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In The Cedar Weave One




She’s come as if painted
painted panels raised
while wearing the rounding white
the thirteen opening robes
even learning on the chatter
carrying up over
from the down under mothers,
and each wood word picture
turning in on one before
while hanging her heart out next
in the lifeness fold.
Or has it been like blue frescoes
in some time dark hall
down the wet walls
and leaning us nearer inside
the labyrinthine body hive,
leaning on the footway on
until coming face to adoration’s face
in the secret light place
with the sovereign, the shuddering
the High likeness lady’s
lovely high soul?
But maybe it’s rather been like
the folding out pages
of a picture japanese
a book once seen
with the brush painted butterflies
unfurling, unfolding, unflying by.
And being otherelse than a man what am
she’d show herself differently,
while certainly if lesselse
than a man what am
and she showing herself out notattall.

Part One

The Retreat

Standing in the crystal clear, the mirror, and Ena wondering who she really is in there. But maybe it was just the dark days, the long rain, and the winter. This being what Ena can say to herself whenever she looked at herself in the silver glass looking back at her. But still the lingering sense, the suspicion bouncing back and forth between the woman and her shape shifting twin, that the darkening day is mostly inside her. It is her, she might think in the gray morning, the retreat inside of herself, she would have said. But why does it have to be her?

Mornings and just another one coming in. Showering before going into town, and then making gooseflesh in front of the bedroom’s door that holds the full length glass. Combing out her thick hair, the long strands, the berry brown gloss of wet hair wanting to stick to her shoulders. Then swinging her head around to where she can comb through the other side. Doing it all, the ritual, without any thought at all, except for maybe the pear shapes she would see after closing her eyes, and having followed the shape of her own hips when her eyes were half-open. Then the fullness of her thighs leading her on when she has half-opened her eyes again to where her calves taper her unthoughts down to the arch of her feet not wanting to press against the hardwood cold floor. Then the colder ends of her hair resting against her round breasts and waking her to the sense her ritual morning’s unthoughts always were able to make. Even as a girl. Even before she came to know all of the life-little things she knows. And even now after her machine man had left her with the sad eyes that are sometimes in the crystal clear too. It is a sense, she thought, and the whole world must know it, especially in winter. A sense once again waking her in her morning mirror to where she can see herself with brush in hand, feeling a shiver, and just before she turns to dress and prepare herself for the work place that waits for her. A sense so simple, since, Ena knows she is a natural beauty. A sense of rustling, quickening and quivering, even in winter.

They separated some months ago in the first of autumn. Ena has been learning to live alone again. She has been learning to live alone and really for the first time ever without the accompanying pressure of a man’s body and steps somewhere close to her. It’s what it is, she knew, or why she is taking the cold and gray dampness so personally. It is just the medial means, or the inside scene of the fallen in season coming up from out of her, coming up and now giving her the answer to her first morning’s question as she steps into her black skirt. The darkening day, the ebb tide feeling, and the neap. All that has to be in her, since, she is alone again, since she’s slowly coming back again to where every moment could be a fulling and fleshy thing. Every moment a fullness, every fullness a fleshy time, and every winter still widening her down to where she’s become a retreat into herself. Now the white blouse with the pearl black buttons, now the crisp cotton on her skin. And she had finally asked him to leave when she finally understood he never had, never would, never could, make a moment whole with her. Never fleshed out and full, never ripe, and then never really abandoned for the sake of her. Funny how it is only this morning, while slipping on her low black shoes, that she could see the sense of how he had thought of her. A silencing sense, a quiet vise, a pincer movement he seemed to feel in his head as he might be turning off his machines, motors, or generators, and reflexively, only then actually, thinking of her, and looking to her as if wanting to root out some unruly content. On the nights when he was out late in the shop he kept rented in town, she soon understood she was an intrusion there. It was where he seemed to become some lame footed smithy who could not keep his balance for long away from his forge. Or, and what struck her even more, where he was like a ceremonial technician making the mechanical means to pry between, to wedge a way into some crusty motherlode. But what he had not done for her, Ena could cleanly see now and forever, while rounding her way back through the cottage to where she stoked the wood stove and setting its damper, what he never did with her was the alchemical thing. For all his sorcery of ratchets and wrenches, he never once made her feel transmutable. He never touched her gold.

And so she is living alone in the old cottage her grandmother left to her. The spell of her self-certified machine man was finally letting go of her. She knows this is true, since, it has been nearly two weeks when she last awakened with the tell-tale glazy trace of half-asleep tears in her eyes. What has gradually every day, just a little further every day, pushed away the face of his vacancy has been the environs of her grandmother’s cottage. It’s what Ena is coming to, and this morning she clearly sees it.

The old cottage is the last of many that were once built along the bay shore leading into Ena’s South Sound town. A small cottage, really just a summer cottage. But her old grandmother had made it warm enough, or almost so, for winter. Ena remembers the other cottages from her visits here as a child. Now they were gone, having burned down, been torn down, or taken out by the periodic mud slides from where the slope rising up behind her, out of the shore trough, can give way. One day the same will likely happen to this little house, but for now it is Ena’s. And in the way people have for coming into a place where no one else continues to go, where someone else might be passing by while looking out from the capsule of their car, or where a deed of purchase is not much more than an illusory cut into the earth’s folds, in the way of coming to know a place as it can live when left alone, Ena is slowly becoming a familiar to the slope side ring rising up and spreading out from behind her cottage. It is the larger part of the feeling coming out of her first winter spent here.

Misty rain she can barely hear falling. The celtic cream of a foggy day that can hold over the bay for too many days to be counting. Yes it is, it is this, Ena thinks while standing in the kitchen with her coffee, all but ready to leave for work and looking out over the bay. A healing cream that soothes a quiet Ena, soothing her emotions.

She always has been a quiet one, Ena thought again. Perhaps it is why so many of her men have made the mistake of trying to move her about, thinking they could make of her a more convenient fit for them. But her manner of keeping quiet never has amounted to a collapse for her, nor has surrendering herself to a man meant he could have the run of her garden. Her quietness is just her way of keeping lively to her own emotions, to her own emotional responses. It’s what makes her a kind of artist, but an artist who herself gets painted by the lively, really close brush strokes of what happens around her. Such as now in the quiet way the water birds she sees come in and out of the foggy cream and that help her heal with the sense of their company. The water birds bobbing on the bay’s silk-like surface. the slender necked grebes, the surf scoters with their white eye patches, the shovelers with their wide spade bills, and the little buffleheads, the hooded mergansers, and the heavy billed loons. Or the goldeneyes who do not seem to have a voice, sometimes like Ena who does not seem to have a voice, but who still have a marvelous way of whistling on the wing when they fly. Whistling and on the wing and maybe so they are like the women singing on the radio, singing solo, whose songs have a way of striking close, of sometimes even striking an unbearable chord, and who always sing in the familiar notes of a woman wrapping her knuckles on love-time’s left over table top. The kind of singing, or whistling on the wing, Ena’s machine man called her misery music as he walked out the door. And maybe so, Ena thought, maybe so. She still can’t remember a time when he made her want to whistle on a lighter wing, and maybe that is cause enough for the mourning. Maybe also there are some places where a woman has to go alone, where she has to be free of prying eyes, and where her man, no matter how much a king he might be, can’t follow after. Maybe that too. Maybe now. Maybe so.

Ena sees it is time to be going, and looking at the clock while letting go of morning thinking. She only needs twenty minutes to ride her bicycle into town where she works, but sometimes she takes as long to walk the eighty-seven steps to where her bike stands, and to walk the rest of the way up the slope side’s oiled rock road to where the ridge road begins. From there she takes the ridge road looping around to where it meets the highway. Then she turns in front of the old, one room grocery store where she does most of her shopping, turns south, pedals her way to the high-end restaurant where she has a job serving lunches.

To Ena it is funny how she is never really ready to leave in the morning. Her preparations made easily enough, with stockings seamless and run free, her white blouse closely held inside her skirt, her eyes lined and a little mascara sharpened. It isn’t that she has difficulty readying herself for work, it is more that she doesn’t want to leave. She is never quite ready, or doesn’t feel herself to be so. Misty morning, high blue sky, or rain. The weather doesn’t matter. Just as it doesn’t help to remind herself that, by mid-afternoon, she will be back home again. So what is the thing having begun to tie her to here, she wonders while closing the door and starting up the steps? Her cottage, her shoreline, the wooded slope, or is it the sky’s water-wide spoon? And what is the thing that is as much inside of her here, this connecting thing, this feeling of being close? What is the surrounding thing that feels much the same to her as the rustling, the quickening and the quivering sense the morning’s crystal clear gives to her too when she sees she is still a natural beauty? She doesn’t know what to name it, the nearness thing looking to keep her here, while starting up the steps and brushing past the pacific willows with their few remaining pinnate leaves, then walking up under the western alders and big leaf maples with their shiny bare arms and limbs. Once again she will think it has to do with her grandmother, or with something her grandmother still wants her to see. And there again the leaf quiver. But then walking up to and finally reaching the ridge road, then getting on her bicycle while shifting her shoulder bag to hang behind her, she lets go of the sense wanting to hold her back. As she reaches the old grocery store owned by the woman named Ginny, Ena is finally willing to enter the in-town flow of traffic. She knows anyway she will be back soon, a few hours of working is all she needs to support herself. Then she can enter into it again, the skein of the season, the seasonal deep, the urn of her quiet life’s making. Starting down the highway, Ena deciding to row out in the old skiff some afternoon soon. She can row out into the bay to where land laws can’t hold her securely, and to where she can start taking the measure of the nearness thing tying itself to her.
Jun/23/2013, 2:32 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
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Ember red coals still a bed in the stove, enough to rekindle the fire, and Ena returning home in the afternoon from another day of serving. She first stopped in at the old store to get a few things for a light dinner. Five days a week the restaurant feeds her, which makes her evening needs even simpler. She walked with her bike the rest of the way home just to hear the light rain falling on her slicker. Or was it that, or was it instead because of the feeling she always has when walking out of the store’s front door and down its covered steps? A feeling of something held back, and expectant, that could put her into a walking, a smoothing mood. It is at a crossroads where the store is set, the kind of place where Ena thought there is always something strange. No, not strange, just different. Just somehow set in relief, maybe even deepening to some other plane of ordering. And so coming out of the door’s front door, she would almost always look up into the surrounding trees without thinking, half-expecting to look into the gray-blue eyes of an owl.

Now back home and Ena setting her shoulder bag and her groceries on the kitchen countertop. Then putting another log in the stove while opening its damper. Looking into the wood box, and seeing that her supply of kindling and conifer cones runs low, she realized she needs to make more kindling, which meant she should be changing into her work clothes. It also meant she should not waste any time if she still wants to row out into the bay today, what with the shortened light in a gray day’s afternoon.

Ena’s brother came down from his cabin in the mountains towards the end of last summer. He came down to help her put enough wood away for the season. He had driven down in his old red truck with its hollow, round fenders and high domed cab. Together they took in the wood, cutting it, splitting it, and stacking it in the shed her brother rebuilt for her. Burton also built another wood shed to fill, just to be certain, and they were fortunate enough to get a dry and high riding floater that had come loose from some log raft getting towed down the bay. It was then she told Burton of her decision to part from her machine man. Bear man that her brother always is for her, Burton only looked at her largely, saying nothing, even as she knew he had never cared for this choice of hers. Yes, a bear man is what he is. Silver black beard, thick black hair, his big shoulders always pulling him around, and with his feet almost too large for even the large size of him. The only thing that ever gives way to her brother’s emotions are his hands nearly those of a woman’s. Looking so small at the ends of his arms, so gentle and fine boned, and with Burton always keeping them to his sides. It was his gentle hands then that carefully wiped away her two tears when she told him. This being what Ena remembers again while stepping outside and almost seeing the highest peak of the near distant mountain where Burton lives. The righteous rock of the volcanic top of the slow blue mountain barely visible in the gray light, and Ena squinting her weak eyes a little to see that far. But even with the second shed full, and Ena coming back to the task at hand, she had still been uncertain if they made enough wood for the winter season. And so she nurses her stockpile carefully, keeping a close notice on how much she burns in a week’s time, while carefully learning to use the stove’s damper and flu to draw out of each log as much heat as she can. She is also, and already, thinking of next winter while keeping a watch for any stray floater floating by.

Ena stands outside again, with no more than an hour or so of gray light left. Feeling warm in her worn-soft clothes old enough to give her the looseness around her hips, and the rain pattering down a little harder. The air a little warmer than it was this morning, while a fog is coming in again, pushing back the inlet’s other, eastern shore to where the shoreline is nearly invisible. The only color Ena sees comes from the nearer cedars and firs rising up from her surrounding slope. But still an indefinite green, while the silver-gray of the water is as muted as the lowering cloud cover. Ena then thinking the low banking clouds might bring a warmer night.

Making kindling doesn’t take her very long anymore. She soon has enough for the rest of the week. She learned from her brother how to do the thing, keeping her legs apart and bringing her small axe down with her eye on the cut, while never forgetting she is just splitting the wood, so let the weight of her axe do the work. Burton only had to explain twice what he meant when he said it is like keeping your eye on the ball. As for the rest, it has come to her easily, even naturally, and soon her light, double edged axe became as familiar to her as a stirring spoon in the kitchen, while always putting her in mind of a butterfly. Then after setting a second box of kindling on the cottage’s lean-to porch, Ena briefly thinks of walking back up the slope-ring to check on the artesian fed spring and its holding tank. It is what she has come to do regularly in an almost religious manner. But she saw to the spring two days ago, so she decides to let it go for today and to take on out in the skiff.

Tide coming in, shoreline pretty thin, only the rain beading down on the water a little louder. Ena then pulling the old wooden boat down to the rising waterline, stepping in, pushing off, soon floating free. Then dipping with the long oars and turning around to where she can row herself out. The slope side rising higher from where she sits, and the cottage getting smaller than how it seems to her when she is at home in there. The rain still a thin curtain and the hanging of the cloud cover over the bay that can make her feel a little nearer. Nearer to what she still doesn’t know, wanting to know, doesn’t know. Like in a dream.

A flock of goldeneyes she disturbs. And there they are again whistling, whistling on the wing. Cormorants and loons keeping their distance, diving under and coming up to keep a sidewise eye on her. Ena’s oars dipping down, taking her smoothly out, only she not really feeling herself to be on the water. She can’t say but that she is floating over, hovering above the surface of the inlet. Then the slope side of home seeming to rise to its largest, and her sense for stopping, stopping just before the ridge’s rising skyline makes the slope seem smaller. Here it is, she thinks while drifting on the water. Here it is her quadrant, her season of sadness, the place where she must start up, coming up from winter’s down under. Grandmother’s cottage on its pilings, but coming up out of the slope side like a cave’s mouth, like an earth’s house. The slope side coming up from behind, barely dressed this time of year, but still the large body of it bodied forth like bread rising over pan sides. Maples, willows, alders looking like gray limbed brothers. The cedars with their arc of green sleeves that can catch her, she thinks, that can catch her from falling too far, that could hold her in, hold her to her. Then seeing the ring of it all, the slope ring in lozenges spreading out from the cottage. And it almost seems to her to be breathing, slowly and gently breathing in the bare winter way when it thinks no one else is watching. Still the misty gray. The misty still. The gray. As far out from the shore as she is and there being no shadows. No shadows, since, no sun. No shadows and so the water shield pulling back from around her. Pulling back until the slope side pulls back too. Pulling back until Ena begins to feel her own vertigo, until Ena feels as if she sees her own suspended, her own disembodied, he own face floating just beneath the water’s surface. Her own face rising through the surfaceless gray water and making her feel as if she is coming out from behind the crystal clear of the shield. The crystal clear, her mirror, and those eyes of hers a little wider coming up to the surface. And that face a little shinier, a little shinier, as shiny as a silver salmon, as disembodied and bright as a silver salmon’s head. As freely floating as she freely floats and bobbing by now on top of the water. But what might it be seeing in her, her face? What is it holding out to her, her face? And why is that mask of hers peeling back the last of her as the rain comes down even harder? With the rain coming down, the last light rounding over the shore, and the slope’s cedars that seem to be pulling on her as if with strings pulling on the tow ring of her boat. Then Ena coming to, startled, a little surprised, and Ena coming back to her senses. Then turning unthinkingly to row back towards the shore, but with somehow the idea she just saw a lady like her in the lake. Only not a lake, but a bay, a salt water inlet, a finger full of water in the glacially carved trough of the Sound. But still a lady. It really is a measure, she thinks. The turning lever. The lever turning her out here and pulling on her even in the water. The lever turning her back into her land sense. Ena then bringing the boat back out of the water, with the rain steadily droning by now, then tying the boat’s rope to the bulkhead, and thinking she just found the sliver of an idea of what her grandmother left to her. Cedar bowls, ovals, and slope side rings. Trinkets of rain and watery faced dreams. And Ena’s grandmother still with something she wants to give the girl. All of this being a satchel of the thoughts so slight and hard to hold as Ena steps inside the cottage and out of the down straightening rain.

It will be much later in the night, after her dinner and her few dishes, when Ena realizes she is giving birth to something her own. Slowly and imperceptibly she today giving shape to something all her own. She could tell it is so because of how she can feel herself warming herself from the inside. What it might be, she can’t know, except that she can feel in herself a kind of disposition for centering. Then even later when she’ll fall asleep in the big bed, going down easily. Only waking once. Not to the tears and fears this time, or to the shuddering sense of free falling out of sight, but only to the rain that has finally eased up a little, and to the way the fat plops plop on the roof top’s cedar shakes. It is then she thinks she hears a rustling outside her window. A kind of rustling in the blackberry bushes, then the grunting, then the snort. Or has she been dreaming, she might wonder? Has it been a sow, maybe the white sow, rooting in her dreams Ena hears in the healing?

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Twilight before a clear night has to be the time of the changing worlds. Pink salmon colors coloring in the west, cloisonné clouds, and the translucence of falling skylight. The peeling colors of what Ena feels she is slipping between. Then having just seen a Great Blue Heron gliding down from the high branches in the slope side trees. Gliding down perfectly, never needing to work its wings, and finally holding back largely on the air just before its footing finds the top of an old piling sticking out of the water further down the shore. The large bird not very blue in evening’s light, and Ena would have to imagine its plume. But the spread wing span, the grace, the neck of a snake are unmistakable. And Ena wondering how it would be to wear the feather dress of a Blue Heron, just another fancy weaving her through the twilight skein.

The rains finally stopped earlier in the day after too many straight days to be counting. There had been the pale yellow sun, the winter wasted golden bowl, that slanted its way across a clear sky since this morning. Clear skies always say of crisp and cold, and now the sharpening twilight going into the night blue spoon. Sharpening twilight, already the nearing blue darkness, and the cone shaped conifers crowning the shoreline’s opposite side. Will there be a moon tonight? Yes, but rising late. Rising later and waning half-way. Already a first star Ena sees in the east, while standing at her big paned window, not having turned on any of the inside lights. The star should be Venus rising in the evening, rising in the same way she rises in the morning, rising now and feeling so much closer to Ena than the lights shining from down the bay’s town port. Just the street lamps, the building brights, and the radio rod blinking red down in the bay’s town port. Or then Ena following with her eyes back up the bay by way of the channel lights. Right on the right coming in and the green go pulsers leading out, the user-friendly captains. But still it is, she thought, the twilight time, she seeks, when Ena almost always thinks of herself as being three sisters, three faces looking behind, before, and inside the half-light, even the three seeds rolling into the belly of the bowl of the blue darkness, the rounding bowl trolling in the upended ocean of the night sky. Ena now turning back inside to switch on the night’s first light.

She had decided to boil of pot of potatoes for her dinner tonight. Having stopped in at Ginny’s store, she saw the fresh beef liver at the small meat counter and she decided on that too. It is a simple dinner, liver sweetened with onions and boiled potatoes. And so time enough while the potatoes cook, then heat the iron skillet too.

With each day coming in, Ena feels a little closer to her new home. She’s not certain if she’s felt as much at home in any of the places she has lived before. Tonight is cold, and there is an edge of it just inside the doors and the windows. But from the wood stove there is warmth, a radiating warmth that has quickly become a friend to her. Ena already thinking of how to care for her new home in return. With spring and summer, when they come, she thinks she can start on some of the repairs that are needed. A small leak in the bedroom’s skylight that needs mending, new weather stripping for the doors, maybe a new gutter for the roof, and certainly the bathroom painted something brave and bright. The rest of the cottage paneled in the old way, with soft knotty pine, could take a wash, and she can do that too. She has also thought of asking Burton to look at the house’s pilings. They look to be in good condition to her, even pickled or preserved by the salt water, but she wants to be sure they are free of marine worms. The cottage exterior needs a new coat of paint, but she thinks she will wait for that, wait until she has saved up the extra money.

Ena has never needed much money, and now she feels she needs even less. Televisions bore her and cars ignore her. As for the rest, conveniences and fidgety gadgets sought by more flamboyant folk, she has never found herself thinking about them. She has always lived pretty simply, still in the same way living now. All she needs, she decided soon after coming into her grandmother’s bequest, is to see to the property taxes, the lights, her daily needs, and to the occasional requirement she and her home might make of her. Other than this, she realized that all she wants is to keep to the sanctuary of her new home. And so it is that, tonight, she starts to see some distance down the certain path her decision to make a sanctuary of how she is living opens for her. A path, when she thought about it, not so different from how her living has always been anyway, or how she has lived her life by stepping aside and following her own lead. Just the trusting thing. But then it has been, as likely as not, that she would get caught up in the momentum of her desires, the swing of her emotional days, until she had gotten netted up again by some dream trapper. Not wanting to be snared again, she thinks, or shot down from behind some blind, is why she is willing to give herself up to the shouldering slope, the cottage, and to the greater swell in the more certain path of her own emotionally unfettered swing. Yes, and the potatoes must be done.

Black skillet hot, onions browning to sweetness, the beef liver soon ready to turn. In all honesty, Ena realizes she doesn’t much mind having a list of past lovers. When she lets herself, she can think back on them, seeing each of them in the in-turning way a memory can show a face she once knew. Sometimes she could even let herself down to where she is loving them again, feeling for her own fondness maybe, or for theirs. Dinner done, a place set for herself at the low table by the wood stove, and a candle burning like a votary. But if she is honest with herself, she realizes too, it looks as if the only path she has ever taken to learn anything has been by blindly feeling her way through the, through the, well, through the interweave. Which is what it has been. The interwoven day into the night, back into the day. It’s how her list of men look to her tonight. Like the drop stitches in her own weave. And there the tear in her eyes as she eats, there the tear which doesn’t mean anything other than that there is always the emotional moment she has to see her way through too when she happens to be making her reckonings. Maybe it is as once she told herself without actually knowing what she was saying. Maybe it is that this time around, this life of hers leading her, is meant to be taken in sadness. But how can she know? How can she know what is in store for her when all she could see are places and shapes, like child-things, and never what she will be doing, should be doing or how? How could she know anything other than what she has already known until she has known that too? Maybe in her first flesh she knew, she thought she knew. Maybe then she must have known. In her first flesh, it seems to her, when she would have always known how things are, how they were coming to be, and how soon. In her first flesh she must have been a garden she knew. In her first flesh she must have been a delight, a delicious day, a darling to the night. In her first flesh. But that would have been before her last man, or some man coming over the horizon before him. That would have been before some man’s hand finally stoppered the flow of her trusting. And she has to admit to herself, tonight, that it has gotten pretty hard to see love as something that could be new again. Only here in her cottage can she feel the numinous need, a swelling seed, her own fertile field willing to lay itself open. Even and only here in the wasty winter is she willing to trust to herself again, trusting to her own lead, even if only trusting that it is her season of sleep, the sleepy neap, her own woman’s down tide mood. But there it is, that sound again coming from further up the bay. Even before going to the window, Ena knows what she will see. She will see what her brother calls the big bellied blackness. Just another one of the timber hungry ships Ena can hear coming down the bay.
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She hears them long before she can see them, hearing them almost before they round the north point and are piloted down the bay. Tonight in the clear air, she hears this new ship as if it is already passing in front of her cottage. What a droning dirge its engines make. What a low groan. Looking out her window, she first made sight of the piloting tug boat lights. They always make her think of Christmas trees. Then the higher lights shining from the huge ship’s stern house. Then the bow light even higher on its mast. Finally the awareness, or the feeling, since, you can’t actually see it in the dark, of the midship blackness slowly coming nearer like a large hole cutting into the night’s sovereign space. Even in the darkness, it seems too large in the trough of Ena’s bay, and dwarfing both of the bay’s sloping, shouldering sides. But mostly there is that low groan, the drone of its engines the ship can make, that doesn’t so much frighten her as it sets off an alarm in her. Coming in, piloted in on the rising tide, and gobbling up the channel’s inside like a voracious, gaping face. Now passing down the channel just in front of her cottage. Then slowly passing further in until it is finally back lit by the faint orange glow from the town’s port, and Ena seeing the Leviathan outline of it. Ena doesn’t know. She just doesn’t trust the sense of it.

With her brother last summer, when he was down on the beach cutting the floater they caught, a timber ship was then going out. It was weighted down to the waterline with the lopped and trimmed trees looking like match sticks, and it carried so many. Thousands. Burton was on the beach all of the afternoon with his chain saw and axe, while Ena did the best she could at splitting the cut rounds of wood he lifted up over the bank’s bulkhead. She knew he would have to take over her job, after finishing his own, if she was to get the wood up before the rains set in. Then came the ship, which stopped her brother standing still. The ship stopped him and he stared at it sailing past with a blank, unrecognizing look. He then looked back down at the work he had done and at what work there was left to do on their one log. He finally looked up at Ena and spoke his few words. It was a question really. He asked Ena to tell him if it is what or how much of what doing their green world to brown? Then the sadness in his eyes, making him look like some sorrowful son, when he took up the saw again in one of those delicate hands of his, then touching the log he was still cutting on with the other and saying to no one in particular, “these trees are my best brothers.”

But Ena having watched another new ship brought in, she then turns back inside. This time to wash her few dishes. As she finishes the simple task she realizes how she is mostly wanting to sit outside tonight, just wanting to be sitting on her deck beneath the clear sky. Maybe with a cup of coffee to warm her, sitting in the cold, in the night. In the outside indigo.

Fire fed and dampered down, Ena wearing her wool pants, thick cotton socks and open toe sandals, and with a body shirt, jersey, and thick cotton sweater pulled over her. Then stepping outside, almost forgetting her coffee.

the cottage deck feels crusty to her, but the planks are not crackling beneath her weight. The temperature is freezing, but not much less. Then noticing the tideline nearing to her bulkhead, and Ena wondering how high it will rise tonight. Behind her she can feel the stillness in the slope side, the earth side’s cold retreat.

Ena soon wondering if the earth ever falls asleep in the way she can for whole seasons. Or if, again like her, she is never actually asleep when sleeping, but dreaming. Just dreaming down inside the crusty covers, down below her mantle where another life lives, another life waiting to rise to the surface. But what a strangeness, Ena realizes, a funny thought to be thinking that the earthside is sleeping or waking. Still, though, it did seem to her sometimes the earth is alive, that she knows where she is going while traveling, as they say, through space at so many thousands of miles an hour, that she feels the eventful tug of her own body weight, that she even feels the pull of her own cyclical swing rising and falling, speeding up and slowing down again. Like Ena. And if the earth can feel these things, does the earth know about herself, or about itself? But, yes, the earth does seem like a woman to Ena. But could she maybe rise up over her own body and see? Through and past the blueness of her atmosphere can she see? And wonder and think about her own mortal future? But what a funny bunch of things, girl, just the funny things to be thinking.

Ena hadn’t looked up until now, and when she did, when her pupils were ready to take the wide bowl of the night sky in, she heard the catch in her breath. Such a night sky really is what some poet once said of it. The indigo mystic. And the spangling stars like spangling beads that have a way of lighting Ena’s own insides. Just once, she thinks, she would like to have a dress of that color, that texture, that sparkle, even as close fitting so that she could feel the soft crush of it smoothing over her skin. Yes, a dress fitting that well for her, and nothing beneath, and a veil or a sheer scarf she would never raise, if only to keep the whole universe always half-seeing her face and half-guessing how her face must seem. What fun that would be, Ena thinks, while still thinking the funny thoughts.

Not for the first time Ena realizes, while sitting on her deck, that she is unsure of her constellations. There are the few her brother showed her at his mountain cabin, and the way the whole sky seems to revolve as if patterning on some pottering wheel. Which is why she thinks of the night sky as a bowl. But the Pleiades are already behind her western slope of the bay. That she can’t see them at this time of the night, she suddenly remembers, means winter is getting older. And there is the hunter nearing the height of the sky, the belted hunter. But where is her Venus now, Ena thinks with a surprise? Is the early, high born lady gone, or is she just hiding in the crowd? Ena can’t find her. Then the Big Bear in the north foraging over the bay. Her brother’s sky mother. This being a thing she told him once and that made him thinly grin. And there is Cassiopeia arcing nearer than the north. The one who, no matter how Ena looks at her, wears the slipping crown. Slipping crown, slippery sky, and the milky road flowing nearer to. Fully flowing, it always seems to Ena, pouring over in the Chinese way, the Milky Way. Yes, pouring over and suckling her like a mother whose milk is sweet. Sweet and pure in the indigo mystic. Sweetly curing in the rustic and always so near. By now Ena is swimming in the sea of it all, in the sea of the blue night needs where everything seems so near to her, where there are no horizons, since, there are no horizons for her, but only the circling celestial hillside spheres. Coldness in her calves, and the coldness in her bottom having come up through the cottage’s deck, but still the sea sky of emotive blue.

What Ena mostly wants to do, when looking into the clear night sky, is to make her own designs. There a chevron of long necked birds undulating a little in what must be a cosmic kind of breeze. There a double U or MM, depending upon how she looks at it. Then the meandering stream like a snake in her bed, or maybe like a snake in the soil losing its legs for the sake of her. Or the curving crescents, the zigzags, even the antlered stag, and the seahorse wrapping its tail around a starry shell. Closing and opening, laddering and sloping, while the sepia wash of the mothering moat streams through the whole of the maze. The flow for Ena of milk and honey. Hot milk and honey that could nourish her through her season of sleep. Hot milk and heavy honey that would carry her through the deep dreams. Buttery milk and sweet honey that is the promise with herself she has to keep. And already there being the climb of the moonrise now barely poised over the line of conifers, the moonrise she hadn’t seen coming, the moon, the dusky pale moon rising from around the earth’s other side. But here is the moon already, larger than her own scale, larger than a saucer’s eye, and already starting to shine across the bay in a water road to where her wavering light is stepping onto Ena’s own shore. A waning moon maybe so, an older girl’s spoon looking for the mulberry dish in which to feed herself. And she could find it here, Ena thinks in the invitational way. The moon can find in Ena’s own blood flow what the moon mostly needs to sew herself into herself until time again it is for her to come up scented. Ena figuring that in this she is coming to the bottom of her season’s reckonings, that she is giving of herself to the larger moonrise of herself in the nurturing, nursing way. It is that she instinctively knows. She now knows she is seeing into the cyclical swinging of her own life’s lead. What she is finding tonight are the body keys to her own flesh’s doors. As with now, in the open bowl night, in the late rising moon light, and in the cold and quiet darkness where there is everything to persuade her she is all of what she wants to be. Just a girl. Just a woman. Just a pendulum of her own cyclical swing. Still sitting with herself where she is sitting on the deck, and sitting even after her night sky thoughts are not speaking so loudly in her head. Then stepping inside when she is ready to let her thoughtful strands go, stepping inside to warm herself by the stove, Ena’s once again home.
Jun/30/2013, 4:33 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
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Re: In The Cedar Weave One


Water runs harsh and frozen in place. The carved out frieze of ice columns hanging out from and over the entire slope side, gouging out of the slope side like stalactites spatially traced. The day skies having become an unbreakable blue, and the sun star ineffectually shining. To Ena it has felt as if someone broke a truce.

The blizzard’s force came down the bay a week ago. Snow and ice still covering the ground. Snow and ice, the hard bootlicks of ice having torn up the sodden ground. Ena experienced the full torque of the cold storm coming down the trough of the bay, coming out of the high north, out of its polar horn, then blowing hard over the water and slamming against the north corner of her cottage like an earth mover. The wolf fury and the howling hoary denizens coming down from out of the high mountain crags. What could she know, Ena dazedly asked herself then, what can she ever know in the face of such a storm? The beach still covered with ice sheets reaching to the water and out across the bay to where they only then become shards of icy salt water in the middle channel. Algae dead, the kelp slimy dead, gooseneck barnacles gray and sunken, mussels making the dying smell, and the fiddler crabs frozen and lifeless on the beach by the thousands. Nothing tidepooling on Ena’s beach. None of the myriads in the tidewater’s cultural ken symbiotically living each other on.

She felt it that night, in the storm’s first night, when the giant strides of the blizzard’s gale wind threw its weight into the Sound. She found herself retreating as far inside her cottage as it seemed to her the whole slope side had retreated inside itself. It’s the way it all seemed to her. Ena feeling as if the whole world had entered into a great gray grave with the wasty winter wheeling down into the frozen land where all promises get broken, all first flesh becomes putrid and swollen, all the harshness tearing through the lonely life lovers until even the smallest sighs of love become frozen on the fingertips of unfeeling force. Ena knew on the night of the blizzard that she was down in the grave too. Like her grandmother. Like her grandmother’s frozen and silent slope side. Like Ena’s sense of the slope side. Like the slope side’s sense that had not been able to respond to her for some days after the storm. And Ena now knowing just how much she is coming to need the slope’s responsive sense to her.

The artesian spring that feeds her water needs is frozen too. Ena has gone up to it every day hoping always to see it running free. But it hasn’t. Can’t run free. The rock shelf’s internal pressure can’t make the water run in any way other than how the columns of frozen water mass out from the small hollow in the slope. The pipe is there that goes deep into the shelf, but its mouth is just an eerie solid of hanging water. Ena has been staying there, just sitting by the spring for long periods, hoping to hear the first trickling, tinkling sip plopping into the tank, and still only hearing the unfree quiet where the sound of water running should be. But it hasn’t come, even in the late afternoon’s yellow sun light. Looking around, all Ena has then to soften her sense are the winter wrens and warblers, the little birds flitting down through the gray thin tree limbs.

Whole afternoons she has sat by her spring, not having any place else she wants to be, sitting in the snow, sitting like a roadside mother-girl in her niche along the slope. She has been there still waiting, still listening, still wanting to draw on the water, still waiting to draw on something that maybe no one has ever touched in her before. An elderberry tree rooted near, its few unplucked berries as wrinkled as raisins. The big leaf maple trees now stark and gaunt, looking like emaciated men reaching out for her sympathies. And underneath her feet there have been the frozen ferns, the brown maidenhair and the rusty bracken. Only in the little birds fluttering by, coming nearer to her the longer she stayed where she was, whose chirping had become like a faint echo to her of slim sources. The chestnut chickadees, the bushtits, the seasonal juncos like winter’s only companions, and the wrens. When she stayed long enough, she could hear them prying with their feet, hop-scratching into the snow covered, paper frozen leaves with their toes, digging through the unseen layers for her of where they might still find the fallen fruits of autumn. Their little working enough to affect her in a way she couldn’t really name, and soon it was that they were twittering, chirping, nearly singing. Singing. And the whirring of their wings. These being the secret songs of future springs, Ena decided on one of those days, and still trying to come out of the great grave grayness. She can’t remember which day it had been, but sitting so near to the songs of her little birds, it seemed to her she could her own heart beating. Thumping up, beating down, thumping there one hard time, then picking up to where she could feel her heart notes rhythmic in her chest, behind her ribs, coming through her sweater. Looking up then, she couldn’t have said why, but with a quiver, and looking straight into the ivy vine tendrils and the greening ivy leaf triangles laced like a living kind of column up an old redskin madrona tree. What startled her just then had been the quivering in the veining in the ivy. The ivy vines quivering too, and Ena not feeling or hearing a breeze. Like her they quivered too, but what was she thinking she saw?

Still, she felt that quickening come up from inside her, just as it seemed to be coming up through the ivy leaves, even coming up through the slope side. It came like her own familiar sense of the quivering she feels in her first morning mirror. Only, this time, it hadn’t felt as if it was coming up inside her so much as it came up through her. Up through her, she thought, and from deeper down, down from inside the frozen soil, down inside the rock shelf, down inside her there again that down inside the there-again-feeling of the earth sense spreading up around her. Ena playfully thinking by then on the finials of her own thoughts, while wondering about the winter birds like little loves, the little loves singing their songs to the earth, even persuading her to turn over one great time, timely turning her past the winter wastes to where her own heart can soon want to be warming from the inside out again, again coming from the bottomside and leaning into the promise of the spooning spring in the dew drops that might still come on the grass one day with the wetness of beauty. But silly Ena, she thought then, silly you.

It’s just that this evening, now this evening, Ena is in a little less edgy mood. She walks home along the snow packed road from Ginny’s store with the several gallons in bottles in bags of the water straddling her bicycle. Then the Ginny woman having been so kind, who, when realizing Ena’s situation, invited her next door to her house to take the really long hot bath in the clean, softly scented bath oil water. Ena who must have stayed in the tub’s hot water for over an hour, while keeping it warm from the tap that kept the water running, while Ginny brought her an ample cup of the dark chocolate nearly boiled in the cream, while the two women chatted comfortably and were maybe making friends. It is all of what a natural beauty has needed for the last week since the blizzard came. Ena now feeling prepared and ready to come through the remaining month of this winter waste season.

Ena walking her bicycle back home down the crusty, snow covered slope road, entering beneath the upraised limbs of the silhouetted trees, and there being the come back of the birdie notion, the birdsong sense, the turning bosom that seems to her to be a little less frost bitten in the heart and thaw just perceptibly in the night’s white frost. Ena almost slipping on the slope road’s ice, then catching herself from falling in the crook of the road’s elbow where it turns. Giggling one time, one time laughing to herself. It too being enough of what a natural beauty has needed for awhile. Then what surprises her at least as much as having been invited into the kindness of Ginny’s home is the thought slipping down from her, like a shackle, when she sees the straight and blue gray thread of smoke rising into view from her own small cottage. And why is it, then, that the promise of her cottage’s warmth could give her such an idea? What an idea anyway to be making free for her, to be sealing her free. What Ena saw in the straight and smoky blue strand thinly rising from her cottage chimney and cutting cleanly the bay’s vista is how the Last Day visions of wasty, wintry apocalyptic stigmatism never really has touched her. Wintry wastes she has known before in her cyclical swinging, and she knows now she knows them even better. But in the heart of it, in the middling deep winter retreat, she could feel herself coming to her very own nurturing seed, and by herself, by her own need, needing no man’s guiding, helping hand. This being her own, she sees, her own thought of spring’s greening she will soon again conceive as she comes out of her winter’s source, as even the quiver through the ivy vines could be coming out of the slope side’s source. A new year she comes to, a year in which to be free, and climbing up into her own first quarter season like a spooning moon.

Ena brings her water bottles down the stairs, being careful of the frozen steps, and rhythmically feeling a sudden arc in her own arching needs like bow strings strung taut inside her. Stepping back inside her cottage, putting her burden down, then going for her wood stove and building back up the fire. Standing before the pot belly as the fire light grows. Then slowly, slowly and most generously shedding herself of her clothing. Red embers, body stove, log light burning and reaching to touch her. Fire light coming up in the sudden excitement burning bright, and red the color of life for her in the basin, the bowl, night’s darkness. And yes the stars Ena can send shooting through her own atmosphere while standing in the fire glow, no other light except hers, while finding how her own knowing hands reach down and over her plump belly mound, pushing up firmly against her breasts, running slowly along her sides with the soft scents, her knowing hands coming to the where of her thighs inside. This being what she wants of herself tonight. This being her own warm excitable touch in the quick and quivering night. Her own given warmth in the firelight meeting her down there where she touches the groundmother swell, the grandly groundmother coming back up her own fleshy swollen stairs until they are each the other’s daughter down there, until they are each the other’s own mother’s lover down there in the, in the cascading stairs, in the cascading, in the delighting arc of the slippery bridge leading over into the warmest pot. Until the lactating ewes could be, will be, giving again. Until the dancing knotty pine screens of the dancing girls Ena can see consort in the spiral loves before the fire again in the late winter’s high sympathies when what’s new is always true, just beneath the crusty covers, green and yellow sun gold. Until what Ena feels is the body earth sense shaking through, releasing her to her body in the easy tremor, the tremble, the quieting. Her own story a glory of the secret ring when the possession she takes of herself there no man can ever claim again, only pray for, beg for, sing to and praise as Ena slowly curls into herself on bending knees to the close floor, in her own glow, inside her own home’s space. And quietly knowing she will demand as much from him who might ever think to hold her another time.

Curling into her folds of sweet sleep’s release before the stove, folded all the way through and lightly cradled in her own sleep, until the fire down chill tells her somatic self to move again, to build the fire back up, to slip between the warm flannel sheets of her big bed beneath the heavy handspread of the horsehair blanket. Telling her too to never again stay anything but true to her nature, and to what her nature requires of her, no matter the hard winter’s season.
Jul/6/2013, 4:29 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
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Re: In The Cedar Weave One


Ena has taken to writing out her dreams, writing them down because she feels as if she is widening in her sense for, what she calls, thing shapes.

She stopped in at a stationery store one day after leaving the restaurant. She found there a cheap fountain pen and indigo ink. Through the store’s window she saw a journal book. Then inside the store, and holding the book in her hands, she knew she took to it. Its heavy, cream colored paper, its hand sewn binding, and its marbled cover of swirling tones in green and blue. She decided then to make of it her book of dreams.

It is the continuous, connected, intimate sense she has sitting on the floor at the low table, with her legs tucked up beneath her, her back slightly bending over the paper, and the pen pointing out from between her fingers. What she likes is the feeling of the flow when she draws her pen over the clean sheet. And the bated breath, the reverence it gives her when she first points down on her pen. Down going, flowing through, curling the words in her hand as if they are brush strokes she makes. Someone telling her once, she thinks she can remember, how the first letters ever made, or maybe they were picture words, had in all likelihood been made by a woman. Maybe that is some part of the sense for her of something carefully close coming out of her. It is just a wonder. First training her hand on a scratch piece of paper and seeing to the angling of the nib, then bringing the blank book in front of her on the table, holding over, then letting go into the labyrinth of her underself, while some part of her stays above her to watch the way she makes her words. Words are not thoughts for Ena. Words are the ample, graceful bodies she draws with the dark blue strings coming from her pen.

It’s just that Ena has been dreaming differently since the night she needed to bring water home from Ginny’s store. Within a few days a warming wind came up out of the southwest, an Indian friend bringing in moist, ocean air, and the crusty ground had thawed, her spring running free, the tank filling, and the house’s water pipes mercifully unbroken. It also seemed to Ena that, ever since that night, the slope side leading up from her cottage has been a little warmer than how the ground feels when she walks away and reaching to the ridge road. She doesn’t know. She isn’t certain of what she thinks she can tell. But it is as if there is a cord, another sinuous string tying to her cottage up through the slope side, tying to Ena inside its ring. Then the rising warmth she feels around her cottage, almost a sympathy and a concentric play. She doesn’t know. It’s just how it seems. Now these dream images of Ena’s making her want to write.

The blue heron’s honk in another early evening. The blue heron’s honk Ena hears in the evening light. This it is to her her own moody space, her own blue spoon, and her loom. Then Ena tacking down on her dreams that are like the butterfly wings flitting through her, which is how she looks at her dreams, countenances them, lets them play above her when the personal up-over-below is like a whale’s belly and she an inside traveler.

It’s Ena’s water dreams that can go laughing through her, that amuse her the most, since, she then fish-gill breathing and making easy in the dark medium. Sometimes it isn’t so dark down there, and sometimes she isn’t even down under, but hovering just above the silver surface when the pink and purple flesh heads are floating up to her. And the iridescent, mascara mask she wears then, or the translucent tail waving away behind her. She’s decided these are the dreams that must be some kind of reminder.

Or then when she isn’t swimming in her dreams, when she isn’t feeling how really sexy she can be, she sometimes walking through a forest, having found the secret way in, having become a painter whose brushstrokes are the bushblinds and the thickets behind which she steps into her own canvas. She might be painting the larger ravens and black crows with shoulder joints turned inward as if they are wise Roman matrons. She might also be lost inside those trees until seeing, until looking up and seeing a white, long tailed bird fluttering and shining on the certain, the natural path. And still the silver-blue in the alderwood trees. Still the silver dew descending on the green grass through the alderwood trees.

Or coming next to her the snake dreams. The banded pair of red and black legless partners who come out of the coiled slope, just out of the throat of her grandmother as if her grandmother is now a wider and higher ridge woman. Then the pair of them coming to where Ena might be sitting, raising back on their bent body knees and licking clean her ears until she hears what the Stellar’s jay says, until that crested blue black bird chats to her in the neighborly way. Or then Ena herself looking down through the trees and bending low, bending, bending low enough to where her ears hear inside the sodden earth beating, then seeing, then seeing the grassy thump in the side of the slope in her own curled and coiled snake being.

There is also the lady coming into Ena’s dreamy peace, wearing different means and faces, but somehow the same tall lady to Ena. Mostly standing next to her, looking down on Ena, but sometimes standing away like a silhouetted mountain lady, or a lady on the ridge contrasted between sky and earth, or like the woman who keeps coming in white and who reminds her of Ginny, or the same lady as the double of whom it seemed to Ena rose out of the bay on the day she had rowed out. Whenever that same lady has come, there is the sense she comes from a place where all of Ena’s dreams lead her. As when it seemed to her she was in a lush grove or garden at the bottom of the sea and in the midst of a whole company of eternally feminine faces, or when Ena herself has stood before the sea and seeing this same woman riding to shore on a white water wave. More than once Ena has thought she can see herself riding on a nightmare in a night hag’s dream, except that she has never felt any fear when riding there, but only feeling the dark bottom side of freedom. And what mostly taking hold of Ena, or why she has the need to keep to a record of her dreams, are the thingly shapes floating in and out of her down under sleep, floating on the waves of her new found resting place, and looking to her like the language locks she needs to somehow open. But how could she explain to herself what she might mean?

It’s just that they are the shapes she finds as if passing down some subterranean hall. Such as the diamonds, or lozenges, with their creased and cut out patterns in her dreams. Or the spherical bowls, the silver spoons, and the egg shaped mounds sitting solely inside the evening lit precincts. The crescents again, the antlered heads, the intertwining snake tails, or the chevrons that cut like tattoos in her arm’s skin. Then the chiaroscuros of parading twos that can float before her, zigzagging across from her as if on their way into some secret space. And what always seems to happen on the morning when Ena wakes from one of these dreams is what she calls the corner vision thing. She can wake and see something flitting out of the corner of her field of vision as if it is darting out of her room, as if it is showing her a lead. Thinking on it again, while drawing out and describing her dreamy shapes in her book, Ena also remembers how she often sees an eye in her own inner night sky as she has fallen asleep. Just an eye, the single stare, the almond-wise, Egyptian eye looking down on her when she’s gone down under. It hasn’t needed long before she has thought of this eye as a signpost, or a pathfinder, leading her along a deeper, wider, livelier inside trail. Then again, Ena has thought, it could belong to her grandmother.

Always when waking from one of her dreams, Ena amazed at how rested she has felt, how assured she feels, and how it seems to her as if she is in the company of so many older women. But what can that mean? Just so many gathering girls coming to her in the dancing loop of her sleep. What could she possibly mean? She doesn’t feel lonely, that she knows. Nor does she feel like a solitaire as she goes from home to town to around to where she might need to go in a day and then back home again where she can be with these cellularly keeping kind of friends. Not alone, never again alone. And not feeling anymore as if she is some stranger girl in some stranger hand’s land. Which, itself, is some measure of how lively her dreams have made her feel again, even giving her back to a tactile sense, while being where she is, being in the where of what she is being. Then yesterday morning when she dreamed she had gone into her old ivory inlaid jewelry box for the yellow gold torque to wear on her upper arm. She hasn’t worn it for so long she all but forgot about it. The machine man not liking how it looked on her, it coming across like a challenge he had said, she put it away one day, and only now wearing it again after remembering it in her dream. The torque feels good there, circling, shaped firm around her high arm. The warm gold, the radiating sun bowl, the band that somehow can keep her new dreams circling with her through her day.

Still, it is a funny thing to Ena how her jewelry can go spiraling with her through her day. But here she is forgetting about her dreams and still writing out her words. It’s just that her different pieces have different ways of setting around her. Such as the teardrop pair of silver earrings, with the malachite and mother of pearl, that can set her as if she is sailing on the water road of the moon. Or her cloisonné pair that makes her feel as if she floats out in a summer’s sunset, looking for a ghostly ship. The black pearls of her favorite necklace give to her a kind of gravid and mothering sense. The moonstone she wears in a setting on her finger like a dollop of crystalline sap binding back, binding the earth crust back. But she still must be dreaming, Ena thinks, with the way things keep coming to her. Maybe she is, maybe even in the early evening with her still sitting at the low table. Maybe the black beauty she has sometimes seen in the face of her obsidian comb, in the cooled and cut volcanic glass, is a fertility woman coming out of the darkest home to make Ena be dreaming in the waking day.

Now that Ena has let herself go in the unlock, what of the other things, the shapely things she sees as if for the first time, the things belonging to her grandmother and still in Ena’s home?

On the mantle above the wood stove still the perfectly clear crystal quartz Ena’s grandmother brought out with her as a young girl when the family had moved here from the Arkansas home. Grandmother told the story once, when Ena was the young girl visiting, of how she had gone that last night alone and a little scared to the cave mouth, knowing that the next day they would leave their Ozark farm, and of how she went inside with an oil lamp, her father’s hammer, and a small chisel. Inside the cave where she had sat and played so often, the floor of it a kind of quartz stone garden, inside the warm rock heart of her home where she then cut the columning crystal out of the rock floor, crying the while, scrapings her knuckles in the shadows, mashing her thumb with the hammer too big for her, but needing the pulsing light crystal to come with her into the heart of a new home. And here it is still but in Ena’s home now. In Ena’s home with the knotty pine walls, the warm wood, and the old iron fat bellied kettle sissing on the wood stove.

Then the wide wheel of her grandmother’s cake plate on its truncated stem and with the whirling salt glaze coming out of its egg shaped center. Or the abalone shells on the shelf her grandmother had cleaned and polished until the iridescence of them could bark back in the lamp light. Also the knitted lap blankets her grandmother made, always in the same high colors and in the patterning, repeating abstracts that too are like the signs of a language lock for Ena. And the tapering tall oil lamps still standing as if mindful of the tapering hours that must have come before her grandmother had brought down the electric power lines for her light.

So maybe her dreamy release keeps peopled by a different kind of calligraphy, Ena thinks while putting down her pen and letting herself think-feel through the dreams, the jewelry, and the shapely things she has been signing herself to. Maybe it is different, an insinuating sort of lively speech widening her to what is in here, in her grandmother’s home, in the heart of her grandmother’s home. Maybe it is even the picture words intended mostly to start up for her a closest sense of what is all around, of what is quietly going on only to come back in and out of the rounding side of her, opening up a way for Ena back behind her. Maybe something actually is left over of her grandmother’s tendering in the slope side. Or is it the lively earth sense her grandmother must have nurtured through the long years she spent living here, and which Ena feels her dreams are waking her to?

Jul/20/2013, 4:15 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
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Re: In The Cedar Weave One


Just inside the overing shadow, the penumbra of the canopy of the roadside trees. Ena sitting in the wet leaves at the crossroads by the old store and Ginny’s home. It must be near to dawn, Ena thinks, which puts her in the tilted hour, putting her in the deepest hour when denizens of sleep-time are free from the trapper’s fear, free to roam. Just the wary eyed child things, the hunted and preyed upon simples of the hillside’s spherical keep who must also have a home in which they can feel free to roam.

Ena sitting where the old trees flank her, the gnarled scowlers, the taller cottonwood, and the bare branched cascaras standing near to the road, while the conifer cathedral of high roofed evergreen is deeper back from where she sits. And why is she still here, she would like to know, having watched the last of Ginny’s lights, the kitchen light, go out some while earlier? Ena who is feeling, who is feeling, but this is another new one for the girl, not knowing what she is feeling.

In the crossroad’s quiet, in the T meeting of two roads where the old store has stood for as long as Ena can remember, where the old home with the green siding and shutters has stood since before it became Ginny’s home right next door, with the old gas pumps still working, the weathered sampling of lawn statuary not really for sale, and the trellises for berry-vine training framing the still abed garden. But really the quiet, the held breath, the convening conspiracy of flora and fauna, of everything so silently suspended beneath the deep hour’s hallowing breeze wheezing so high in the conifers. Just the quiet hour, the slippery space Ena is sitting inside while she sees herself back through where she’s been tonight.

Maybe there really are the mothers who stay in these places. It’s what she’s heard about witches and crossroads. Just the old gossips with busy hands and busier bowls. But why would they come here? The mothers. Like maybe the women in her dreams, maybe coming in threes. Just the potbelly and the three rounding seedlings. Just the funniness, really. A mothering kind of considering ken. Or is there a drama here, a drama to be played out here in the convening, a high stage of masked emotions hanging from the trees? And what is there that they would have been masking? All of which are questions, Ena realizes, bringing her to the language lock again, and Ena blinking her eyes, coming back to herself.

She still has the stem of the clustering snowberries with the twinning leaves in her hands. She has been working it between her palms while sitting on the wet ground and thinking her thoughts. She broke it off from its bush just after leaving Ginny’s door, then stepping across the road, then sitting herself down inside the shadow of the trees. But the street light from the corner lamp shines on the berries, and they are still as white as snow, even though late in their season. White and pulpy, a little soapy, and without a pleasant taste to recommend them, or so one of her grandmother’s wild flora books has told her. But always with a pair or so of the perfectly twinning leaves, which is mostly what has Ena’s delight. That, and the fatty feeling of the berries between her fingers, the pulpy white clustering berries with the twinning leaves. And how to think about this thing, Ena could ask, while still feeling the sweetening sense, the heaviness in her hips, the roundness folding through her body? How is the tall blonde Ginny sleeping?

Ginny and her husband, Rick, invited Ena to their house for dinner tonight. Ena arrived just as the gray light was losing ground, carrying with her a perfectly dry, and still warm, apple pie in spite of the rain. Game hens, wild rice, a medley of steamed vegetables, Ginny’s own made bread, dessert, and coffee. It’s what was their dinner, and with the best homemade blackberry wine Ena has ever tasted. Ginny’s husband was proud of it this year, having had, he said, a sugar ripe harvest, and somehow finally finding the right temperature-place in their basement for making over the right amount of sugar to alcohol without ruining the chemistry of it. It was tasty enough for more than just one glass. Tasty enough for the conversation to open and follow and increase on its own, with Ginny having a knack for leading, Rick who seemed to be playful enough to play it along, while Ena saying more words than she has said all winter. It was just the kitchen’s kind of chatter that can so often be easy.

Then they stayed on in the kitchen, while Ginny and Ena washed the dishes, and while Rick worked a crossword puzzle. Ginny then asking Rick to play some music, sending Rick out into the living room where he put on a recording Ena didn’t know. It was a jazz thing, he said returning, one of his favorite old albums, and done by a man who is dead now, by a man who died in Mexico, who died on the same day a pod of whales numbering the same as his age beached themselves on a Mexican shore. Or so he was told. Ginny sharply thanking Rick for the information, while again looking over her shoulder at him. But Ena not really noticing the glances or the few passing words of the two that ensued. The music being what she more certainly heard, the jazz thing Rick said was called “Tijuana Moods”. Just the deepening strokes of the music, or the earth beats in the bass man’s blues, with the castanets coming in on top of a dark woman’s hot heart voice, then the song of a trumpet teasing its way through like the tonality of a palmetto breeze, and finally the really fiery down reach of the whole ensemble. Or maybe it was the berry wine inclining her that way. Ena now can’t say. From a first song to a second, the “Moods” kept flowing, and always the bass thumps that made her think of her heartbeats again. And the whining, the improvisational flights, the sharply turning melodic dove on a musical wind. What a real beauty, it seemed to Ena. Songs of the deepest love and sorrow. And still the fiery thing of the singing girl who must have been dancing in the spiraling too, or so Ena had wished.

After the second song Ena left the kitchen. She went in to sit in a chair before the stereo speakers. Playing one side of the album through, she then turned it over to hear what more the music could play for her. Not hearing any voices or movements from the kitchen, she wondered if she should leave. But she wanted to listen to a little more of the music before going, since, there it still was, there it could all be again, just the close emotions of some music lover showing her how he couldn’t get enough no matter the dues he must have had to pay to plays those blues. That was a man, Ena thought. A man for her just like that, if ever again. He would know how to sing her. And if he got lost, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be afraid to ask for her lead. And maybe, still maybe, she could show him where to find her. It was then that Ena felt Ginny’s hand on her shoulder.

 So how do some things happen, Ena wants to know again while standing up from her roadside spot, turning to make her wide awake way home? How do snowberries ripen still in the winter?

A friend’s hand on her round shoulder. The feeling of it there, and the first flesh knowing of what it wanted. The firm hand tenderly touching Ena there. Then her shoulder responsively rounding a little more, and Ena’s feeling of desire. The feeling in her belly, in the tingling, in her breasts arching out. With the desire coming the fleeting thought, the hesitation, the stop. But then the unfastening decision letting her go.

Two new friends, the taller blonde lady wearing her long hair falling free and the dark haired natural beauty. Two old gossips the same as the two young women coming to the season of their own firsting middle full. Such the amplitude in the soft downy covering their arms leading to the mutual uncovering leading to the familiar touching in the fully sweet, in the body touching, in the languorous, resonating caress taking them into their own private, their own rolling hills of flesh making form. Then the bending to the couch in the darkness when the lights are put out, and no more music playing, just the close sounds of their breathing and the closer smells mingling the two of them lying in the body touching together. Kissing where their lips are feeling swollen, two fulling moon girls. And the twinning, the give and the fleshy touch giving in the first knowledge all knowing in the dark night’s earth tide, their own entwining spoon ride. First the girl, then the firsting other, waiting for, coming to, coming for, pressing closer, together pressing, together parting, hands hollowing, fingers finding, together tenderly touching with the strands of hair combing like the matted springy grass, and the belly mounds, the one of the two in the belly mounds, the omphalos mounds leading before the yoni O below, below the arcing queen, the really rainbow river, the love of the liquid of the Iris coming over the two of them, coming through them and loving herself in them while spanning the interlude, the quiet tune of the two women girls coming before her.

And the down folding when the two women fold in, when patches of skin are so sensitive to ache in the tender way. Closing down, opening in, feeling the warmth falling through their bodies and the glistening along their limbs. Then the fall further in, falling through the warming window of the lovetime swell, falling into where they fall further together on the couch, holding each other when their eyes are grown too heavy. And the fall to where the mothers must be waiting for them, to where the firsting, the memory seed of the ancient necessity would have been a fruitful and fertile zone, encircling and certain, in the round of the grotto of the secret place.

It is hard to say for how long they then fell asleep together in the warm comfort they found together, but Ena was the first to awaken, her thought suddenly being of home. It’s where the stove embers were. She gently touched her fingers to Ginny’s cheek, which was enough to awaken her friend, and she told her she had to go. Ginny then wanting her to stay, but Ena softly saying no, since, she too has her home. Then the two of them getting dressed, mostly in the silence, except for some small giggling. Then finally standing at the door a moment more together, even if a little awkwardly. Ginny speaking first, commenting on how late is spring in coming this year, but also saying she felt it almost on them. Then Ginny turning to Ena and quietly asking if they will have this again. Ena hears herself gently saying no as she took Ginny’s hand. Ginny must have already known, it now seems to Ena, as all that the tall blonde woman friend asked of her was that they still keep friends.

It is the no Ena has been trying to understand ever since she walked out of Ginny’s door. Why the no, she keeps asking herself while walking in the light rain falling again, and nearly to her road, her cottage, her slope side. Easy enough would have been the yes to the feeling Ginny gave to her of her own woman’s flower opening above its stems. But it was the no she said in what is looking to her like a large moment, and Ena can’t say for sure why. She doesn’t know.

Ena feels as if she has just been let into a mystery, and maybe it is some further open behind part of the mothering mystery, some deeper part of the secret share in mysteries. She knows she will keep with sweet Ginny, that she still wants Ginny’s easy friendship, and that theirs is a closeness she isn’t ever likely to leave behind. She still can’t say for sure, as she finally descends her steps and seeing how the bay spoons itself in the dark morning chill, except to say that between them she felt a circle, a closing circle like the snake eating its tail. And that, if she stayed there, went back circling inside there, she was not likely to stray very far, or test her own perimeters, or even reach out for anything other than the clustering white snowberries with the two perfectly twinning leaves still in her hand.
Jul/27/2013, 5:50 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
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Re: In The Cedar Weave One


Still the winter rain storms coming through, coming through Ena as if they are the cowrie combs tangled in her hair, coming through in the stormy weather staying on late in winter. The harsh storms, the cold air, the slant of the rain coming out of the southwest that must be coming from off the Pacific, the mothering ocean where the harsh swells behind the harsher waves would be an upwelling of the overplus, and coming in, the wind driven storms, coming into her bay, coming on the swirl in the currents of air getting caught in the bay’s trough until swirling around and pushing up into the slope side, Ena’s slope side and cottage.

Ena lay in bed, last night, listening to another rain storm coming through. The damped down fire keeping the little cottage warm enough, and with Ena beneath the heavy horsehair and a quilt. She was tired enough to fall asleep, having spent the last two days, with Burton in town, cutting and stacking a cord of wood she bought, and working with her brother on cutting up another floater she had gaffed and tied to the bulkhead some weeks ago, and then baking the bread she always made for him to take home. She was tired enough, only, the storm awoke her, bringing her back up from under, came running through her as if she was a berry bush with the roots of her getting pulled upon and tugged. Then she lay awake for awhile, feeling for the tremors in her house at another sudden blast of the high wind, listening to the rain clapping against the cedar shakes, and wondering about, just wondering about the nature of the storm until she was wanting to step out into the cold if only to feel it on her face. She suddenly got out of bed, dressed herself before the stove, dressing warmly enough to keep her bundled in the cold air, then going outside with her flashlight, thinking to look at the cottage pilings, to also look for any small mudslides above the backside, and to assure herself the cottage would keep on standing through the night. After she saw to these things, Ena noticed how low was the tide, unusually low it seemed to her, and her flashlight having to stretch its beam out to find the tide’s waterline. Ena didn’t think she had ever seen the tide as low, and she knew it likely she could expect a higher than normal tide in the morning. But the trough of the shoreline is what Ena noticed the most. It was like a heavy ladle, her bay, or a deeply gouged wooden spoon having been carved out by those long ago glaciers of massive ice and boulder blades maybe five storeys high a book said.

Ena then decided to walk down to the waterline, or nearly so, walking as far as where the mud bottom started suctioning, trying to suck off her boots that were nearly pulling off her feet, since, they are a little too big for her, and Ena not wearing the two pair of socks she normally wears when wearing them. The rain almost hurting her face when she turned into it, and the wind buffeting her, swirling around her as if wanting to tear her away from there. Looking around in the darkness where she anchored herself, feeling the force of the storm on her face, looking back at her little cottage and at the heavy slope shoulder rising behind. Then the words coming up through her while the wind whirled around her and furiously whipping like a banshee through her soaked hair. They were words coming up as if coming through the layered shale, the neap tide, and the slope, coming up and bodying out in Ena’s Cassandra conception of time. And then what Ena said and would have said to anyone hearing her, near to her in the late and storm’s night hour, “These are the calamitous times.” Then feeling in her body the upwell of the swollen emotion for the little ones coming in, coming through the layers too, coming up and into the stormy skies holding over. What was she seeing now, Ena wanted to know? What was she seeing in what she felt in the thoughts getting constellated in her emotions? And it was just a funny thing to be seeing in your feelings, or seeing the owl’s face in the slope side darkness just behind her cottage, the owl’s heart-white face with the unblinking eyes, the eyes again as when she is falling asleep that are now looking through her in the storm’s darkness, and showing her, and what showing her where she must be sleeping again and dreaming, not really out here in the shoreline darkness where they show her, still somehow showing her into the wide awake way into her own heart’s coiled darkness, in her own heart, her slope side, her own kindred and kind behind the cottage. The heart-white, the face, the stillness in the storm buffeting her. The more words coming out of her, the words more surprising her when she doesn’t think she knows them until they’ve been spoken. Seeing into the cover of the slope side darkness where the unborn still keep, where the once born have kept like dema loves, like some kind of dark intelligences, and Ena saying what she’s not knowing she’s saying, “Rise up you darksmart child things, awaken, dance, and sing.” Ena thinking again of what her grandmother seems to want to give her.

But that was last night. That was before coming back inside, drying herself down by the wood stove, building her fire back up and returning to bed. That was before this morning when awakening in a dream, thinking it a morning dream, thinking it another water dream she was having in the lapping of the water she clearly could hear. But not asleep, no, she wasn’t nodding in her sleep, or not mostly so, but hearing the water up under the floor boards. Then Ena fully waking herself and going to the door with her robe wrapped around her, and seeing the high tide lapping up against the cottage deck, lipping up over the cottage’s deck, and giving her where she stood on the deck, with the water nearly even with the deck, giving her the vertigo feeling, the mothering motion, the swollen, the swelling, the upwelled motion.

Then while she dresses for work and combing out her hair before pulling it back to hold it in place with needle and comb, and almost ready to walk out the door when there is the calendar she sees on the wall in the kitchen. The day, the month, the grid of weeks on the calendar that never has told Ena very much about what she might want to know about her own seasons. But then the fine print she sees next to the day in which is moving, and what it says right there, next to the day on the wall: moon at perigee. Words leaving Ena to wonder what they mean. Ena wondering until taking her grandmother’s dictionary from off the shelf, then finding the one mystery word, finding how the moon last night, today, finding how the moon is moving in her closest swing to Ena’s earth. She can come this close, really this close, Ena marvels. She can make it all, in her own white heart’s owl face, seem really this close, this large and amplified, this near in the face of what Ena’s earth feels in the space of where she spirals through. Ena realizes this morning how little she knows about the moon in spite of how close to her emotional swings the moon has always been. Stormy nights, larger tides, white owl faces, eyes wide awake, denizen of the deep trusting to the moon’s neap of whiteness, and the moon moving so close as to make everything larger than it is without her. The mother motion, the upswelling tide, the moon’s enlarging in the swinging features of her own orbital course. It is a marvel to Ena. And now the storm having passed, even a patchy blue sky with pockets of sun gold yellow that lights up the bay, and Ena’s days coming to her without her knowing in the moment how closely they can be coming to her.
Aug/3/2013, 4:26 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson

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