Letting go of heartbreak songs

In matters of self-education and scholarly pursuit, I can be honest and say for the most part, there has always been motivation enough to make me wise and willing to learn.  In matters of the heart however, I have been remiss with myself and sorry.  And, in looking back all I can say is: Man am I a sap and a moron.

I almost never listen to mainstream pop or country so this song is new to me. ..and it’s coming at a time when I could use a reminder of what really happens after having let yourself be stupid to the point of laying face up on the floor like a golden retriever: here ya go, trample my guts and eat my heart out.

And sad songs are OK when you want to cry, but if you want to get angry and get over it so you can get on with it. ..I think Reba says it best.

Watch this one.  Even if you have to click the link and wait for the advertising.  It will be worth it!


Letting Go of the Roses

Last  night I awoke to the blinding light of something broke loose from a desperately colorful dream.  I can’t remember the details exactly.  Just that I found myself  kind of breathless and gasping, stunned mostly. ..and in front of me there was something I can only describe as a block of brightness moving away as I reached for it.

Still lost in sleepiness, at first I thought it was some kind of answer to prayer, if I actually did pray. ..I guess I kind of do as I’ve been struggling lately. . . with feeling so spent and tired, and unmotivated to lift a brush for more than a few seconds.  Lately I just pick it up, dip it into something.  . .drag whatever it was across the canvas, sigh and put it back down again.

So anyway looking back on that dream thing, I am thinking if it actually had been something otherworldy or ufo-ish presence I was seeing instead of a sleep-induced hallucination, it would have had softer edges instead of angles probably.  I didn’t see its face either. .so that was kind of suspicious to me as well.

Then this morning, when I went out to the garden, I had to come to grips with the fact that the white rosebush had died finally. ..that the weight of what had been shoveled on top had crushed its delicate root system. . .  a mishap from last fall when my landlady replaced the backyard sidewalk, and in the process hired some brute with a slegehammer and a shovel.

I came home one day to find the roses coated in a layer of concrete dust.  The bush’s base was buried in a pile of dirt and gravel.

I was able to remove most of the gravel at the time, but I guess the trauma of being buried alive was just too much.  The back branches had already gone brittle in March after the first flowering and today I found the ones in front somewhat crushed and crumbling as well.

I will have to take a shovel to it tomorrow. .. heavy gloves and bucket.

At its peak, the thing had spread to about three feet around and five high.  And its blossoms were big and lush, heady with perfume and petals.  Pretty impressive for having just been planted a couple of years ago.

I will miss the roses every time I pass that space.  I will have to fill it somehow.  Maybe next week, or next month, but not just yet.

Painting by John William Waterhouse