I'm officially at a loss here with online dating.

Scary isn't the right word. Freakish, perhaps.

Here's a man who contacted me on Yahoo personals. He sent me an email that said "Hi!" Nothing more. So, I took a look at his profile.... short and to the point, and, well - words escape me... (copied & pasted verbatim, no editing)

nice guy, likes to be outdoors. i'am warm and fun, sometimes silly.likes cabin camping and conoeing. push over for fairs, muesiums and festivals.

No, no and no.

And....

NO!

Another - and yes, the typos are all for real:

Seeking a casual relationahsip at first. It takes time to truly get to knwo someone. We need to keep it light and have fun. If we make it thourgh several dates, then we can look at things more seriously. There are many nice people out there. Not everyone is that deeply compatible.

Huh?

"Casual relationship at first." As opposed to what, booking a flight to Vegas and reserving the chapel for our first date?

"There are many nice people out there." A deeply riveting statement - this guy's good! I chanted it when I meditated today.

It's the scream that comes out as a yawn, having to read such drivel... yet I suppose relatively entertaining in its own way.

conoeing...
muesiums...

sigh...

Solace

Rain falling,
a patterned rhythm with my heart
salty cool on my lips, unhurried, flowing freely.
just yesterday a child, flushed cheeks buried
in dampened sheets
an aqueous solace so imperfect,
yet the soft-pedal yields
and waves roll gently over me.
tears an evanescence
as sleep, welcomed, surrounds me.

+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +

inside

she stares at them
black isles of knowing nothing
veiled within her
their brokenness wanes
amidst her inimitable richness
like that of a chrysalis
soon to burst forth
thriving huddled
naivety clinging
mystery revealing
and yet, reveling
in transcendent warmth
and tenderness

Swiss Pines.

I should have known from the get-go that visiting any Japanese Garden named Swiss Pines was questionable. One doesn't necessarily expect to cross paths with a rather spookish (and gnarly toe-nailed) German woman (aka Frau Blucher, the trustee), and one odd-lot groundskeeper of 44 years (no, not old, but of years tending the grounds), who took our $5 donation in exchange for a mug and letter opener.

My friend Anthony suggested the gardens to me a few months ago. Maybe it had been awhile since he’d been there himself. Maybe years. Maybe he dreamt it. This I still have to clarify.**

Nonetheless, it was a beautiful day, so after a tasty breakfast out, a friend of mine and I headed out to Swiss Pines. After missing the entrance on the somewhat heavily wooded back road – the gardens lined with fencing, damaged in many spots - we backtracked and found a deserted small parking lot across the road from the entrance, which was a haggard small pagoda with faded signs, the door standing open with not a soul in sight.

I didn’t bring my camera along unfortunately. It would have made it a bit easier to have visuals to show the decay and shamble and potential backdrop for any convincing outdoor horror flick.

Any serenity or connect with nature was lost – if ever even found - after we walked through the bamboo forest at the entrance. And even then, it wasn't so much the overgrowth and disaray... it was the strangeness and unsettledness of it all, a sort of twilight zone in botanical gardens.

In the same breath, it surely makes for an unique memory. And to think, our dear Frau could easily have eaten several children that may have got lost in those gardens over time... for that matter, joined in by the groundskeeper, knife and fork in hand. It's no wonder they didn't greet us at the exit dressed up as clowns - it would have fit so well with that day's venture...

*alternate titles: Hansel and Gretel's Real Demise, Blair Witch Swiss Pines Project.

**thoughts from Anthony: "It's a shame that it has fallen to shit as you say it has. I have not been there since the summer of '97 or '98 - and then it was a glorious place. Once inside it was like being lost in another plane of serenity and escape, all except for the view of the towering mansion on the above hill from the back path. When I had gone that last time in '98 that is how it was, and it was even better years before on my first visit in 1991. There were at least 8 people scattered through the gardens tending to the horticulture. Funny thing was that one of them was a girl I had dated in high school, and I happened to run into her there while I was with my current - and very jealous - girlfriend of the time. I guess I will have to remember it for what it may have been at one time, and for what it was, instead of what it actually turned out to be. Much like both of the girls previously mentioned."

Swiss Pines website: http://www.charlestown.org/ct-org/ct-sp/swisspine01.asp

Fly

Dreams imagined…
Rays like that of sweet translucent honey,
Spun through the shadows of my emotions.
My mind is a soft spring moss,
Velvet, cool with morning dew.
In it the hushed comfort of my solitude
Lulls me to repose.
A spirit unlike most…
Distinguished; rich in love,
Like a gentle hand outstretched,
Mending a broken wing of the delicate sparrow.
With it I fly freely now,
And we join together,
Blended in the warmth of our being,
Once alone…

+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +

Woven

Firm hands, palms warm reassuring
Their fingers intertwined, the boy gripping handlebars
A father’s shadow comforting apprehension
They are challenged together…
Yet a trust constant remains

Late winter, the crocus blooms
So short a life; springtime ends
A broad chest, arms extending, the boy rests his head
Life will pass, steadfast love remains…
An intricate love, woven most delicately

Ignorance and fear separates them
Yet only in body do they stand apart
The boy senses; his father knows
Even in death, their spirits remain together…
The bond lasting and true, that of father and son

+ - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - +

Emerging…

He knows not of the nightingale,
her song a rich mellow call;
she darts into the privacy of her secluded thicket…

He knows not of this secret place
where she gathers in thought,
where it assuages her thirst;
a dripping ripe peach spilling its nectar
over every part of her being…

He knows not of her burst into flight,
and yet…
she will take him with her,
thoughts once separate,
now converged…
a rapture, laid bare…

It's a safe bet that no one wants to read forlorn lugubrious* words about Mother's Day. But, it is a bona fide fact that my Mom is dead, and therefore it's my prerogative to write whatever I damn well please to make me feel cheery about this day. Nope, I didn't sit around gnashing my teeth or weeping, but instead did my own Mom thing with Zach, pilfering through Target (of course I paid!) and then later getting drenched in the rain as we made a mad dash for Dairy Queen yummies.

So, aside from my own Momdom, I thought of this poem today, and it's what moves me as the day ends...

The Embrace

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out -- at work maybe? --
having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you -- warm brown tea -- we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.

Mark Doty

*a fav word to both myself and my Mom... "mournful, dismal" - its enunciation and meaning combined make it irresistible.

Reasons why the single life can be a bit sub par at times (and a good reason why a single woman needs a significant other to boss around):

1. I had to power up the sump pump during a heavy rain late last night, reaching into the ominous webby pit to plug it in(standing there staring at it a couple minutes to get up the nerve), only to have the pleasure of a big brown wolf spider emerging at my bare feet. Talk about the willies...

2. Doing yet another load of laundry that had one lone tissue in it. Obviously they breed and multiply in the washer, and even furthermore in the dryer... (while this potentially has nothing to do with being single, it's tiresome nonetheless).

Zach turned twelve this past Saturday.With it comes the realization of fleeting time and his skillful mastering of armpit farts.

One of the birthday presents I bought for him was an AC/DC Live Digitally remastered 2-CD set. I might add that it was the only compilation of their more popular songs, as they surprisingly and annoyingly don't have a "best of" CD out there. He's taken an interest in rock in general with his recent endeavor into electric guitar (he's currently learning "You Shook Me All Night Long", and I've been patiently waiting for him to ask that million-dollar question, "Mom, what do they mean by...?").

He was with his Dad over the weekend and had left his new CD home, so last evening I decided to take a listen while cleaning up the kitchen - the motivation of listening to "Thunderstruck" seemed like it could be a good thing, as I still had a mound of dirty dishes (note:18-hour old dried out pineapple puree in a blender is a bitch) from a delectable tapas sampling the prior evening. And so, upon removing the plastic wrap from the CD and opening its tri-fold cardboard jewel case, I was welcomed by this cheery pic on the inside cover (see the tiny ac/dc bandmembers?). I can just imagine the semi-convulsive snorted laughter that will follow when he sees this comic book style nudie, a sort of beguilement that only a 12-year-old boy can produce.

Armpit farts will surely follow...

I recently visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art - long overdue as I hadn't been there in over a year... and was drawn back to several pieces, one in particular: Degas' "After the Bath, c.1896". There are several nude bather pieces by Degas, but only one in this museum... Granted, this jpeg doesn't do it much justice - however, I can only say that as an original piece of art, it was stunning. A richness in burnt reds and oranges, as well the uniquely engaging semi-spiral pose of the woman bather - an extraordinary work of art...