I step into a thunderstorm of autumn, warm colors lighting the landscape. Setting fire to the giant cathedral of trees whispering of their life. Petrichor engulfs my olfactory senses and I feel a settling begin. With each inhale I’m brought closer to the taste of saplings and spice brewing within my cup. The heat radiating from my tea is a welcome break from the winds cool, biting hug. The precipitation picks up building with speed. Closing my eyes I imagine the thumping crash of water upon my heart, soothing its beating drums. With each strike of the my footsteps the fallen leaves crunch, crunch, crunch, beneath my feet. Diffused light from the rain clouds highlights the grass in the kisses of dew upon its skin. All at once, with the howl of the wind, I am transported home again. Present in a land of vast mountains and crashing thunder I welcome the decay; lost in the perfection of another ending day.

Eggs Benedict smothered in hollandaise sauce and unlimited mimosas make it brunch.

An afternoon of smooth sailing on a local lake.

Short stop at a nearby chapel to say thanks.

Son and daughter are surprise guests for dinner at my favorite restaurant.

Home sweet home, and in the hallway, I see my suitcase with a note “Your bag is packed – we’re leaving tomorrow for two weeks in Bora Bora.”

It’s not a special birthday.

Just a perfect day!

sleep deep undisturbed

in a room with curtains billowing

spring breezes smelling of new mown hay

birds in the distance punctuating the silence

dreams of people and times passed

my mother comes to check I've not kicked off

the covers of my grandmother's hand stitched quilt

my father bends to give my forehead a quick kiss

then lovers come in dreams

and we roll and pant so slick with sweat so sweet

one after another without a hint of guilt or tension

not a word just touch on fire cooled then lit again

sleep deep refreshing restoring my soul

in a room that passes from day to dawn without me

free from hurt harm evil pain distress aguish torment sorrow

cocooned warm tucked in fabricated wishes made memories

the picture perfect

day

is

the kind

we cannot capture

on film or paint

it hits

on all the senses

and stays

late

talking

in silent ways

every little

nuance

tingling...

in phantom,

Remember when..?

And if

the thought

can squeeze

from

Imagination

something

of equal

thrill

as then...

Close the eyes

and almost

taste it,

almost

live it...

Perfect,

always

...arms

length

06.03.2024

A Picture Perfect Day Challenge @KarenKitchel

Hospital – A Special Day

This could be useful. Read it.

By nature and for personal historical reasons, I have always been a somewhat anxious person.

I generally avoid confrontations, fights and arguments. I'm quite risk averse, and not good with physical pain. You want to be John Wayne? Great. Get on with it. Leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with that kind of stuff.

I especially don't like doctors, hospitals, needles, blood and all of that. But I especially, especially don't like the idea of operations that require general anaesthesia. That's the big one.

The other day, like four days ago, I had to go in for the removal of a polyp on my right vocal cord. This required the surgeon to go in through my mouth (of course) and to start messing about down there in my MAIN AIRWAY. I breathe through that windpipe. ME. This is very serious. What if something gets dropped down there? (slow, simmering, barely controlled panic).

I was called in early. Hours early. But they gave us a private room. Which was nice of them. TV set, huge orthopaedic bed, two easy chairs, bedside cabinet and some high tech medical stuff.

My wife is soon lost in her Pride and Prejudice (which she must have read about a zillion times) and I'm gazing mournfully at the gown, hair net and slippers lying atop the bed.

I get undressed and into the garb and my wife ties the ribbons at the back..

Now feeling acutely aware of my nether regions. How do you do this again? Tuck this under? Sit upright with knees together? What do you do?

Eventually I settled for a Princess Di pose. Upright, straight back, legs crossed primly at the knee, upper foot suspended mid air, kicking gently. Lasted about 20 secs. Then I thought, fuck this, slouched back down, legs agape.

Why worry? Nothing down there anymore. It's pathetic. A softly floppy eternally sleeping thing. Resting between two plum like mounds. All asleep under a straggly grey goatee. Pitiful.

So I'm sprawled there, bored, resentful and anxious. Staring at the wall, while she's gone off back to some mindlessly dreary place in 19th century England.

After a while, and almost as if by accident, I slipped into a focussed breathing pattern. (I've been dabbling in deep belly breathing, off and on, for some time now).

My habitual breathing pattern for most of my life has been high in my chest, generally too fast and shallow, and generally useless. Kept me alive of course, but in a more or less permanent state of high alert.

I was in this slightly detached, deep, slow breathing mode. My gaze settled on the huge bed. Look at the size of that thing. Must weigh a ton. And wide too – big enough for an elephant that.

There was a name stamped on the end of it. Stryker. Wow, some name that eh? Sounds like the name of a guy who'd design fighter jets. Pete Stryker, Jack Phantom lV. Al Tomcat.

But no. Orthopaedic beds and other medical appliances were the specialities of one Homer Stryker of Kalamazoo (another great American name that). Anyway that's what my phone told me (still breathing).

Before the wheelchair arrived I'd established that Pardo Inc. make hospital furniture (bedside cabinet) and some outfit called Fresenius Kabi makes hi tech monitoring devices. (Still doing that breathing).

A guy with long hair wheeled me down to the surgery waiting room. He chatted gaily all the way. (I mean he chatted in an old fashioned happy kind of way) Football, Man U, Dire Straits, Knopler. He struck me as being a bit nervy. Might have been first day, first shift. I thought about telling him about slow belly breathing but there wasn't enough time before we arrived at surgery waiting area.

Apart from nurses there were two others in there, lying in their post surgery stupors. Jaws agape, lost in their private dreamscapes. I continued with my slow breathing pattern - gazing around, super alert and yet totally relaxed. It was amazing – no anxiety. Just completely there. In the moment.

The way that heavy guy's swivel chair wheezed and sank on it's piston when he dropped his weight onto the seat. Everybody masked up, hair netted, garbed in green and moving around in those rubber croc slippers.

Somebody started pushing my bed.

Nurse: “We're just going down to pre med Mr S”.

Me: “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” (but silently, under my breath, don't want to go pissing people off. Not in here of all places).

We're in the anaesthesia pre-med area. She's masked up, leaning over me. She's doing something to me, or for me but I can't be bothered to think about that. It's those eyebrows. How much time does it take to do that? All perfectly shaped, plucked and primmed.

My eyebrows are great. I love 'em. They're thick, tough like wire, grow abundantly, out of control, and all over the place. Sadly they're hidden most of the time behind my glasses. From time to time I reluctantly allow Jane Austen's number one fan – to chop them back a bit.

After a time they wheel me into the operating room. Green people standing around. There's a long fixed pedestal with a rubberised mattress on top. All around there are various stand alone medical gadgets. Above, blindingly bright lights. I'm pushed alongside the pedestal and shrug and shoogle my way onto the mattress. My gown gets all rucked up, but by this time all modesty has gone – past caring.

Soon after this the Boss Lady strides briskly in. She's very much The Number One here. Comes over to me, squeezes my hand.

“Hello Mr S. How are you? All good?”

“Yeah, fine.”

I like her. This is no Ratched this one. If McMurphy had this one it would all have been so very different.

Somebody standing close to me places a rubber mask over my nose and mouth. “Just a little oxygen to settle you down”.

I kind of know it's probably more than 'just a little oxygen' but I don't care. I stay with my slow deep belly breathing and let them get on with it. Past caring.

Boss Lady is talking Spanish in low quiet tones to one of the staff. My Spanish is quite good but I can't quite hear what she's saying. Anyway it's all medical jargon. So I wouldn't understand it if I could hear. Can't be bothered.......wonder where those lights were made? I switch my eyes back to the woman holding the rubber mask. She's looking at me and glancing from time to time at some device at the other side of the bed. Can't be bothered with any of this. Just can't be bother.....

It's the way the piston sighs and eases up when he stands. And then he plops himself down again and it gives a little gasp, sighs and sinks down again under the load. Fascinating.

And it comes to me slowly. I'm not in there now!

I'm out here again!

Brilliant, I didn't die!!

Anyway the point is, it's quite straightforward to deal with things – even potentially high anxiety things – by simply being right there. Present, in the moment. When you have no control, no room to manoeuvre, just accept it. Just relax and go with the flow. Be there. Try to capture all of the detail of your surroundings. Don't go wandering off here, there, and everywhere, in your mind. Focus on your breath. It's not always easy, takes practice. But worth the effort. Keep it deep, low and slow.

That's the way you do it. (As ol' Knopler used to say).

Tremble,

For the air is awake.

The straits of Gibraltar remember,

Their foreign mark made ready

To breathe the memories,

To stake the claims,

The forgotten promises

Of the heart.

The world that was

Will be again,

And stranger thoughts combine to dispel

The majesty of the people

Who know the secrets,

The order of the divine,

The channel where chaos

Becomes the Tide.

War precedes

Atlantean paradise.

Dresses. The ones at Goodwill, or Salvation Army, that line the shelves like little pieces of candy, waiting to be eaten. Succulent fabrics, a lacy or flowered pattern, the aura of who owned it before like a wafting from a cozy kitchen.

I want them all. I want to try them all on. I want to be a different person in each outfit, pretending to be someone I would envy, someone I would never approach at a party - for fear of being diminished, merely in their presence.

The perfect day is always on the other side, seemingly. But I'd argue it can be found in a dress shop, like when my sister went wedding dress shopping and we were served champagne in those fancy, slim flutes that meant we had made it, to the other side of happiness.

San Francisco on a sunny day. Northampton in the spring or summer; places I can wear lace and have tea on a patio and feel like a million dollars after taxes.

Someone once told me that they took the word "patio" out of the SAT, because it catered to the privileged. I think of my life, how perfect it really is. How I can go to a dress store and point in any direction, and I can own them, I can be anyone in them - that is the power of having options.

Wearing a dress is power. It is saying: I am feminine. And what's more lovely, more wholesome, then that, really?

I think of the perfect dress, and I can't think of it. I would have to see it: shrouded in beauty, like a late night, an evening in the summer months where fireflies dance around us. I saw one last night: a firefly, just one, a solitary beacon of hope in the dark. It is the feeling of being the only one; somehow special, a person who can dance at midnight and everyone is watching, waiting for your light.

A day that lends itself,

And leans itself...

That hangs wide as an ancient barn door,

Creaking and kicking with the Nonchalant wind...

This carefree door allows in all the Sights unseen,

And I'm here standing next to it's entrance

Laughing hysterically because in the distance

I've discovered a series of rolling hills

Of possibilities spilling madly into

The unchecked horizon for miles...

The birds are singing and doing their mating rituals...

I'm hugging my wife's stimulating body close to mine,

And our four year old son is in tow,

And we're looking for fun

With our beaming bright faces like blossoming flowers...

We're really giving this day a full fledging pounce!...

Because we've got our antennae up,

And we've got our noses to the ground...

We are Inspectors of the ancient lost and found thread

Where the World's mysteries rear her head,

And the portals of Nature, and discreet subtleties unravel

Like a blindfold in the dark

When our hearts embark together, everything can,

And will happen...

A day that lends itself,

And leans itself...

That hangs wide as an ancient barn door...

These are the days I adore, and seek out...

Our collective light usurping any enemy or fiend

And shooting sparks as we stay lit like Roman candles...

My son's durable brown eyes probing me,

As he reaches out for his Mama like the sun embraces

The sky in a sunset

That rivals the decadence of Arizona sunsets

That paint pictures of the glories and enigmas

Of life atop the retina of the mind's eye...

Everyday I can spend with my wholesome family unit

Is like lifeblood that ignites the parched and barking pores...

I pray for days like these

Where we can come and go as we please,

Pleasing me to be inside and around the yawning

Grassy thatch that cradles and invites...

This spiritual force that makes us strong and state our case

The vibrant lawn embraces us with baste...

A gorgeous day of clouds sets in, and the universal righting of cosmic jousts

Will now commence!...

We kick our heels up and lay sprawled out in the outer

Reaches of pure love

Within a myriad of blissful things

From buzzing insects,

To reflective pools that help us recognize

The treasures buried in our own backyard,

And draw us out of flawed Impositions,

Whenever they crop up and cast their Serpentine shadows down the snaking Recesses of honey holes and vacant Untold hallways...

5/31/24

Bunny Villaire

Edit #2