Clay Feet in Flip-Flops

I thought I would start with something lofty or profound: My Thoughtful Insights on God, Faith, Family, Friends, Humanity, Country, or the Environment — a weighty introduction about my Philosophy of Life.  Maybe I'll get to some of those things later. Maybe.

Today, I'm thinking how bloody hot it is outside — I'm ready for October. I'm thinking about writing and about my newest watercolors. I'm thinking about critters — my old dog, my young dog, my old cat, and the brain-damaged squirrel — but won't write about them right now.

I was born in a summer month but summer isn't  friendly to me. Oh, I appreciate summery things. I like the flowers, the fruits & veggies, the thunderstorms, the canopy of trees. I have great memories of bicycling, horseback riding, camping, and picnics. But my internal thermostat isn't reliable and I get heat sick easily. I can always layer on more for the cold months; but there's only so much undress anyone can do without being arrested for indecent exposure. Me in a bikini might even constitute domestic terrorism or public nuisance. 

I bought my first pair of flip-flops — yellow and hot pink — since 1972.  It's a great relief from toaster-oven socks when the temps climb into the upper 90's (and beyond) and the heat index is in triple digits.  I like not doing the hot concrete & pointy rock folk dance in bare feet; but I'm still not used to the feel of the straps or the clop-clop-clop they make when I walk. I suspect they'll petrify long before the rubber molds to arches high enough to drive a car under.

So I dream for the cycle turning to days of flannel shirts under sweaters, wool britches, and half-inch thick legwarmers. I dry sweat from my hands and work on picking wool to felt for toasty house-boots or crochet new armwarmers, legwarmers, and hats.  I work, dream, create — draw, paint, and write.

There's a volcano in my brain.  Stories, characters, images of scenes erupt constantly. If I were faster at typing, drawing, painting I might be able to capture them all, give them their voices, their portraits, their landscapes.  Alas, I'm turtle slow and a touch arthritic so they have to wait their turn in the queue.  But on the days when the volcano transforms into a pinball machine — sweet!  Every ding-ding-ding of completion means a score for another play.

Ley Rhaed nav-chart — ding, new play. Sincerely, Simon — ding, new play. The Grain Remembers Nails — ding, new play. Tools of the Trade — ding,  new play.  Stigmata of the Green Flame  — ding,  new play.  Capturing Whirlwind — ding,  new play.  Bloomship — ding, new play. Feast — ding, new play.  

Ding-ding-ding — bonus points.  The new play is this blog, logging the journey of a clay-footed wanderer in life and in the lands between my ears.  Today, I wander realms in flip-flops.  I listen for the rumble of the volcano, the ding-ding of the pinball machine.  But most of all, I ignore the clop-clop of summer footwear and listen for the Voice at the center of all my wandering. 

And to travelers who would journey with me, I wave a hearty welcome to you.    :)