"I came upon a child of god
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going?
And this he told me
Im going on down to yasgurs farm
Im going to join in a rock n roll band
Im going to camp out on the land
Im going to try an get my soul free..."

Had a batch of oddly hippie-flavored dreams last night...For some reason, I think that's a sign that I need to start cooking homemade bread and laying plans for spring's herbal pot gardening (pot as in containers -- not the wacky tobaccy). Or maybe the Time Life Flower Power CD collection infomercials that I stay up for with increasing frequency have penetrated my consciousness and are now eating their way out of my brain like an R. Crumb character with a violently wide mouth....

"...Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe its the time of man
I dont know who l am
But you know life is for learning..."

Every morning is a new mystery to solve. This morning has been no different (other than the disadvantage of waking up too late to imbible my routine cup of Folger's).
For the past few years, I've periodically scoured the 'net for any random news pertaining to a certain residence I visited on the outskirts of Woodstock, New York, back in 2003. I don't know why the memory of that day has wound such an air of dazzling interest about itself. I dream about the house constantly. Last night, I had one of those dreams.

Back during the time of my visit, my (now ex-)husband and I were tooling around with a creative pirate who, for privacy's sake, I'll call Fff. Fff did a little bit of everything. Wait, scratch that understatement. He did a whole lot of everything. I mean, the fella was busier than a hygenically-challenged 14-year-old boy in a pimple-poppin' contest. I was completely enamoured of him. He was everything I wanted to be when I grew up: freewheelin', uber-able, with a roster of incredible lifetime experiences that read like a rock star's list of conquests (back when rock stars were puckish demigods).

On that particular day, Fff and I departed New Jersey, plotting our course north to Woodstock, New York. Ever since I was a counterculture-minded teen, I hoped and prayed that one day that I would make my way up to two places: Bleecker Street, NYC, and Woodstock. Since I had quickly quenched my bohemian longing to play the same West Village stages as Dylan & Mitchell as soon as I disembarked from my big yellow taxi, my first chance at visiting Woodstock was the last dream I had to cross off my list. When I caught wind of Fff's intention to survey an estate which had been bequeathed to his client, a well-known author of children's fantasy (listen to me! authors! estates! I sound so Jane Austen!), I begged to hitch a ride in his big white van and accompany him. The man was not fond of telling his little poppet NO, so off we went.

The town we arrived in was not the glorified be-in of my youthful imagination! It was instead just like every career tourist town in the U.S. -- hokey gifts, overpriced candles, steakhouses with special regional names for the dipping sauce. Meh.

We continued through town and down the highway, where we turned off at a large house situated just off the road, surrounded by a tangle of trees. From the outside looking in, the place was everything I would ever want a home to be -- full of oddly-situated rooms stacked three high, with ancient windows that rattle when the wind feels mischevious.

Inside, there were books in every place a book could possibly be. There was also clothes, soiled linens, and the leavings of what must've been the previous three weeks' dinner scattered about the house like dog droppings. Fascinating, but yick.
(As we picked through the leavings, Fff explained that the caretakers of the recently deceased had practically set up camp in the poor victim house and had used it as their own personal rubbish bin. In a way, I suppose I did gain a wee peek into the Woodstock festival on my trip, because the shape the house was in perfectly mirrored pictures I've seen of the monumental trash heap that remained after the Love Generation loved 'em and left 'em.)

Fighting our way upstairs against the tidal wave of clothes and random refuse littering the staircase, we came upon a diamond mine: the attic. Behind a scarred wooden door, we discovered stacks of yellowed music scores, scraps and scribbles of handwritten stories, and a treasure trove of books older than my grandparents' relationship. Absently, allowed my hand to flit over stacks of dusty hardbacks and pick up a random volume. It was a copy of The Hobbit. Hey, it was something I was familiar with! What's the chances, right? I slowly fingered through its delicate pages to the publishing information, where I received the shock of my life. It was a FIRST EDITION, FIRST PRINTING copy. Holy schmoses! I revealed my discovery to my companion, who rejoyced in its finding as well.

I heard later after our grand adventure that the book I randomly discovered was sold for a prince's ransom and helped to pay for the cleanup and presentation of the home, which I believe was eventually sold.
After years of wondering whatever happened to all the random pennings, I recently read on another blogger's site that the papers were of scholarly interest and are currently being sorted through and shipped out to a university in Boston, where men with unkempt facial hair and musty clothing will sort through them and exclaim "aha!" to themselves while tapping thoughtfully upon their pipes....

"We are stardust,
Billion year old carbon..."

Every Cup's a Good Cup

Halfway through reading this, I became acutely aware that certain phrases from this poem had been plucked from the whole and inserted into mountains of graduation cards, schoolroom posters and little thought-provoking bathroom books that have been random parts of the scenery of my life. I found this thanks to another new discovery unearthed by the day's digging for inspirational coal -- something to hold a spark and warm myself by.

Desiderata ~ OR "Things to be Desired"

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.


Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.


Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.


Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.


You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.


With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.


Max Ehrmann

Today I decided that my lack of interest in anything other than my bellybutton was making me out to be a boring bird, indeed. To remedy that ill feeling, I decided to subscribe to a few blogs, do some research on my FAVORITE haunted/tasty/musical tourist town (Eureka Springs, Arkansas), and catch up with an old chum from high school.
I just can't let this winter be like those recently past....

For Cher

A mother's heart is the April sun
Encouraging young life to grow
at the tempo of God's pleasure.

A father's strength
Is the mountain upon which
the fragile root and thrive.

The Master gathers the most perfect
lillies unto Himself,
for they in their purity
best reflect His glory.

Deposit and Withdrawl, Part 3

"So, what you're saying is that this man, who might not have been a man at all, walked up to you at the teller window, and the last thing you remember is seeing his face...although you don't seem to be able to recall any of his features?" her doctor inquired without trying to conceal his doubtfulness.
"Yes, sir," Jillian said, listening to the tone of her own voice with fascination. She wasn't sure she even believed herself.
Her family physician, Dr. Hindenberg, was a close friend of her father's and often took it upon himself to look after his family -- especially his only daughter. Over the years, he had watched her tranform from a quiet, brilliant young girl with an anarchic riot of reddish hair to a young lady harnessed by the refined manners and ways of a modestly moneyed southern town. Lately, though, he had noted the finest cracks in her manicured facade -- odd things that perhaps a stranger might not notice: her fingernails, normally smooth, squared and painted a shade of unicorns-and-kittens pink, were now startlingly short. If they wore any color at all, it was something ironic -- gold, black, blue. Bruise colors, he mused.
And there was something about the way she smelled. The odor that attatched itself to her clothes and her hair wasn't offputting, exactly.... the best comparison he could make was to the scent of a newly-printed book with gardenias pressed between the pages.
"There.... there was something else...at least I think it could be something else," she suddenly volunteered. The doctor raised a grayed eyebrow.
"Last night, I dreamed that I was walking alongside this beautiful, crystal-clear river. The moss on the riverbank was so soft, I didn't realize I was barefooted until I sat at the base of a huge tree and turned my toes up. Then this boy approached me. I say boy... I mean young man, maybe?" The doctor slowly nodded, absently chewing on the side of his overgrown mustache. "Anyway, the guy gets within three feet of me, reaches up, and pulls a piece of fruit I hadn't noticed off the tree above me..."
"What kind of fruit?"
"An orange. It smelled...." -- she greedily drew the scent of candied air into her lungs -- "like Christmas day."
"And then?" the physician whispered.
"And then... that's it. I woke up feeling like I hadn't felt since the days of Captain Crunch and Thundercats in the morning. Everything in my life, if only for a fleeting moment, felt....solved somehow."
Dr. Hindenburg slowly spun on his heel and turned away from Jillian, nervous that the smirk barely visible beneath his whiskers would give him away. Absently gazing into the warped reflection of his eyes thrown by dented metal of an old paper towel dispenser, he considered his words.
"Jill," he began, "exactly how many cups of coffee do you drink per day?"
"Ohhhh....about two pots' worth."
The doctor lifted an ungroomed eyebrow. "At what point during the day does your coffee consumption cease?"
To his surprise, the intention of his questioning drifted right by Jillian like a clear balloon. "Oh, I might warm up a pot before I settle into bed and watch a movie. It's just so relaxing to have something warm in my tummy before I drift off."
The good doctor picked up a dry pen sporting an advertisement for a drug claiming to treat restless leg syndrome. He tapped the butt of the useless thing on the countertop to an impatient beat. "You know, they recently did a study on coffee drinkers that suggests that those who ingest more than seven cups per day are increasingly prone to..." -- he looked into her face, searching for any sign of rejection before he finished -- "hallucinations. We'd also like to check you for epileptic brain activity."
To his mild surprise, his patient failed to flinch at the arrival of such worrisome news; even her feet, dangling off the edge of the examination table, never broke the rhythm of their playful sway.
"Okay, doc. You're the boss," she said, nonchalantly turning to rifle through her purse. "But tell me, if this episode can somehow be explained away as some caffiene-induced electrical storm up in this rotten melon head of mine, then tell me, what in the Hannah Montana is this?" she exclaimed, tossing a dusty leather-bound book onto the countertop between the two of them.
Dr. Hinderberg leaned in toward the aged tome, examining the oddly fragrant object as if it were bearing fangs and poised to strike. It was older than the oldest book he had ever seen. Why, even the binding was sewn with a thread of some unfamiliar material that looked as thin as a lily petal, yet held the yellowed pages with suprising commitment. He turned it over in his sterile professional hands, whispering to himself the only words imprinted on the cover.
"Occupo fructus. Occupo fructus," he muttered.
"Sounds latin," she said.
"It is."
"Where did you get this?"
"The man who came to the teller window gave it to me."
He offered no other words; the room fell into silence. Jillian faintly heard a child wailing down the hall.
After a few moments of unbearable silence, her tongue escaped her. "So, what does it say?"
"It says.... seize the fruit."

Deposit and Withdrawl, Part 2

A whisp of snakelike smoke wound its way upward from the end of Jillian's half-lit cigarrette. Her eyes followed it involuntarily; for a brief moment, she was nearly convinced that she could hold onto the stream like a beanstalk and be gently carried into the stratosphere. She checked her trembling left hand for beans.
A door behind where she sat on the sidewalk opened, and the familiar sound of scuffling feet rounded where she sat and came to rest next to her. "I didn't know that you smoked," a hestitant voice above her murmured. Jillian took a startled look at the offending object for herself. "Well," she paused, searching. "I didn't, either," punctuating her suprise by grinding the remainder of the cigarette into an old gum stain on the pavement.
"I heard you had a seizure," said her friend Anneliese as she seated herself carefully beside her, careful not to disturb the gaps in her long button-up skirt.
Jillian considered her friend's comment carefully. Had she experienced a seizure? And if so, why didn't she recall anything so seeminlgy traumatic?
"I guess I am what I ate for lunch," she said, desperately trying to make sense of things by saying something nonsensical. "What's that?" Anneliese asked, willing to be diverted from investigating an event that obviously bothered her companion.
"Fried vegetables. With a side of what the crap."

Deposit and Withdrawl, part one

Jillian first mistook the approaching figure for a gathering of startled wild birds whose games were often faintly concealed in the tall weeds hedging the back of the Quaker meeting house next door.

She always found herself physically disoriented when she realized the initial impression of her senses had failed her; and now, watching the approaching figure materialize from what her mind had first believed to be a stirring of frightened wrens was enough to disturb the normally lulling rhythm of her work behind bank teller window.

Like the roll of a breaking wave, the bird-shadow suddenly parted its cover of weeds and, to Jillian's fascination and slight astonishment, move with a manner of ethereal bearing over the rubbled pavement cracks of the parking lot. What on earth....her brain began, as her knees felt the sickened urge to sway.

Suddenly aware of the people around her, she began to realize that she was the sole witness to this event. Her mouth opened in an attempt to communicate; her jaw resisted as if it had never opened before. Her brain screamed in confused protest. The figure drifted closer.

And then she saw him. Her urge to panic was muffled by a paralyzing fascination. His skin was barely translucent and warm-toned, just as the flesh of any living creature, yet a rythmic pulse of pink and gold barely beneath its surface reminded her of wheat fields yielding to a gentle wind.

Until he removed his covering, she did not realize that she had not seen his face.