Awake Fair Poetess Awake

On a hedge of a sofa beyond the crowd, ambushed by my mind's keepers -- hurry and wait, I sought the quiet. There, two gladhand callers with snares fixed on my sacred moments, when lost, an unfaithful lover, or, if found, or given, a surprise downhill feeling, inexplicably giddy, no dishes, no laundry, no calls. A beckon to be still, be glad for the tea. Steel hammers stopped for a snow day -- a grab your purse, sale ahead -- early Christmas -- a full fridge -- gas in the car.

Frippery took notebook and pen from her bag, her divided selves allowed onto the white page. Mary Kay pale beige on hotel terry, a Rorschach for the demented to read, she reread her morning's poem:

Stripes, foliates, foulards, pucker the early grey.
Quilt clutches asunder as young twister touches down,
he, a candy wrapper lock on vast calico field.
Cornrow raider hacks lone country, reads report.
Soft words stir, whilst hard coffee sours the soul,
the new light leaks past yarn maids once so comely.
Next breath chastises last,
sand bucket thuds in seconds to beat the lame rooster,
car pool drums again.

The everyday, genial soldiering -- one part dream, to two parts chore, the anti-recipe to precious time to drink court wine of the artist -- or know when a full glass was already in hand. Downstairs the hall clock's, "bahm, bahm, bahm," a fairy tale reminder named the hours. Her thoughts parted into twelves, then into factors of twelve. A fractional madness.

Time, a mountain ride on smashed Tijuana bus. Bald, unforgiving, curving, spiraling, pressing.

August nylon of crabgrass pushing up. How did that get here? Catching your heel, turning to catch balance, another bit grabs for your toe. Damn! Not my vacation shoes. The quiet hour dimmed again. Cluttered with rules from the undone -- and a driving fear -- from the depth. You changeling, time. Always, a phantom botherer.

Taking in the scene, I pulled my camera phone out of my envelope bag to take some photos of the lovely red room...then wandered in to the next, then the next...soon I was drifting through the halls as if in a dream.

The Envelope Please...

Personally, I always found the mayor to be a scowly sort of fellow. Might have been because he voted down my idea of re-purposing the Community Center into an odd fellows inn meets juice bar.

He always looked half cocked and fluttery. Maybe he was a dandy in another life. In any event, I straightened up, I cleared my throat, excused myself, and, in my best none-the-wiser fashion pulled my purse from my ham.

The envelope please....

Evening Bagged

The evening was in the bag. Cleverly disguised as a ham sandwich, Frippery's phone went unseen as she approached the mayor. Too, she had thought to bring her spiral cut ham purse which one could possibly mistaken as a meat lover's accessory. Regardless, Frippery was a self-professed vegan and the purse suited her just fine.

A little ham slice side pocket to hold secret hankies and a zip off ham slice served as an unlikely broach. What next? Maybe a pair of small fillet of sole -- shoes?
Fashion was such a romp.

The Grand Lucinda Ball

"My, there are so many people," Nonesuch said as he alighted from his car. "I knew this was thee ticket in town, but, who knew what amazing follies awaited the eye and...what amazing delicacies awaited my palette."

"Oh, Nonesuch, you are a dear. I am just so glad that I found this frock in my closet and...still fit in it. I have had far too many chocolates, and far too little exercising. But, even I cannot miss the yummies ahead. Oh, look, there is Mayor Tippsy. Shall we pay our respects?"

"Yes, let's." And, off they went.

Do you have something in Pandora blue?

So, while our Frippery painted and painted, I watched. Swish, stroke, swish, stroke, blot, stroke, stroke...quietly she worked and all the while, slowly her hypnotic swish overcame me. The room seemed to fill with clouds of thinner and medium. Maybe the sun on the window warmed the skin under my pinstripes and starched collar too much, but I found I was hard pressed to stay awake. It seems I slipped into a trance or, maybe a deep dream...I tried to unbutton my jacket but fumbled at it badly, still sleep pulled me forth.

I shudder as I think about it now. It is probable that you, my dear readers saw it coming all along that our poseur friend Frippery was of a different breed of artist.

Declaring her simply a hothouse flower was too obvious here, but also it seems she could employ -- what I dare call only to myself -- something akin to magical thinking. Frankly, I had never even encountered such an idea before -- though I think it is oft talked about in rarefied circles, those circles from which I would unlikely have had occasion to conduct business.

My thinking all my life, I now freely admit, was always too limited. In that I thought life was containable and predictable. As example to this, I tell you I thought Lady Frippery was merely a painter and fashioner -- inspired or not -- I leave that to your kind critique -- but if you, my kind reader had suggested she was rather a changeling as she worked or made things, -- and further things out of those things (all the while poking at this idea of irrefutable permanence that I held dear)...at that I surely would have scoffed and eased myself politely out of the room.

However, as I am no longer your same narrator, formerly cloaked in the thinking of reproducible facts. I have come to respect the field of wonderment and hypotheses as the first steps of wisdom. My re-birth, if you will allow, had the strangest tendency to ease my mind and temperament the more I trusted my wholeness beyond the beloved confines of my former rule making and habit of constant questioning which I now found to be largely divisive and a fear about the quiet. My temples were falling as well they should. And, as Anais said, blossoming had it's risks.

No matter what the supposed risks or facts, I promise you I now know -- she, he or something was capable of some spirit enterprise. There was something definitely Pandora or uncommon afoot. I was still part skeptic in the margins of my being, that is true, as I was dyed in the wool a long time ago, but now, like it or not, I was forced to be a participant-voyeur and was determined to learn the source of all. Unceremoniously I was evicted out of my safe places and was now engaged in that snarl of ephemeris.

Dream or not, these woods were not only of our known world, though it shared many of its characteristics -- but rather here was the known world put back and forwards and shaken a few times; surrounded by agents and angels, trolls and all manner of things harpy, circus, gypsy, siren and -- thankfully the sublime divine. I could feel the shawl of the sacred around my shoulders. Whether ancient elders or other, I could not know, but I was glad for the company.

No wonder this parallel place was not often penetrated except by the exceedingly open or hapless. The latter would best describe my situation.

This was an easier world than our world, and too, sometimes harder -- if the Alignment was askew with too many assertions -- than the world you think you possess and grasp fell to dust.

My findings thus far are that the Woods are agile and dynamic. Its' dimensions are quantum and, and, as you see, I stutter -- alterable. Whether with smoke, mirrors, paint or some other contrivance chemical, physical or mental -- I know not how, but it seems I am on a course to discover.

Let us just say that if here one were to paint an apple, Frippery or another, it would be more than a simple two-dimensional painted thing. The apple might have inhabitants within, or might really be a vehicle of transport -- that if you were to pluck it off the page, you could also take a seat and passage to another time and place – possibly not of your own devising -- likely that is the case.

As a manner of start point, I confide that I had in fact sat myself down as I was invited to do one recent summer day. My rail ticket, so to speak was a typical 19th c. caned wood Hitchcock chair set just so for a portrait sitting at the behest of an anonymous gift with Madam Frippery presiding and my passage thus secured. Little did I realize that I had unknowingly set things in motion -- once enlightened one cannot return to darkness.

There was the expected oil paint on her palette and the requisite canvas as she began, but...as I have I queried myself again and again going over the sequence of events, how was it that when I awoke, I did not have the same form -- as when I had arrived for my sitting.

Nonesuch, the mister of the house, I am certain had his part too. It was not a cheap deception on either of their parts, at least I do not think so, but, rather simply the place itself or possibly a combination of place with these beings about how things came to adjust and re-present themselves.

The Perfect Shade of Perfect or What to Wear Tonight

"Are you getting ready Frippery?" said Nonesuch. "Say what?," said Frippery. Getting ready for what?"

"Tonight is the Grand Lucinda Ball, had you forgotten?", Nonesuch explained.

"I had completely forgotten. I can't go, I cannot deal with my hair and all the maintenance at this point. I need my village of upkeep villagers. Oh, vey. I'm not super woman. It's not like I have a pressed super hero costume in my closet just ready to go." Her rant was warming up....

"Where are Viktor and Rolf when I need them? I guess I could go if I could work out the right dress, hair, shoes...make-up...yadda, yikes. How does this outfit look? Oh, the myth of the perfect. This is going to take more than a felted princess miracle," continued Frippery as she wandered in the general direction of her closet.

"Nonesuch, what are YOU going to wear?"
"Nonesuch?" she called to no reply.