Obligatory "Green" Post in Honor of St. Patrick's Day (so I am not kicked off of the blogosphere)

Even though it provides me with a ready excuse to drink, St. Patrick's Day leaves me disappointingly indifferent. I neither understand nor appreciate the fuss. However, I am a redhead; as such, it is pretty much guaranteed that I love the colour green. I do, in every shade. It accounts for a sizable amount of my wardrobe; I could easily wear a green garment every day for two weeks., without feeling even slightly pinched by the challenge. What I do not have, unfortunately, is a green thumb. It is terrifyingly difficult for me to keep plants alive. Once, several years ago, I managed to desiccate my best friend's large collection of African Violet houseplants; her sojourn to visit her sister in Germany lasted a mere 2 1/2 weeks. I followed her explicit directions to the very letter; all but 3 died.

I can manage to keep cacti alive for sustained periods; my current specimen has been in my possession for 3 months and counting. I also have a lovely, stark, and serene boxwood wreath hanging in my kitchen hall. I have been told that, with an occasional spritz, it can stay alive for years. We will see.

I am an anomaly within my family. My Mother, especially, has superior gardening skills. She designed, planted, and kept the loveliest English cottage garden in front of the house in which I grew up. To this day, no matter where she lives, she cultivates things that are both beautiful and, well, alive.I have always envied that ability, as well as the level of interest and dedication it takes to keep such an endeavour not only going but thriving. In several of my myriad fantasy lives, I have a wild, intensely colourful and artistic garden at my disposal (puttering around in it it seems like a quintessentially 1920's English writer hobby).In reality, I live not only in the city but in an entirely self-contained flat. Though there is a public park across the street, it is largely for walking dogs and playing children; the flowers are entirely mundane (to such a degree that even I, with my chronic flower-name amnesia, can recite every single kind with alacrity).

Unless I suddenly find myself mistress of a wee patch of land, coupled with a newly-realized power to maintain flora for more than 3 weeks' time, I will have to stay content with other people's efforts,a closet-full of green clothes, and fantastically verdant dreams.

Dress: Liberty of London for Target

Hippie Hippie Shake

My hippie pedigree is pretty solid. My mother never went to the extreme of running off to a commune. She was, as she will freely admit, a flower child of the "love" variety, if you know what I mean. Her environmental and political awakening came later, as her daughter was growing older. Yet, very few children can have been named after a chick with the nonconformist moniker of "Alley Cat."
I had a fairly free-and-easy boho dream of a childhood--the kind that, in nostalgic moments, I would love to craft for my own (quite imaginary) kidlets. A lot of things were more organic those days (without attempting to be so) and childhood was one of them. The cool, barefoot hippie-aesthetic that informed so many of my younger days is usually not readily apparent in my grown-girl attire.
How we opt to dress ourselves is a lot more complex than mere convenience and colour-preference would suggest. Factors that we are not even aware of on the surface play into the image that we present to the world. Fashion, history and sociology are three of my favourite things. These pastimes, coupled with a love of pretty or interesting pieces, means that I have a ridiculous amount of influences to draw from. The result is that the hippie aesthetic is usually lost in the mix. There are simply eras that hold stronger visual appeal to me: the 1920'S, 1940'S, a bit of the 1950'S, silver screen looks of the 1930'S, a smidgen of late-Victorian and Edwardian.
There is, however, a time in my life--and wardrobe--for everything. As the seasonal cycle spins into summer, I become antsy to let loose my inner folk-freak. This is a yearly occurrence: as soon as the weather turns warm, truly warm, I want to break out the flow-y paisley fabric and put a daisy or two in my hair. 9 months out of the calendar, I prefer to look like a classic pinup or a sexy flapper or a crazy combination of the two. I am definitely more Clara Bow than Janis Joplin. During normal times,I would never be pegged , by a stranger, for a tree-hugging patchouli-lover.
With the above-mentioned complexity perpetually in full-fruit, my hippie-punk ideals are seldom written across my physicality: but they are there just the same. They exist where they count, not in the ultimately superficial manifestations of clothing or shoe or hair choice. Yet, the sultry Ohio summer is all the excuse that I need to temporarily let my hair down,get my feet dirty, and deliberately mismatch my free-and-easy clothes. My looks are ever-evolving.By October, pencil skirts and stilettos will likely come calling, singing their sexy siren's song, as I move into the next stage of my endless fashion-game. Each season presents a different dynamic, and new chances to play dress-up. By this time next year, I will again be prepared to visually claim my hippie-inheritance.

AT SEA! AT SEA! (TEMPORARILY)

Anticipation has been my dearest pastime since I was a child: Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the year for a reason. The wind-up before a pitch, the curtain rising before a show, the ball before it drops on New Year's Eve are often more enjoyable to me than the action itself. Everything in life is made up of a trio of stages: anticipation, action/occurrence, and remembrance. As fun and adventurous as the middle part can be, it stands on the precipice of disappointment. One stage is woven into the next in too infinite of a way for them to be untangled: it is impossible to savour one without partaking equally of the others. I guess that this is one of life's great levelers.
Perhaps this is nothing but a highly personal quirk that few others share, or maybe it is more widespread: of this I am uncertain. What I do know, strongly, is my own personal back-and-forth when it comes to special days. It is a concentrated bit of manic-depression that otherwise never visits me. The giddiness of anticipation turns to black despair once it is all over, and the confetti has been turned to dust.As long as there is something else in the queue, my recovery time is quick.
My mom visited over the weekend. It was not a long-planned event so my anticipation-time was limited, although highly concentrated. I always enjoy myself immensely when I am with my mom. What we do never matters; spending time with my life-long best friend is key. We always have such a great time that it is one of the exceptions to my anticipation-is-always-better rule. When it comes to mom-time, anticipation and enjoyment remain equal. What changes is how sad I become once we have parted.It is relatively brief--a day or two at best--but intense. This has been a life-long pattern for me, in regard to time spent with my family: get-togethers always lay me low after the fact.
I gave myself a pass yesterday. I slept, ate my home-made pie, wrote very little. It was responsible for my relative silence. I have finally expelled it from my system, as I usually do by this time. In accepting it for what it is--a manifestation of what is of greatest personal importance--it has ceased to fret me. I have come to terms with the roller-coaster ride of the above-mentioned trio. Although I always strive for a better balance, as long as I taste of life's enjoyment, it matters little what part of the beast it comes from.

Storm in a Teacup

A thunderstorm is my favourite natural phenomena. One is occurring as I type these words.Although only mild of fury,it has inspired me to corral my splintering,impressionistic thoughts into a crazy,shuddering little form of expression. Rain,especially when accompanied by thunder and lightning,causes one of two reactions in me:the instantaneous need to seek cozy sleep or the impetus to get up off of my ass and do something either creative or practical.When I wake to a grey,rain-chilled morning,all I can think about is slinking back under the covers,stretching my legs and falling back asleep;setting my internal clock seamlessly to the length of the storm.When the drops cease to fall,I am ready to begin my day.I wish that I lived such a relaxed existence that listening to my internal rhythms was a relevant way to pace things.Unfortunately,that is a luxury that too few can ever know beyond the space of a vacation.

Today's storm has made me active and pensive,an entirely unsurprising duality either for myself or Mother Nature.When the skies darkened a couple of hours ago,and I heard the first faint echoing of thunder in the distance,I became energized after a day spent lulling about with no deeper direction beyond that of passing time.Occasionally,when this storm-activated antsiness sets in,I want to clean things:scrubbing and scouring somehow seems like the proper companion to the water and noise and movement unfolding out-of-doors.Not today.A need to write came upon me,fiercely,as it does when there are things fighting to be released:I swiftly obeyed that call,although I had planned a rare day more or less without words.I had vowed to be disciplined,with my focus firmly pointed outwards:to light and fresh air,to a place where thoughts and creativity could not intrude.Yes, I had planned to attempt that rarest of pastimes but the rain--and the real culprit,thunder--worked against the integrity of my intentions.
So,here I sit,typing away at a subject neither planned nor well-thought out but aching to be released nonetheless.The storm set me to thinking,and brought out my current pensiveness.There is something about nature in turmoil (however slight and of the ordinary)that makes me feel more alive,more willing to take chances.It insists that I flow with the moment and not to a pre-determined schedule that was locked in place before present circumstances erupted.It is a testament to the flexibility of the human mind how a passing storm can cause one to reflect,albeit too quickly to grasp,on so many things.While there is no promise of cohesion to be found in such a state(or the writing born of it),to my eyes at least,everything else is held in the brevity and grandeur of a storm,and in this moment.

A Cup of Tea, Sunshine and You

The title of this post, while sounding something akin to an early 1920's love song,belies the content and ways of my recent days and nights, where Cruel Mistress Fate has reasserted her mastery of things.A litany of inconvenient happenings, though of neither a physical nor mental order, has befallen my small household.I am crafting and typing these words from my mother's sitting room,in my not-so-far-away hometown,where I have come for a relaxing weekend of family togetherness. I hope to be able to write a further thing or two before heading South tomorrow afternoon where, the Gods willing, I will once again be able to produce, with soothing regularity,my happy little oddments of writing.