The conifer-filled park next to my building is blooming spring green. Shoots. Nubs. Spikes. Little white protuberances. Everything is seeding. Dandelion fluff abounds. Fluffier little goslings waddle along between their ever-vigilant parents. Seedlings, after all, need to be protected.
So it is with my garden, where the herbs are doing fine but the tomatoes are being attacked by something. Tonight I’ll boil garlic and onions and red pepper and make the spray that’s supposed to repel the evildoers. If nothing else, my garden’s smell will make the mouths of passersby water.
Above my sink, one-out-of three avocado pits is putting down roots. It’s the season for putting down roots. Except for me. And the two other avocado pits.
I think I was born to be a gypsy. Have inflatable bed; will travel. Boston, Longmeadow, York Beach — anywhere but where I have to worry about vacuuming and doing dishes and taking responsibility for someone else.
I have this fantasy that my brother will make an addition to his house, to where my mother and I will move. That will be my home base, but I will also spend time at my daughter’s, at the homes of my women friends, and even with my cousins who are planning to retire to Florida. I will finally be motivated to get rid of the clothes that cram my closets and will pare my life down to what I can pack into my car.
This seedy season calls me to freedom. But I blog instead.

I’ve taken scissors to my hair again. It has something to do with dreams. Not the night kind, but rather the kind that have to do with hopes. I’m always hoping that if I just make a few adjustments here and there, it will all fall into place — my hair, my clothes, my life. I often come close. When is it good enough?
There are some who live in a world of dreams. I think today of Chris Locke (Rage Boy), who blogs of fevered flu-fueled dreams. Who dreams of ways to survive in a world that seems to send suicide bombers into the center of every dream. He just wants to find a way to survive.
That’s what b!X is trying to do with his Portland Communique. Survive. The same end, but different means, different motivation, different dreams.
The little house in the corner of a big corner lot is a dream to which scissors have been taken.
I’m wishing a good hair day for everyone.

They are out looking for a house to buy. I’m driving. We follow the realtor and stop in front of a little house tucked into the corner of a big corner lot. It looks like a doll’s house, dwarfed by the huge old trees that surround it on two sides. “A gnome-home,” my son-in-law comments. Later, we laugh about how they can dress it up each Hallowe’en: one year a baby’s block; the next year one of a set of dice; next, a Rubik’s cube. Later, I discover it’s probably some sort of cross between “biscuit box” and “four square” architecture. It was built in the 1920s, empty for a while, and a builder recently bought it and completely renovated it.
The houses that surround it are twice as imposing, twice as large, and architecturally more complex. The little house looks like a spruced-up orphan, undersized and ignored, waiting — shyly in a corner, alone among all its more obviously desireable peers — to be adopted by just the right people who could appreciate its uniqueness.
Inside, it’s all new and airy — bright even on this cloudy day. Hardwood floors. Two bedrooms and a bath upstairs. They would need to add on another room. The builder/renovator assumed that would be the case and is prepared to work with them. The price is low enough. The yard is big — room for kids to congregate and play, vegetables to grow, flowers to flourish. It will take time and nurturning. They have plenty of that.
The orphaned little house on the corner will soon be a home again.

It’s all in how you look at things.

My father used to say that to me as I would scurry about, doing what kids do when seasons and screen doors turn springy.
Actually, as I discovered, that’s not an accurate quote of the original line, but that’s beside the point at this point.
I’m heading out to Boston again tomorrow, leaving my mother — who seems to have rallied a bit — to her own devices. Her neighbors will check on her, as will I, by phone. It’s another house-hunting frenzy, and I’ll be back on Sunday. The mortgage rates are low, they have a buyer for their Boston condo, and my daughter is eager to find a back yard with a springy screen door.
So, even though I just got in, I’m heading out. Again.
Not much time for much else, what with the food preparation (to leave some for mom and take the rest for quick meals among the traveling) and the re-packing and getting the cat set for a couple of nights on her own. She’s still annoyed at me for the last trip.
But this should be the last such trip for me, since, if all goes well, those two oddities who never had cars or licenses and somehow managed to find each other and get married should be taking their driving tests and getting their licenses within the next week or so.
And then maybe I’ll be “in” for a while. At least until next month when I head out for my annual York Beach solstice vacation.

He can say “guacamole” and “sushi” and “calculator” (well, they don’t sound EXACTLY like that) and he knows what they are. He can barely see over the steering wheel, even when he kneels on the seat, but he loves to play with the “round round” (steering wheel) and push all the buttons and levers on the dashboard. He likes to eat with one chopstick, which he uses like a spear.
My grandson is just about 22 months old, and I’m posting this from Boston, where we’ve just finished de-puking the back seat of my car — where he managed to throw up three times during our house-hunting journey to and from Agawam, MA. My daughter’s patience with him is limitless, and he responds by being damned good company. Despite the smelly trip, I feel like I’m on a vacation. No mother to mother. I’m just playing chauffer, hanging out and enjoying the adventure. After all, he didn’t puke all over me!
I swear, he learns a new word every other minute, and he remembers everthing. He asks if he can “touch” or “hold” before he grabs onto any object that’s caught his attention. When he calls me “Glammy” and takes my hand to walk and talk me around his world, I think I could even deal with his puke.
Of course, you know what his new favorite word is.

This story begins in the middle, because that’s usually where stuff starts to happen that makes a story worth telling. Especially if the story is the absolute truth. Which this one, strange as it is, is.
This morning, as I’m driving my mother 90 miles downstate to my brother’s (so that I can leave tomorrow for Boston and my daughter etc.), a little more than half way down the NY State Thruway, my mother and I start to hear something like a digital alarm clock going off. My cell phone isn’t turned on, and I don’t have the alarm set on it anyway. I ask my mother if she has an alarm clock in her bag that’s in the trunk. She says no. And if it were packed in a bag in the trunk, we probably wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
I look at the clock on my dashboard. It says 11:11. The chimey alarm keeps going on until the dashboard clock changes to 11:12. Then it stops. I still haven’t figured out where it came from.
Then, as I’m driving back after dropping my mother off, I’m listening, on CD, to James Patterson’s 1st to Die. I hear the main character, a female homicide detective, look at her beeper and say “Code One Eleven — Emergency Alert!” I look at the CD player in my dashboard and it registers the 11th track. I look up at the truck that just pulled into my lane in front of me. On the back are the letters “LRT.” (Like “alert,” right?) I stop at the Malden rest stop to pick up some iced coffee, and when I start up my car, the clock says 1:11.
I’m not making any kind of judgment here about the numbers; I’m simply reporting what happened. You have to admit, it’s awfully bizarre, especially since it’s not the first time these numbers have insinuated themselves into my vision for no logical reason.
Now, to the beginning of the story.
Last night, I finished reading John Horgan’s Rational Mysticism, which pretty much affirms my own contention that we humans believe that we have mystical experiences because there’s something in our brain wiring (probably to do with natural selection and psychological survival mechanisms) that makes us want to. And then there’s a machine, called the “god machine,” that attaches electrodes to certain parts of the brain and causes a mystical experience. The problem is that everyone’s brain seems to be wired a little differently, so it’s often hard to know which part to stimulate to get that mystical response. Nevertheless, poke the right place, and you get to see god — or at least sense some magical mystical presence. Wow! Aha! and Eureka!
My point is that just after finished a book that pretty much discounts the signficance of coincidences such as my 11:11 stuff because they are well within the realm of probability, I have another bout. And it just doesn’t seem very probable to me. It seems rather mystical. But then, again, that’s how I seem to be wired.
I’m also wired to be a doting grandma, so tomorrow I’m off to Boston for several days, car packed with food, a Lego bulldozer I got for half-price, and a piggy bank to give my grandson a reason to save money. (Something I should have been more conscientious about doing when my own kids were little.) Oh well, I’ve said it before: Too soon old, too late smart.
11:11 and out.

Thanks to all who left comments about the two versions of my poem. In a real sense, my struggle with this poem is the same struggle I have with blogging. For whom do I write? Do I write to achieve some sort of status or simply because I like to write — both poetry and posts.
At my stage of the game, I’ve mulled around to these conclusions (to which most of you have already come, and to which I come around periodically; but about which I still have to go through the occasional process of mulling, anyway.)
When I sit down to write, be it poem or post, I do it because I have the urge to communicate something to the world. Whether the world notices it or not is not up to me. What’s up to me is to say what I have to say in the best way that I know how. And, at this stage of my game, to find pleasure — not status or fame — in the saying. I’m glad that I was accepted into and took Grennon’s workshop for many reasons, including having a chance to connect with other poets, getting some tips on revising and editing, and being reminded that what’s important is refining my OWN voice, not imitating someone else’s.
Getting back to the poem: The first version is mine; the second is based on suggestions made by (much more accomplished poet) Eamon Grennon. While there are things I like about his approach/style, it’s not mine; it’s his. I don’t write poetry with long, prose-like lines. I, like many of my commentors below, like the rhythm of the short lines. I don’t know what art is but I know what I like. So, there you are.
And, so here I am, posting instead of poetry-ing, which is what I feel like doing on this gloomy Mother’s Day.
I don’t bother celebrating holidays these days. My mom doesn’t really enjoy much of anything. Not that, I think, she ever did; celebrations of any kind were her way of doing something so that later she could say that she did something wonderful. There was no enjoying “the moment” in my family of origin. Everything was for some effect that could be documented and recounted some time in the future.
I’m still learning to celebrate the moment. Like getting an email from Stu Savory, a blogger I hadn’t encountered before but who somehow encountered me (through Frank Paynter, I think). I’m adding him to my blogroll.
There are some other changes on my sidebar as well, like the Kali image with the lily sticking out of her nose, looking like the madwoman-in-the-moon. And the quote underneath, of which non-blogger myrln reminded me and which I tend to think was stuck in my subconscious when I chose the title for this weblog. Strange flower, indeed.
Happy Mother’s Day, all you mothers out there.

Is what I wrote in yesterday’s post a poem? I’m still mulling that over.
In the same vein, here are two versions of one of my poems. Is one better than the other?
Verion 1.
Views
All kitchens should have windows,
double wide and Windexed clear —
if not into sunny vistas,
at least into frames of sky
beyond a stand of trees marked
by clumps of day lilies,
maybe a lilac bush or two —
certainly a bird feeder
filled with lilting movement,
stirring morning