of rebirth too.

    I love that piece of prose you wrote. I wouldn't change a thing about it.

    xox

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  11. Thanks T, I don't think she survived, she just went upright from her horizontal.
    Sympathies on your tree too, always a wrench.
    Daughter is very brave.
    XO
    WWW

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  12. Good for you Irene!

    Thanks for the bit on the prose, I based it on a real-life situation!

    XO
    WWW

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  13. A great week ahead for you.

    I look forward to your photographs of what you see before you reshape and after reshaping.

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  14. I too love trees. Have tried to plant at least one and often many at every place we've lived, there have been many. At least the trees & mother earth will know I've been here...

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  15. Good luck with juggling all the competing priorities. I always find that whatever really needs to be done mysteriously gets done.

    It's always sad when a majestic old tree gets demolished. But what a good idea to make some practical use of what's left.

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  16. Brighid:
    I planted a slew of them a couple of years ago and they all died. :(
    They were partially under the shade of the big old maple.
    XO
    WWW

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  17. Nick:
    As always, the mind is a super busy place with very little bearing on reality!
    All will get taken care of.
    XO
    WWW

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