I seem to be stuck in a forest of sorts...

Why hello. September 26th. Venus is present, I feel her. She's helping me alng while I do my morning recording. It's sunny and the sky's a cornflower blue, or should I call it chicory blue? My brother insists chicory and cornflower are different and in my ignorance I can't say for sure. I guess I will believe him. I just think cornflower has a nicer ring to it.

But the sun is a glorious complimentary orange, and apart from the racing megalithic trucks, it's glorious living here. Our yard is filled with indigo grapes, hanging, pouring from the trellis, the crabapple tree is weighted down, waiting to be made jelly from. No plums, but oh well. Brother has his cider press working and has made pear juice, gallons and gallons of it, apple cider, and plum juice, in the hopes of making wine and hard cider. To last through the winter. I dig.

For the last two mornings, I have recorded new songs. I will hopefully continue this ritual until I run out of words and music, which is hopefully Never.

Trying to openup ribcage to accept this new town Nelson as home. In my mind I call Nelson "Salisbury", its past name. But in my hear I think the name is different again. Probably the original Sinixt name, but I can't seem to find it out. I think the name Nelson undermines the beauty of the place. I am constantly reminded of the character from the Simpsons, the big oaf child Nelson. but This here Salisbury is too beautiful. Mountains surrounded it, cougars inhabit it, chickadees sing in it, or try to be heard, bears watch over it... I guess I miss foxes and crickets and sparrows and grass animals... but I am trying to get over my last home, which I sent 28 years in. Hard to shake overnight. The idea of going back to live there does little for me, but my missing is overwhelming anyway. Gotta figure it out, live it out.

Working on 3 projects. 1) Saturn and the Ladybugs, 2) Corvus Mae, 3) unnamed jazzish thing. A la Peggy Lee/ Marilyn. La!

Apart from being a full time Mama, that is. So in love with my son.

harvest season/ ducks fly moon

morning silent but actually crows. if you ignore the traffic.

a birthday today, Kris'. He's sleeping with a sweet baby. the baby has tantrums a lot these days. he throws himself around and claws with his nails. half-proud I am, and half-worried. he's really a sweet one, though.

laurence, atwood, munro, plath, maracle, erdrich, gunn, lightning woman. reading the women who have ties with womanhood. self-aware, aware of life. inspires a girl see through better and less-habitual eyes. adds shades and spirit fabric to everything surrounding and inner. behind, beyond, meta-, within, super, and perhaps. I love the women, the musicians, poets, composers, knitters-of-webs, the long line of us, actually, the great lovely circle of us, or spiral. we have the blink, the understanding, the almost-smile, the totally Mona-Lisa thing, the blood, like a female coyote, but with essence of brown mama bear, hummingbird, and others.

recording music soon. can't wait. so many ideas, so many projects. technological Kris is preparing the earth to sing on, to drum on, to play on. I have no idea about Scope, wires, connections, mechanics, that stuff. admiration.

Corvus Mae is keeping herself warm under folded wings, aching to caw. waiting. change of season now to ducks fly moon from the brown bear time. Dreamt of bear two nights ago, crow more nights ago. Bear was beautiful, slow, grace incarnate. something to be revered. glossy and dark. the western spirit. I felt her and watched her in her silence and became silent too. the one time I was close to Bear, Kris and I were in our '71 VW van, somewhere in the mountains, camping across Canada. 2006. night time. bear slowly ambles looking for food. beauty, amazement, reverence. came toward us so we started up the van and eventually drove off, feeling that we saw the most beautiful creature. we ate rice cakes and dodged mosquitos in the black. headlights illuminating specks of winged things, we silent with bear songs.

cougar sighting at the park in town. cool.

love,

me

New Moon

No crickets here, but still, there is other music. It's kind of quiet because it's under the skin, and also the roaring 4 X 4s and pickups and SUVs and jeeps rush up the mountain so quickly you can barely hear your thoughts, let alone the soft rushing blood-music, but still, it's there.

Cutting cords to places, for me, can only be partially done. Home, or that place I spent most of my past in, the intimate place that knows parts of me that other places couldn't know, this place I spent time sitting under trees which would be sawed away, telling my secrets, crying, singing, talking to crows, this Home has changed its skins many times, and so have I... the ghost is still there, the events clasped in the cells of always-ness, the voices and blood-rushings still hide in there, so that cord can't be cut anyway. But the land, the great willows, oaks, the great Lake, that sand, the thunder storm waves, crickets, grasses, familiar human voices, and of course, my good friend the foghorn are distant relatives now.

Now I am here in the mountains, and the music has changed and is me, but new, like a new moon shifting waxing waning... new music.