faithrhyne@gmail.com

show details 9:06 PM (8 hours ago)

My favorite lyric today: Free is not your right to choose. It’s answering what’s asked of you and to give the love you find until it’s gone. (Avett Bros.)

Dang.

faithrhyne@gmail.com

show details 8:52 PM (8 hours ago)

The sky is clear and quiet. The air mild like…Bethlehem? Dang Christmas. Even gets into my sentences.
Drawing saved my ass once again. Tired, woefully tired, I came home to a cold house, frantic dogs. The sun too low in the sky to warm the front steps.

When I left work, I got all the way to my car before I realized I forgot my keys. Walking back into the building, my backpack suddenly weighed about 500 pounds. I slammed my hipbone into the sideview mirror of the tidy car of the art museum lady. Dang. I wanted to cry. For stinging bones, tired feet, a voice that hollered too much today. Ears ringing, the museum stinking of middle school students.

I got home and opened the doors to the strange balmy-but-cool air. The steps were a mess from the chicken ladies aimless hopping and strutting and sitting. I swept them, resolved to scrub them this weekend. Maybe use citric acid and baking soda. Tell the kids to put on their boots for some scientific cleaning. A filthy-steps sort of bath bomb.

Felt a little hopeful that, yes — I can get through this day with my spine straight, dignity intact.

Of course, I did, just this very morning, dance for TV camera with grapefruit-sized stuffed ladybugs strapped to my arms and leg, my hat. But, that’s another story. To be aired on WLOS Asheville’s Never Stop Learning segment.

But, that’s not the sort of dignity I fear the loss of. There is no dignity to be considered in matters of joy and fun dances about insects.

I worry though, that my rogue heart will get the best of me. That I’ll drown somehow.
Some people have their head in the clouds. Mine, however, seems to lead me to the horizon, to the space between air and ocean.

I drew this picture today. Could almost see the shape of the figure on the blank sheet of paper. It might be a self-portrait, though the eyes are not mine. Funny, how a face I see so often is so hard for me to draw. My face has changed so much. Once so round like the moon. Now there are lines and hollows. Why are dark circles so dang hard to draw?

And as I drew, I wanted to write. The two practices are symbiotic it seems. Hard to do one without wanting to do the other. It’s a nice process. A comforting sort of mind wipe. A resetting of my mood. A step outside myself, but with the door left open.

——Original Message——
From: Me
To: Me
ReplyTo: Me
Subject: Re: Today
Sent: Dec 9, 2009 6:54 PM

I didn’t draw yesterday. It was windy, rainy, cold, cold, cold. The chickens snuck onto the porch, roosted there because I was reluctant to feel the rain on the back of my neck, to brave the steady downpour, the fading light, the saturated soil of my dull winter yard.

I had to clean the porch first thing this morning.

I turned on the heat lamp in their coop ( a sculpture-coop of sorts, entitled ‘Hand of God’ —) tonight. I also turned on every single Christmas light we have hung in recent days. Our house glows red and gold, the columns that hold up the roof, they flash like a party.

The children were awake a lot last night. The dogs restless. The rain was still falling hard at 3:00am.

But, today – everything was beautiful again. Tired, but beautiful.

——Original Message——
From: Me
To: Me
ReplyTo: Me
Subject: Today
Sent: Dec 9, 2009 6:47 PM

Drawing
Bravery
Tired
Writing

faithrhyne@gmail.com

show details Dec 7 (2 days ago)
I feel like sometimes I am just a detail character. Maybe like those movies in which one otherwise irrelevant character somehow connects all the (other) primary characters. Except I don’t connect any lives on any plane outside of my own story. Which sometimes seems a little strange. I guess. As strange as anyone’s I suppose.
But, I’ve always wanted to be a main character in a life outside of my own, my small families. I’ve tried. Elbowed my way into people’s hearts, often through sheer persistence and the charm of unflinching acceptance. Who doesn’t love to be loved? Not wanted, but loved.

However, those stories didn’t suit my heart. They proved to be untrue.

So, I am a detail. Sometimes I imagine aging versions of people I know and have known but cease to know. I picture them, decades from now, overweight and placid, happening upon a recollection of me. An image of a girl they used to know, stuck in time and the scenery of a past happenstance. I wonder if they will see me in a way that makes them realize just how old they’ve really become.

The funny thing is, if they wonder what ever became of me, they’d be surprised to know that I will likely be easy to find. I don’t keep secrets, so my trail is always evident, my phone number listed. Besides, I can see fireworks from my front yard, my house is filled with an animal family (it breaks my heart to think of any of my animal family dying. I wish, with a fervor I recall feeling as a child, that they could all live forever.)

Though they will likely change their minds, the children want to live close enough to visit this house. Sometimes next door, sometimes Hawaii. The point is: they imagine me in this house forever.

These wall will be 100 years old in 2010. It is unlikely that this house will stand to see 200. Then again, neither will I.

Details. Detail. Me. I. You.

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