Doing Things to Time. Because That's What's Up.

Greetings, my Lovelies. Did you have a happy Christmas?

Today, a very unapologetic, first-level look at time. As in Time. Which eludes and confuses, which seduces and rebukes. A few definitions, that is all. I am sure there have been, over the ages, many other explanations or definitions of things we do to (or with) Time, but here is my take on it. Note that I began this post - hang on - three years ago. And fine-tuned it tonight. Whatever that means. Hey - maybe I've got time. Here we go.


Killing Time.
What a wonderful way of putting it. How grand and final it sounds…only none of the following are as gravitas-laden as this one. Killing Time, unlike Spending Time, sounds really final. It sounds…dramatic. Only it’s not. It is actually a rather enjoyable pastime. It involves sitting in a comfortable chair, or perhaps standing in a garden among the colours. Or a loud concert. Whatever. To me, it somehow involves silence, or then again there may be faint humming of a crowd in the distance. It creates Time, by making the Time Consumer realize there is, ultimately, nothing really important going on: yet the moment itself is so comfortable, you never want it to end. This can be achieved alone or with another, and it's understood here that the other party knows, immediately or during the killing of the Time, that that's what's up. And they're cool with it, which is why you keep them around. Remember these people: they save your life later on in the Story.
 
Spending Time.
Throwing Time away casually to obtain another sort of Time: the kind that entitles the user to do nothing but to use it for whatever purpose seems right at the time. This can also be achieved with someone. It can be quite tasty with someone who gets it. Cooking, bathing, reading, or looking outside are perfectly acceptable activities to engage in while Spending Time. Then again, so is water-skiing, kite-surfing or building a house. We're flexible like that. You're welcome.

Clinging to Time.
Ah – there’s another matter, for it slips, you see. You can try to cling, but it slips through one’s fingers, through one’s hair, thus discolouring it slightly to a snowy grey, slowly, and for some, instantly. It takes precious memories away, and casts a shadow on one’s mind, sometimes. On the other hand, it sometimes lets the mind recover, to get back to its senses, and to shake it off, shall we say, and to continue on its merry road, and that is when we experience better, bigger things. But then, there is the open-mind thing to take into consideration, and that is, My Sweets, a whole other story.
 
Buying Time.
That involves that Time becomes a currency of some sort, akin to the “Spending Time” concept. Except in this case, it is something else you use to effectively push back the moment until you are ready/better disposed/expecting to face Time. Good luck with tis one, it can be tricky.

There. I hope that helps. Peace.

Walking backwards, looking ahead.

Well, hello, you Sweaty Horde of Screaming Fainting Groupies, throwing your panties at me like Tom Jones fans. All two of you. Hello, hello. Have a seat. Here, have some tea. Oh - oh...here are your panties back. I have my own, thank you.

First things first. I am very sad and offer a profound salute to my favorite blogger Cat of all time, the beloved Estorbo, who passed away on November 16th last. This rooftop garden cat made me laugh and cry. The news of his passing sent shivers up and down my spine and rendered me speechless. Although I never met Don Estorbo, I felt he was part of my life, because one of my blogger friends, my precious B, is his aunt-in-law. I weep wih her and Estorbo's loving Wooman and Smoothman as we say goodbye to the gorgeousest, magnificientest, larger-than life plus attachant des Blag Cad. Tu nous manques, Storbito. Dayeeen, dayoud. I wish I had a more fitting tribute. Eep. Eeeeeep.

Click here or on Estorbo in the menu on the left, under 'Mademoiselle follows', to get a glimpse into this matou majestueux's world, translated by Marie, the Wooman.

So - I'm not going to explain my absence from this creative writing venture which is my blog. A dear friend told me to come back, so here I am. Turns out I needed this, and my friend did not even know it. I will not call this divine intervention, as God and I have had our differences in the past (believe it or not, we once were buddies, looooong ago) and I don't agree with His divine design. But that's okay, we're still sorta buddies and leave each other alone. Although we speak through mediators occasionally. Anyhoo.

Actually, I've changed my mind about the explanation. I won't bore you with the whole shebang - here's the abstract (you can skip this paragraph altogether if you so desire - it's boring shit anyway...oh - and you can skip paragraph six as well, while we're at it).

So. I was let go in the Spring, left to fall flat on my back from a metaphorical fifty-story building, still gazing lovingly into the bottomless-pool-eyes of the man who doesn't love me anymore as I plummeted to the ground smiling. And I am still reeling, months later, from the shock. I feel broken. I probably am not. The silver lining in all this: I've seen in the far distance, beyond the mountains and the canyons. There seem to be tiny flashes of some kind of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I am still searching my pockets for the map and my flashlight. I'll get there eventually. But for now, these are dark times. There. All is said. Now - on to other things.

It's Saturday. I am sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, the laptop is too high and my chairs are hard and offer no support whatsoever. Let me get the ergonomic chair. Hang on. Ah - much better. 

Olive (my seven-month old puppy, seen below) is circling around the apartment, looking to destroy things and generally being unpleasant because I am not completely paying attention to her. She's a baby, she requires attention and caring and constant supervision and care. I am not an adequate parent/master/pack leader for this adorable, demanding, cuddly demon-child. I am a cat person. But that's another ball o'wax altogether... 

I am your greedy demon-child. Care for me. I am the cutest ever. Look.

Christmas music is playing, and I'm even having the customary Saturday afternoon glass of wine, to get the creative juices flowing. My universe-renowned cretons are cooking on the stove top, it smells really, really yummy in here. I've pulled out the paint chest from one of the seven dwarf-doors in my tiny apartment. Quick note: these doors baffle and amaze me. These doors, which are about four feet high, open to reveal 'compartments' that line the walls, like hidden passageways. If you are four feet tall or smaller and less than two feet wide, you can actually walk from one corner of the kitchen to another between the walls unharmed. Pretty nifty storage. There are three dwarf-doors in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, two in the living room and one in the bathroom. I've been playing with the idea of making door signs and postboxes for each of them. But anyway. I'm trying to keep a grip, here. 

I bought supplies at Michaels two weeks ago, to make Squibbit plant companions. Here's the 1-inch version, made a few years back:

Now - this one, he's sideways, so you can't really see him. But basically, they are my creation, although full credit for the name is due with much reverence to K, my artisty, loopy lovey friend who lives waaaaay to far in Toronto. I miss her.

Squibbits, you should know, live in nature, generally. At least that's what I sense. Don't worry - I'm not off my rocker, they don't actually talk to me and I don't see them hopping around the house with their skinny limbs of wire and pearl-tipped antennae. I've still got a grip on reality. Sort of ;) These little guys have been with me ever since, about ten years back, they suddenly appeared out of the tip of my markers as K and I were doodling one evening. 

I didn't quite know what was happening - they were hanging off a clothesline, upside-down in some cases, and they were just staring back at me, completely innocent, harmless, and somehow, somehow...deeply connected to my very core. They are part of my life, I draw them everywhere, and they are copyright, because I am afraid someone will steal them. Just putting a picture up here makes me all tingly and stressed out. At least I've got the legal disclaimer at the left of this window. Look - seriously, whoever you are - they are our Squibbits, mine and K's, and they are protected by law. Back off with your filthy black stealing hands, you stealer thief burglar.

This one, above, sideways, is a bit dusty. He lives in one of the plants at my sister's, two and a half hours away. His big brother, to be adopted at Christmas this year, is two inches across. Bigger. Since I'm kinda broke, I've decided to make gifts instead of buying them. So everyone in the family will be getting Squibbit plant companions this year. I'll even make one for myself.

I'll be taking pictures of the progress in making the Squibbits. I'll post them later.

A quick hello and big hug to my life-long friend who made me come back here. You know who you are, you Home Depot card, Swedish-talking, Shakespeare-quoting being. Thank you, this feels good. And thank you for bearing with me through my on-again, off-again blogging. Would you like a Squibbit for your plants?

A Different View From Down Here.

I am crouching under the leaves of a lush, bright-green fern, somewhere in the middle of a forest, east of here. My fingers are firmly planted in the moss and the soil beneath me. I can smell the sickly-sweet decaying leaves, the fresh scent of green living things around, the rain coming in a few minutes. She also senses all these things, albeit very differently. She scoots over closer, leans her rounded shape into the curve of my back. I've removed the saddle for now, it's starting to chap her sides, and I have not yet found enough leather to make another one. I think I'll have to ride bareback for a few weeks, until we return to the scrapyard. We've been tending things in this neck of the woods for a few days now - I can't wait to get back home. We're hunched low - someone has heard us, and we do not wish to be seen. We were stuck in the crevice under the bark of the white birch in the middle of the wheat field for hours - someone is stalking us. And we are usually the stalkers.

The wood piles are high and airing out, the barrels are in place, and we should reap most of the silk we need before the frost hits. Fall is always this busy. We must make rounds, make sure everyone's tucked in and has everything they need. Our allies have grown loyal over the years, and even though they sometimes grunt and protest for show, they are steadfast. When we gather around the flicker of the autumn flames, spirits are high and we share smiles, knowing that our mission is accomplished.

I can't wait to get back home. When I do, I'll have to go through the usual pains, turning back, towering over her, and treading lightly. She will return to the palace I have built for her beneath the floorboards, with her brethren, and I will go back to the oven, the yarn, the soapy water and the warmth of my husband's arms.

I am the tiny Queen of this Land. She is my Ant.

Important note: I have borrowed these pictures from various corners of the web, and have not properly credited their owners. I will fix this. In the meantime, thank you for your images, they are amazing and beautiful.