Amidst the Mists: The Bridge (1)

He opened his eyes and they looked out at the nighttime darkness of a cozy room, but he didn’t even see that.

The image before him was that of a bridge.

The most beautiful, unrealistic bridge he’d ever seen.

A fairy bridge. Made of lights, colors, and threads.

And he had seen it before.

He had run from it before.

That night…

He steadied himself in his mind. No more running.

Besides, what was frightening about a bridge? Even an unworldly one? Even one created by fairies and woven by spiders with spider-thread? Ones that caught the silver-and-gold light and turned it to dancing rainbows of dancing color?

He looked the bridge over carefully, in his mind.

He had seen pictures of bridges built that way, he knew with certainty. Huge steel behemoths, towering over waters, the bridging held up by what looked to be fine dainty fibers but were actually metallic cables somehow spun together to bear great weight, but with flexibility.

He thought maybe he had actually seen one, without the colors and the soft focus. Real ones. Or maybe only one.

But where? He’d had to travel, at times, but those times he tried to keep few and far between, and also short. He had never liked being away from home for long, even before he had married and started with the children.

Home was everything, and the best part of traveling for his work was when he could return home, whether as a success or a failure. It all worked out.

It always worked out.

After he got home.




It didn’t really matter where he had seen such a bridge (New York, maybe?), he just knew that he had.

There was some comfort to be found that an actual bridge designer, working with real and modern materials, had seen such a bridge and figured out how to build one. He’d made it real.

It was a real thing, in the world.

Not, he reminded himself, made of cobwebs and moonbeams, but still real. The cobwebs and moonbeams were for the future. Something for the young to aspire to.




The thing about the bridge – he studied the mental image once more. The bridge didn’t end. It arced, and it faded into the distance, the bridge lights mingling with the stars. The bridge wasn’t swallowed by fog, or obscured by scenery. It was there, and you looked as far as you could see, and it was still there, and then there was a point where you could no longer separate it from its background. The words ‘blur’ and ‘fade’ were inadequate to this great light-based phenomena, but they were the best he had.

The important thing about the bridge wasn’t its style or even its existence.



The important thing about the bridge was its load.

Carventure for the Knees: First of Three

Let me tell you about my carventure today.
It was great fun, as it always is, when I set out on my own, in my trusty rusty automobile.

First, I had to remove the blankets draped over the window that won't close. We had hella storms over the weekend and winds and tornado warnings and all the good stuff as kitten-cub March roared it's way out as a full grown bull-mad lion. So I had protected the car and contents as best I could. All that had to be undone before I could go anywhere. Blankets on the windows tend to limit the driver's ability to see out, and that's not really good in gray-day situations. (Although it wasn't actually raining by then.)

Next I needed gas. Well, my knees have been bad all week, and, it was, in fact, for my knees that I was going out, so I went to the gas station here in town -- hometown tradition; Wichard's -- where they will pump the gas without having to be informed of a disabled person's presence. We're just like normal people to them!
There appeared to be no other customers waiting, there were no autos in the service bay, and not even the stand-around chit-chatters (generally known in the service industry as the Liars Club. Every business has them.)
I didn't think the 'service person' was ever coming out.I was wondering if I was going to have to go somewhere else and DIY it. But, having worked as customer service, I know that the slow times are when you have to go do the extras in the back room (or equivalent,) and so I waited.

Finally.  
Got my gas.
And a light came on on the dash, one that I never even knew existed. One word, SECURITY in red (not orange) lights. Car was running; no knocks, pings, or heartbeat thumps. Brakes were holding well. Temperature gauge was reading normal, so I proceeded with my drive down to Five Mile Road.
Everything worked as it should all the way there. I did the safety stuff -- long stop times, staying back, not getting too close, keeping in the outside lane.
At one point my cruise control turned itself on. That was interesting, as I was approaching a stoplight in an interstate ramp area.
Got there with no further excitement, parked, went in, got a goopy and painful shot in both knees, and headed back out.
The security light did not come back on when the car restarted.
Going home, yay!
As I turned off the road onto the highway to home, that darned old low oil light came on and stayed on.
Same engine check; no pings, clatters, or thumps, no getting hot, no unexplained or unusual noises. So I continue on, thinking I'll stop somewhere for a nosh, and while there I'll see if the reboot -- I mean restart -- thing will work it's magic once again. So at an approximate halfway spot I did just that. Went to a drive-thru, had to turn the key off to be heard on the speaker (my car, like myself has some type of bronchitis and chronically breathes very loudly)
And guess what!
It did indeed work again, and I made it home with my lunch and to my ice packs and my bed.!
Whew!
What a journey to start my week.

Amidst the Mists 7

He was still in the bed, but sitting up more and better. 

In other words, he was getting bored. 

Tonight, for several rare minutes, he had been alone, while voices and doors

and all the sounds of a full busy household sounded around him.

He watched out his extravagant window as the darkness fell, long and slow,

and the mists gathered off the lake and wandered down from the treetops. Winding,

whirling, dancing. 

He thought of the clean living smell, and wished he was out there once more.

“No, you don’t,” a voice said next to his ear and he looked around but no one

was there.

“You aren’t here, go away,” he said crossly.

“Now how can I go away if I’m not here?”

“I don’t know how you’re here when you aren’t here.”

“Temper, temper.”

“Oh shut up!”

His wife looked into the room. “Do you need something? Are you talking

to me?”

“No. Just – just talking, I guess.”

“My silly man,” she said, came in and kissed him on the forehead and

adjusted the covers around him, like he was one of the children. 

“Don’t,” he ordered, but then caught her hand before she could retreat. 

She waited. 

“Do you s’pose, ” he said hesitantly, “that I could sit in the window?”

“With night coming on? Do you think that’s – safe?”

“If it’s not, I have more work to do on the window. Besides, night air being

sick isn’t true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” He turned her hand over and studied it, then rubbed it softly. 

They were silent together, then she sighed. “Jesse and Jonny

are still here. I’ll send them in to help you.”

“Alright.”

“You have to let go of her hand,” the voice beside him advised him. “She’ll

stand there all night letting you hold her hand.”

He sighed, and let the hand go free.

Not Feeling so good

today has been weird, health wise. Woke up groggy, when I finally woke up. Blood pressure pretty low on first two readings -- needs to be watched. Lowering bp was why they first adjusted the first diuretics dosages, and this may be (or may not) a repeat of that. It did come up and stay up once I was up and moving around a bit.
My sugar is higher than I'm used to, too, My metabolism is seriously out of sync. I can feel that every day. Watch the numbers, watch the numbers. (Now, my numbers aren't all that bad -- one of my sisters would like to have my numbers, and her doctor would congratulate her if she did -- but they are running high for me, for the most part since just before I went to dr last week.)
I already have two more dr appointments set up regarding these changes, and everyone should be on the same page. one never knows for sure about communication on the other side.
Anyway, I'm off to write on one of my four stories, at least, and maybe all four of them until I fall both asleep and out of my chair. Actually, there's only three Works in Progress -- number four is an idea that is just beginning to germinate. I do wish it wouldn't, at least until the others have blossomed a little more (and maybe the one 'out there' begins to bear fruit) But, hey, it's spring. And Spring is all about germinating and growth that leads to blooming and bearing, so I guess I can't complain too much. Not justifiably, anyway.
So that's me for today.
Hope everyone else is doing even better

                                                                                               

                                                            

Amidst the Mists 6

He was back in the bed, back in the bedroom. 

It wasn’t hot and steamy and there wasn’t so much noise or people

coming and going. It was a pleasant place to be.

And he didn’t feel bad. 

He was propped up on pillows, his hands folded across his chest

(that was a tiny bit unnerving) He was breathing easily and nothing hurt

especially.

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with muted sunshine pouring

through the large window facing east. Muted because the sun was overhead.

He’d built in that window to watch the sunrises over the mountains and

across the lake. The time and trouble he’d had installing all those panes of glass!

It had been such detailed work, but he had never been sorry about the time and money spent. 

It was a perfect way to start the day, especially in the Dark Time

that was winter. 

There were a couple of children playing some game on the floor. Marbles

maybe. Young, still wearing baby gowns. Couldn’t tell if they were boy or girl

or both.

Right now he couldn’t recognize if they were his children, or his grandchildren, or

maybe one of each.

Closer to, beside the bed, a tall young man with dark almost curly hair was

stretched out with his feet propped up on a second chair. He was dressed in a fancy

suit. A party suit, not a funeral or church suit. Wouldn’t be suitable for a business

meeting, either. 

For a moment, he was puzzled that there was only one of the fancily dressed

young man there. Then he remembered that that was an okay thought, because

there really were two of him. His identical brother had been growing a beard the last he

remembered. (He wondered how that looked.)

The fancily dressed young man had a baby on his lap, a small one. An infant.

  He wondered distantly who had been expecting before he went running through

that fog curtain. 

The young man was talking to the baby, in a cheerful soothing voice,

threatening it with all sorts of dire consequences if it dribbled anything, from either

end, of any color or texture, even see-through, on his suit, which had been

ridiculously expensive and he’d probably never get another one like that. 

The baby gurgled and waved its hands, which were mittened.

The young man laughed back and continued making threats in a light tone

in his pleasant voice. He was now telling the infant about his adventures and

strategies that had got him his suit, which Pops insisted was a ridiculous expense.

How he’d like to continue that debate, hopefully with a lot less temper.

Not, the man in the bed noted, to not have argued about it at all. That was

honest, anyway. Funny how the young made such a fuss over clothes. He’d never

done that.

    In fact, until he married, he had been satisfied with off-the-shelf clothes that had

never fit properly. They were good enough.

“You’d think,” the young man informed the infant, “that Pops never had

tailored clothes in his life. That’s probably why he doesn’t know it's worth the price.”

The man in the bed raised a hand. “Jamie-my-son,” he said, and was pleased

at the sound of his voice. It didn’t shake, it wasn’t a whisper, and it wasn’t shrill.

The younger man turned and stared at him, his light blue eyes opening wide.

“Pops? Are you AWAKE?”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

The younger man leaned forward and pushed a button that had been wired

into the bedpost. It created a loud buzz outside of the room.

“You couldn’t wait til I was dead to bring in your electricity?”

“Oh, you were dead. You’ve died a few times, Pops. Last week or so, you’ve

been – mostly asleep.”

The room was suddenly crowded with people, and they made a heck of

a lot of noise. 

Too much noise, really. He closed his eyes while his son tried to explain what

had happened to the multiple family members who had come running when the

buzzer sounded.

“Don’t call me Pops,” he said again, closing his eyes.

The room erupted in laughter and cheerful, joking talk as he drifted back into

silence.

Amidst the Mist 5

“I am always with you. Why don’t you understand that?”

The man answered slowly, thinking out loud as he had so often

done with his friend. “The memory of you is always with me. But a

memory isn’t you.”

“Who is it then?”

“It’s an it, not a who.”

“Whos aren’t its? What are they then?”

"Whos are whos. Persons. Its are  things.”

“Well I like to think I’m some thing. Some kind of a thing.”

“I like to think you’re a person. Even when you aren’t anymore.”

“Yet here I am.”

“Here you are.”

They fell silent. 

They waited, together, in a place that didn’t (shouldn’t) exist, where their

presence together was as tangible as the strong friendship (love) between

them.

Both bodies and spirits seemed made whole out of the fog, by the fog,

and they rested as part of the fog. 

The fog itself swirled and rippled around them, lightening and darkening,

and in general deepening and entwining, until there was nothing to be seen but the

glimmering light and the embracing cloud.

Amidst the Mists 4

He was back in the fog, back at the rock, back with his friend Mark,

who was chipping at the rock with his knife.

Who was being a bit unfriendly. “You know you should go back, they

still need you.”

“I don’t have to hurry, I can be with you a while.”

“You are, always.”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”

“I don’t want you here. I want you there. With them. Alive. Having

tomorrows.” 

He gestured at the fog. “Not this.”

“Yeah, I prefer sunshine, myself. But you aren’t there. “

“I am. Always.”

“I never see you there.”

“Liar. You see me every time you look into my sons’ faces, or watch them

walk into or out of a room.”

He thought that over for a long moment. “No.”

“No?”

“I see parts of you in parts of them. But they aren’t you and you aren’t them.

I want you.”

“I’m telling you, I’m there. As there as I can be.”

“Then how come I never see you?”

“Because you look with your eyes closed.”

“That’s us’ly the best way to see things that don’t exist.”

“I exist. I’m here, am I not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining you. Hallucinating.”

“If I’m a hallucination, what does that make you, here, with me?’

“If I go back –”

“When you go back.”

“Will I be a cripple? An invalid?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

He shrugged. “When I’m here, it doesn’t,” he paused. “When I’m with you.”

Amidst the Mists, pt 2 of Part 3

For a moment, or so it seemed, he was back in the fog, in the thick almost substantial parts of it, but sounds drew him back to the bed.

Sounds of footsteps. 

Sounds of voices. 

Three people, out in the hall. Tall, male. Working men, wearing boots, that they were taking off, from the sounds. Weren't they supposed to do that out on the porch? 

A slammed door on a rush of wind and rain hitting the inside floor answered that. Rain coming from that direction, the porch was probably inundated. 

Only one of the men came to the door(?) of the room. "Any change?" he asked, but not like he expected an answer. 

The hand woman said yes and the doctor woman said no. 

The doctor elaborated that there had been no physical change worth mentioning. Irregular breathing irregularities, but that was to be expected. No signs of returning consciousness. 

The other woman said, in a warm positive tone, that she felt a difference.  That he WAS coming back from wherever he'd gone. She KNEW, she just knew.

There was no doubt in her voice or in her words. Her surety warmed him from the inside as her hands had his outside, and he knew he could sleep, and rest, as he knew he needed to.

Mage, Madrigal, Mama

 For the last couple of months, In between writing bits and pieces of stories, when I've been playing around on Facebook, I've been getting/doing a lot of "off the grid" and "survivalist" items. Some of these have been links to quizzes and such. 

So far the longest I'll survive on my own is about ten days, because I have very few hunter/gathering skills. 

I admit it.

I don't.

And I should. 

I have the knowledge stored somewhere in my being. All my life I have looked at weeds and herbs and known that they can be used for healing and helping, but I can rarely put a name to the plants or have any conscious knowledge of how to use them.

But I  know I know this stuff. Why can't I bring it forth?

In fact, on rare occasion, I have needed, seen something, and used it appropriately in "emergency" situations. Once for fever, once for bleeding. Those were interesting experiences, and I don't remember what I used, for sure. I think it was plantain leaves for the bleeding and some kind of flower (rose? lavender?) for a wash for the fever. Thought about a tea, but the thinking brain said no. Too risky without knowledge to have someone ingest it. 

BUT -- the (non)survivalist in me has a better chance as a member of a tribe, clan, or other grouping. 

The quizzes and skill tests through the computer rank me very high. 

As a wise-woman, as a  story teller, and as a keeper of the flame, able to both hold the old traditions and reach out and embrace the new ideas and ways.

I am mage, madrigal, and Mother. 

I am of great value to my tribe as a GrandMother. 

The funny thing is, this suits me very well. 

I'll keep the kids entertained while others do the hunting/ gathering. 

I'll keep the perpetual pot of perpetual stew over the embers. 

I'll make the coffee!

What really strikes me about these designations, under these situations and circumstances is the acknowledgement that this is a role with importance. In a survival situation, which I will only survive -- for only ten days or so -- because I can build a shelter with a fire near running water, my value is as a bringer of words. 

Somehow, one would think the others would leave me there to dwindle and starve. But according to these different groups, I still have value. Practical value, as I can cook. Maybe not well, but survival level at least. 

But the other values?

There is something somehow reassuring that the ones who create these tests and trials think to put any value on the Mystic and Traditional, and to find worth in song and story.

Or am I reading it all wrong, and this is a polite way of saying "You are worthless. Just stay out of Our Way!"?

Amidst the Mists, pt 1 of Part 3

    He was sweating again, and gasping, and he was in a hot place. He

hoped he hadn’t died yet, as that was a bad sign if he was, when

suddenly sound was all around him, as overwhelming as the heat.

       Maybe not though, as the heat felt and smelled steamy rather than ashy.

They probably didn’t have water to make steam in the bad place. Unless

somebody was melting a snowball? (What did that mean?)

    Voices, and people were moving around. A mix of male and female voices,

as well as children’s voices more distant. He knew the voices, and was

satisfied they were NOT dead people, so he must not be either.

That was a good thing. 

Maybe?

    He tried to take in a deep breath, but somehow choked on it,

and, good lord did it hurt! Breathing wasn’t supposed to hurt

living people, although sometimes it did.

If they were sick or something.

He stopped choking and managed a swallow of air that (still) left him panting. 

At the sound of the breath, the voices rose, and congregated closer to him,

speaking quickly to one another and doing things to him, although he was

unsure of what they were doing.

    Whatever it was they were doing, it did ease the squeeze from breathing

and his breaths were not so loud and raspy now.

    The panic over breathing calmed, and he began to make more sense

(if one could call it that) of his situation.  He was lying on his back, propped

up on pillows. He was covered with at least two quilts or blankets. (They weren’t

effective.Despite the hot and humid room, he was cold, cold, cold.) He wished he could put his arms and hands under the covers and pull them up around his neck, if not over his head. 

    He thought the thoughts, but nothing changed. His arms and hands were still

lying beside him on the outside of the covers. How very strange that they weren’t

doing anything. 

He managed one deep breath. That was better. 

    There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Some medicine they had given him?

The taste was familiar, although he couldn’t name it. Probably something he

had given others when his plants and concoctions had been the only

medicines available. 

That was a long time ago. He’d lost interest after Mark was killed, plus they’d

had a doctor by then, for all the good she’d done. 

Aha! That was one of the voices. The lady doctor. She was probably the one

who kept picking up his hand by the wrist and holding it for short minutes

at a time.

“His hands are so cold,” the other female voice said. She was sitting on the

bed (?) next to him, holding his other hand, fingers entwined. 

He liked that. He liked the holding, and he liked that her hands holding his

were warm. Her voice was warm, too, and worried. 

She shouldn’t be worrying about things right now. 

Actually, she shouldn’t be worrying about anything. Didn’t he take care of

everything for her? For her and – and what? Or who?

    He struggled to hold onto the thought, but it slipped away from him,

like the vapors filling the air.