Things seem clearer in the silver light of the extraordinary - Harlan Ellison

The Birthday was good. Morton Peak is a fire tower in real life, but it was my tree house for a night. Getting there is a challenge, not for a city slickers vehicle. Made me love the old white truck as we rattled over deep ruts and gullies climbing high above San Bernadino on the way to Big Bear Mountain. Wildflowers abound - so unusual for this late in the year.

There are 2 old pines on the top, a man-made drinking hole for critters, an outhouse, a picnic table and the tower. Its excellent. You have to climb up 2 stories of rickety narrow steps, lift a trap door and you emerge on a catwalk encircling a one room paradise with 360 views, a bed, a telescope, shelves, books on the local flora and fauna, lots of posters on how to look for a fire and that is about it.

After my father died and my mother decided to stay on the farm and make a go of it, she built, by herself, a treehouse for me and my sis. I must have lived there the summer I was 10 and a few years after. That is where I read Harper Lee, John Nichols(I am the Wizard of Loneliness - alakadetmole!), cried as Scarlett made an absolute mess of everything, Auntie Mame, every Tales from the Crypt I could find, H.P. Lovecraft, Poe, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, every gothic ghost story the library had.

It was huge to me and now, there is nothing but a few planks and I don't see how it could have contained my world, but it did. That is where I started to keep a journal too...a tradition that I keep today.

Simon said he had never seen me skip before. We decided that our condo is kind of like a treehouse. sort of.

We were up at 5:30 to see the sun rise and the valley below hold the clouds like a bowl.
I will hold this birthday close for a long time.

Everyone is overridden by thoughts;
that's why they have so much heartache and sorrow.
At times I give myself up to thought purposefully;
but when I choose,
I spring up from those under its sway.
I am like a high-flying bird,
and thought is a gnat:
how should a gnat overpower me?

"I am quite aware that, where-ever our socalled civilization has slithered, there's every reward and no punishment for unbeing. But if poetry is your goal, you've got to forget all about punishments and all about rewards and all about selfstyled obligations and duties and responsibilities etcetera ad infinitum and remember one thing only: that it's you-nobody else- who determine your destiny and decide your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else. Toms can be Dicks and Dicks can be Harrys, but none of them can ever be you. There's the artist's responsibility; and the most awful responsibility on earth. If you can take it, take it - and be. If you can't, cheer up and go about other people's business; and do (or undo) till you drop."

- E.E. Cummings, i:six nonlectures (pg. 24)

What is hidden in our chests?
Laughter.

What else?
Compassion.

Don't ask what love can make or do!
Look at the colors of the world!

friday night - yoga
then home to cuddle on the couch and watch Eastern Promises while the storm rages on.
Saturday - we must have been beat - slept in.
errands and a great pot of chili.
scored at a thrift store with a lovely pair of clogs with sheepskin lining and a book of short stories. perfect for rainy day.
watched the debates and indulged our political addictions until i could not stand any of them any more.
up early. went for a long walk inbetween rain, home and i baked our French Toast, which is a lovely alternative.
read the papers together.
simon is at his writers group now - its a bath for me.
we MAY go to the movies tonight or we MAY NOT.
today i read about a poet that i instantly loved: Mary Oliver - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver

Yes! No!
Mary Oliver

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
small dark lanterns.

The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No! The

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.