INTERSTITIAL COMMUNICATION #10: House and Home.

Is it really okay to be happy here too? An improvised mini Deidream...the static between stations.

THE RADIO STATIC

bbbbbzzzzzchhhh…Transmission. Transmutation. Transcendance…..bbbbtzzzzz

The Yellow House by Vincent van Gogh. Home is where the art is. Thinking about what he went through in his time here and what he made here.

One morning, I smelled my mother’s cooking.

The quiet of the woods behind me is nearly as heavy as the three blankets I find myself cocooned in.

The tree I grew up with. Both of us unruly juveniles, uprooted, tested, bound to unfamiliar territory. Now, we tower, strong and healthy. I finally see and understand you. We are siblings of a sort. I’m sorry it took me so long to love you.

[I could stay here forever.

What’s the point of trying so fucking hard anyway?

This is bliss, and I do not wish to leave it.

I wish this would all be over.

E**** here. M******* there. Someone wants something every single moment of my day. Produce, earn, achieve, yearn. How else will you live? How else will THEY live? Much to do, much to do, much ado about everything.

IfIwereamillionaireI’ddisappearwhereyoucouldn’teverreachme.]

I’m so tired. I’m so tired. I’m so. Tired.

Girl! Getupgetupgetupgetup. RISE N GRIND, SHORTY.

“You know, you shouldn’t sleep with your laptop on your bed.”

How else will I slam myself straight into earning from the moment I open my eyes? But maybe just…….five more minutes.

Is it still dangerous to say I wanna sleep forever?

But.

What tore me out of bed was the opening chimes of one of Our favorite songs.

What propelled me down the stairs, warbling with a voice full of sleep, was my mother’s humming along. What moved my feet across the kitchen was her laughter. For four minutes, everything went quiet, save for the jingle of the bells, Mariah’s ageless crooning, and my mother’s amusement.

I’ve heard this song a million times before, but this time felt different. I’d alchemized my grief before, but this time felt important.

I performed for my mother again.

I remembered the moments of my childhood when my silly little voice and my clumsy imitations of my heroes were just for her. I remembered what all our warm afternoons alone, when she smiled more often, were like. I remembered the first time I felt childlike wonder at being able to use my talent to make someone I love happy.

I remembered why it was important, for both of us. I remembered why choosing our joy over my grief was the best way to start our day right.

The earlier the Christmas cheer, the harder the world is breaking Our heart.

I am once again writing this from underwater, and we are once again facing Great Unknowns, but these four minutes spent dancing in the kitchen along with my mother reminded me so much of being a teenager again that I broke the surface.

It reminded me that we’ve had to spin broken straw into imperfect gold my whole life.

[Eldest daughters who walk a fine line, tend to your thread today.]

But even still, we dance.

“This is why I missed my baby,” said with eyes that crinkle in the corners when she smiles.

Eventually, a sibling and my father meander down. I miss the other sibling when they aren’t around.

The smell of frying eggs and the beating of my heart when I look at their faces overwhelms me.

I just think growing Dahlias and lavender would fix me actually…….. Expect lots of updates next spring on three floral projects I’ve assigned myself.

Running away from home only makes the run back into its arms all the sweeter.