Spring Smells Like Faded Patchouli

Spring is raising it's sensual eyebrow and scanning the horizon for likely and unprepared victims. That snickering "Bwa-haa" is not me, but the ee-vile seduction call of the husky-voiced
Centaur of Endorphina, and he will be obeyed. (snicker snicker) I can hear his hairy palms and bowed quads rubbing together all the way over here on the Edge of No Man's Land. The heady perfume of warm breezes and the irresistible elixir of Oregon brewed spirits will overpower the staunchest hard-to-get player and crossed-armed hold-out, and then the tango will begin. (Not with the Centaur, that's pretty awkward and he has those hind feet). With your belov-ed, intended, novio o novia, your new lah-vah.

There are new cars overnight in my neighbors' driveways, late night giggling in the hot tub next door, a new doggie at my landlady's door when I come in, a new baby on the way at my other neighbors', a friend who juggles two cross-country, another who's interest in dancing put a rose in her teeth, and now the guy across the street with a second wife. Sheesh. Centaur of Endorphina indeed, and it's only the 6th of March---the crocuses aren't even finished yet, and we are having a few 60 degree sunny days so everyone winds up in bed (or in love, or at the Saturday Market, or standing in front of their closet pulling their hair out)

Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I mean, given the right circumstances...

Actually, NOW would be a great time to meet someone and have it click, because I'M NOT WORKING. I actually have the time and attention to really get to know a person. And have them get to know me. The unemployed, drifting, check-waiting, mooning artist with two cats and a small apartment who loves her life at 45. Who has champagne in the fridge, a great mind, and nice nails for the first time in over ten years. "What's not to love?"

The forsythia in my neighbor's back yard came out yesterday, and even more so today. The coral blush Camellia and sour red flowering crab apple facing south are hovering over the yellow bristling spikes. Beneath spreads a lustrous Persian carpet of crocuses and iridescent green mosses, with grassy daffodil recruits leaning in and almost ready to shine. The leafless trees don't block any of the restorative blue sky on this warm day, and suddenly three hours had passed on my front porch, and I could feel the sap beneath the house simmering, the old-growth timbers remembering the sun. A handful of crows jeered at the romantic silliness of it all, then ragged away to the north cedar tree where they have a big messy nest. I guess the crow shows up with an impressive bauble but is a suitor of few flowery sentiments. And neither of them do housework.

Whore-Bag of Leisure

It's true---I have osmosed into the lay-about I was terrified of lapsing into---with relish!

Let me do-tell first, before admonishing my losing of ambition, abandoning of work ethic, and submersing into magazines.

I am regularly attending an early morning yoga/pilates class, 3 a week. (there!)
Items are being ticked off the endless TO DO list.
I am reading re-invention books, researching work-at-home stuff online, getting ideas of things to do for money, and staying on the phone to get the Company to finally pay me off. It is taking longer than any of us thought, and more hounding.
The dreaded futon cover project has begun.
My computer update project is now running smoothly, geekgods be praised!!
Almost every sticker signifying personal property brought to company property has been removed from my music and the boxes are all unpacked.

There have also been flashes of insight that don't make the scale of worthy endeavors clunk with significance, but they are gathering around me like fireflies and stay with me, which is a comforting change from life of a month ago. Being permanently distracted was more debilitating than I could ever have imagined, and sometimes a few of those great ideas of months/years back will surface, and I'm happy to be here to notice this time.

Another curious item is how much my tastes have changed in the last 5 years or so, and again, I was way too busy/stressed/tired to notice. I went to Fabric Depot to look around for futon couch cover fabric the other day, and was split into "that was me" choices, and "This is me now" selections. I was there for three hours, which is another way of time-spending I couldn't afford in the old life, mostly to wander and demonstrate to myself the variations in what would have been in the cart before and now. I found some bright pillow cover yardage of three flower patterns for the tropical bedroom quilt, and a natural flax and henna mid-asian paisley pattern for the living room futon couch. I got a sari-patch bag and found rose rope and ribbon to re-do the handles and lining, and pink thread, fuchsia cotton with loud yellow marigolds like India flower leis---pink. Wow.

Maybe it's the yoga---I want to be that willowy Gaiam yoga chick. She looks great in the rose stretchy yoga clothes. Law of Attraction, right? The XLs come in sage, maybe I'll just start there and work to rose. What I love about my gym is the diversity of folks, I'm kinda in the middle of the age & shape spectrum, and we all just do the class, no pontificating. And that rapturous hot tub. Honestly, that's all the Blessed Rapture I need, and I do not ever want to see Richard Richard anywhere near MY Rapture, he can have his own. Bless 'im.

More Whore-Baggage is on the docket, namely a plot to kidnap an unwitting victim (sort-of) and abscond with her to the (gasp) EAST SIDE OF THE RIVER and submit her to endless rounds of shops, eateries, neighborhood funkiness, visiting of ex-colleagues, thrift stores and general mayhem. Maybe even a $2 movie at the Bagdad. Definitely alcohol. And Gregs to laugh at cards. OMG!!! Keeping my sights as ever on the escapades of the Almighty Whore-Bag, I am cranking up the power on the Whore-Baggery Generator, to create the glorious work-from-home life I have glimpsed at rare moments and desire beyond all reason, for myself here in the funky Southeast. There remains a sense of urgency for this, thank god, because I am tired of waiting. For anything. Anymore. It really is my time.