There's a delightfully mad scientist somewhere, whose been pumping exmperimental drugs into the atmosphere, affecting important spirits.
So many people, some of whom needed it so desperately, had kickass weekends.
Mine was idyllic. I insist on attributing it to the madmen.
This weekend there was talk, of the kind that tears down walls and opens floodgates and exposes the heart that sometimes I think I've lost. This weekend I fell in love all over again.
This weekend I rested, in the grass, practicing for Wiccanfest, the contradictory dichotomy of all that I love -- grass and sun and wind and Science Fiction.
The natural and the furiously new.
This weekend I slept, as slowly I have begun to do, this weekend I whispered hypnotically to myself so that the great self-loathing beast wouldn't rise up and berate me for time wasting unconsciousness. I think it worked. I have been slowly forgiving myself for enjoying sleep again, something in me is changing.
(although I've noticed that it's a HELL of a lot easier with a warm body to crawl back into bed for)
This weekend MC came by for lunch with her mum, and we giggled and babbled happily, comfortably perched on the ricketty picnic table, surrounded by remnants of too much food.
I gingerly watched her face when she first took in the back yard, this lady who'd become my unsuspecting garden mentor.
She gave lots of suggestions, and like some of the great hearts that have cleaved constructively at my poetry -- it was all good and between the lovely gift of the gardening book and teeming suggestions, I'm ready to start considering the next landscaping step.
Then Rob'n'kitty dropped by in their rented yellow mustang convertible and ran us around on errands, to MEC and Canadian tire, for waterproof matches and sandals and camping mugs and concentrated deet.
Black leather seats, leaning up against Dave in the back, cupping my nipples against the wind; half embarassed to be seen in such an engine, half thrilled at the wind whipping my hair. (after a ride like that there was NO way to have ever tamed it.)
Then they came by for dinner, and yesterday was officially the day whereupon I ate more chicken than is humanly possible.
Barbecued and perfect, with yellow squash and roasted onions and potato salad and coleslaw and cheesecake and fancy stovetop coffee for dessert, we just sat, and 'hang'ed and spent time together.
Kitty's delighted announcement when I carried out the plates for the cheesecake of "You're such a wonderful hostess" is still dancing in my warmest places.
ANd now I have to run for my fourth (and hopefully last) "Absolutely Crucial Before You Leave" meeting today, and then home to make leftovers-dinner for the Wiccanfest crew, and tomorrow...
...I'll be in another world entirely.
My inbox this morning was all aglow, email from the Parisian contingent and their excitement at my visit in January, email from my favourite Marc and his commentary on a recent resurgence of half-potable poetry.
He really liked a couple of the things I really liked.
Like tapestry cracks, and the ketchup universe.
Right now I am very busy, very complete, very excited and --
very, very happy.
And so much of it due to Mr. Pyke, barbecue king, otherwise known as the man who doesn't realize his own portents for poetry, who peaks like he is channeling Pablo Neruda when he doesn't realize that he's trying.
See you next week, dear diary.