Counting Crows -- Marcia

Sometimes when I panic about my inability to write at this time in my life, I think my muse has left me.

My friend Greta was the first person I ever met who loved crows. She likes them because they like glittery stuff and have been known to steal it. Greta is not a cleptomaniac, but she does have one of the best collections of vintage rhinestone jewelry I've ever seen.

Crows have been circling my house, cackling from trees, hopping off curbs, landing on playgrounds in front of me, and generally appearing at the oddest times, for the last two years.

I decided, several New Year's Days ago that the crows were trying to tell me something. What I've surmised is that they are trying to tell me to get busy. It's time to plumb the void, get writing and bring it all out into the light, and maybe I can have some rhinestones of my own.

Then the crows stopped coming. They were no longer calling to me. Had I missed my chance? Disrespected the message?

I took James to a Dia De Los Muertos shrine installation at the Briscoe Art Wing in Ashland the Sunday after Halloween.

There is something fascinating, humorous, reverent, and irreverent about the wonderful skeletons and shrines created in this tradition's name. I needed some of this that day.

The installation was horrible. It was less Oaxaca and more Way Out. And not even way out in a manner that was all that interesting. So much for skeletons smoking cigars and playing guitars. No little skeleton ladies of the evening under lamposts in green satin evening dresses. Boring with a big B. James pilfered a Hershey's kiss off of one of the "offerings" shrines and we headed for the playground.

That's when I saw these wonderful big plastic crows. They were mounted on wrought iron railings and festooned with rafia and grape vines. Marvelous Fu Dogs to the gates of the immortal. I mentally thanked whatever creative person with a good eye and a sense of rightness thought to fasten them there. I needed a visit from a crow, even if it was part Hekyl and Jekyl meets the Raven.

I pushed James on the swing, took pictures of myself trying to overcome my hatred of my own image, and snapped the gorgeous sap saturated light on the hills of Ashland. Then I sat on the swing next to my baby and reached for the stars. It felt good to fly.

Last week I bought a Smith-Corona "Coronette" circa 1976. Five bucks, St. Vincent de Paul's right before closing. I'm working on my short story "Skin Deep" again. A modern day fairy tale I enjoy dabbling in. The pages are coming. Let's see if the crows come back.

I'm listening.