forecast - rain. so to speak.

i'd never seen a sky like i saw yesterday. i ran outside and watched the clouds roll furiously, folding in onto themselves and looking for all the world like angry gray cauliflower. they moved so fast - the whole display was over in about fifteen minutes and i watched it all, transfixed. the rain that followed was brief, an afterthought. the weather equivalent of one of those silly honky bicycle horns on a muscle car. embarrassing.

the portable gardener - reprise

today is the first day.

i did it. met with my lawyer. he is forthright and funny and slyly asked if i wanted to go for my ex's retirement money. i declined, with a smile. for all my worry, it seems this will be quite an easy process and, in 30 to 45 days, it will be done.

i called tom to tell him that i won't need what i thought i would from him, that this will involve no effort or expense to him. we had the best conversation we've had in months and months. he's coming around to remembering that i'm not vengeful. he asked if we should each drive 6 hours to meet in tennessee for a celebration once the divorce is final.

i declined, with a smile.

i see things in patterns. or, more aptly put, i find myself seeking patterns in what i see. i like figuring out the next thing coming and where it's just come from. i like to unravel mystery - even if only to decipher the expression that flickers across someone's face. an artist is ever curious, i think. that's my disclaimer for being so nosy. my struggle is that i want to take the discoveries and put them into place. but what place? for now they are these free-floating ideas and snapshots that drift together then drift away in infinite permutations. i need a little imaginary butterfly net to keep the groupings together when they please me.

oh yeah.

once, daily, i would make espresso. some days i'd have cafe con leche, sometimes i'd drink it straight. i love and miss my little stovetop espresso pot and my kitchen i'd use it in. i miss the ritual of it, the smell, the sound of the coffee bubbling up. seems a silly routine to miss, but i do.

though i've always embraced novelty and new experience (along with the associated mild anxiety), i lately recognize i am very attached to routine. sometimes it's routine from another time. i have yet to decide if i like the idea.

every month i pay a bill for storing my belongings in a complexionless, climate-controlled building. it is always the hardest check to write. my books are all in there like so many paper prisoners. my supplies. my supplies to supply my supplies. workspaces and places, favorite frying pan, two danish modern chairs that need recovering. things from my life when my life was mostly mine.

i kept out a box of books and a few things, including my espresso pot, from my daily routine when i moved here. i was hoping to teach and had left some art theory and criticism books very handy. i've gone through and re-read favorite essays. i've looked at the little pot many, many times. i'm sure i could use it where i am now. i really should because, last i checked, my life is still mine. oh yeah.

to the core

my core is killing me.

i didn't even know i had a core until i started using a new machine at the gym this week. and now, it's killing me. sneezing is painful - laughing, bloody excruciating. sheesh. this is good, right?

i started going to the gym about 2 months ago after a very, very long absence. my day now begins at 4:30 am with feeding and walking the dogs, having my coffee, eating breakfast, tending my virtual crops on facebook, walking the dogs yet again. then, i'm off. daylight breaks before 6 as i drive into the mountains.

naturally, i have a soundtrack for my morning. elliptical = pixies, xtc, pretenders, erasure, elvis costello; bench press = billie holiday; machines = english beat and more elvis. i've stopped counting reps and now count beats. i find it helps me forget the torture at hand. i tend to dance on the elliptical machine, a practice that may one day result in tragedy.

after my workout, i get ready for work. i have a very particular preference for the shower stall i want to use and have nearly come to blows over it with the elderly ladies who frequent the pool. i mean, this is serious business. i have forgotten all manner of crucial start-of-the-day items since i began this little venture - some more than once. so far, i've forgotten shampoo, panties, shoes, a blouse and, worst of all, my towel. i never realize any of it until i'm already in the shower.

interestingly, i find that i love it. every single bit of it.

the room is set up with machines unfortunately placed directly before large mirrors. what i find is that i am watching myself emerge in a very literal way. it's both fascinating and gratifying. well, once i got over the horror of the mirrors, of course. i now have about 10 items of clothing that fit me properly. i still wear a couple of pairs of pants that definitely do not, that i can remove without undoing anything. i've assembled a series of uniforms which i wear all the time because i'm not done yet. nope, no way, not yet.

i'm on a journey measured in miles on a machine, in beats counted, in the number of times i forget my drawers, in the steady return to my stronger self. the extreme pain laughing causes me today is, at the core, quite a happy thing.

letting off steam

i dated a turkish guy for a while a few years ago. brilliant guy, wonderful cook (turkish food - amazing), one of the darkest people i hope i'll ever know. the relationship ended badly/sadly. i'd foolishly thought i was too old to suffer a broken heart (especially because i was the one who left). i learned a great deal about myself in that situation - nothing i can discuss in polite company but, trust me, a great deal.

i always look for the good. sometimes it takes a while to find but, invariably, i do find it. and i did. i scored from him his mother's recipe for green beans in a pressure cooker. sounds pedestrian, i know, but that's only because you never tasted them. french-cut green beans, onions, olive oil, fresh roma tomatoes, hot red pepper paste (to taste), salt, pepper and sugar. the sugar is the magic, the sugar makes the other ingredients understand one another.

i didn't grow up around pressure cookers and always worried about them exploding (i'd heard stories) so using one was somehow ridiculously daring. i discovered tipping that little release cap on the top while everything roiled inside made the most satisfying hiss. i loved it. then the resulting green beans... hot or cold or room temperature, scooped onto a thick slice of crusty bread. didn't matter. sublime.

the thing about a pressure cooker is that, no matter the build-up of force inside, tipping the cap gives release. sometimes it's angry, sometimes it's plaintive, sometimes it's a mere wisp of steam. my week was much like this - and for many, many reasons. there were green beans, large doses of hot red pepper paste and even the odd onion to contend with.

occasionally, because the pressure must be released, the release is inappropriate to what's happening at the time. i know my failings and i know i do this. a wise person once told me self-awareness is the booby prize. it's what you do with the awareness that dictates success. it can't be all about the pressure, can it? must be time to break out the sugar...