Note to Readers: Eric Francis will return March 19. Judith Gayle's article was held up in editing due to thunderstorms in Missouri interfering with email. Eric has written an article called Mars Direct: A Vision, which you may access here. And today we offer an article by Jeanne Treadway in New Mexico.


By Jeanne Treadway

My skin literally crawls with itchy cravings. Nothing feels right. I'm too hot; my porridge is too cold. Phone calls end in tears of frustration because I simply cannot grasp the meaning of the words. I'm edgy, crazy-making emotional. My kitties and I barely avoid slamming into each other as I stomp off the same eleven yards, the longest path in my casita, over and over again. Molly and Lince slash their tails in double-time counterpoint to my forth and back, walk to sit, nine-year-old-on-a-rainy-day rhythm. When I reach the far end of my pathway, they blitz the antique love seat for a shriek-inducing claw-sharpening shred-fest. I'm acting up so they can too; it's in our contract. This might be why I only live with cat companions. Gad, I annoy myself.

Epona doll by Jeanne Treadway.

There's probably some notekeeper somewhere who assigns this moodiness to barometric pressure or seasonal affective disorder or insanity genes but that sort of understanding just increases my locked-jaw fierceness. No explanation but my own will serve. Hear me? I feel like my Epona doll: all dressed up raring to go, wind whistling though my hair, but stuck on a pony going absolutely nowhere. I wanna run away from home during this Silly Putty, stretch-my-soul-wide-open season we call spring.

Each year about this time I spend a couple weeks as mercurial as the weather. I dance and cavort to Big Mama's siren-songs for ten minutes, then whooomph! somebody lets all the air out of my balloon. Laying down in the middle of the day is positively asking to be called old, so I lay down, leap up, lay down, leap up, then finally blaspheme everyone (in my head) who might be whispering a comment about my age and lay down for a few seconds.

I go into the kitchen to make lunch, wallow a moment in outrageous visions of headlining the All Girl Bodacious Extravaganza and Eternal Beltane Three-Ring Spectacle, pretending I look fetching in a peach tutu with red rhinestones, pink sequins and yellow glitter, then mosey back to the computer until my stomach startles me and Molly.

Years ago I perfected the queenly, figure 8 wave just so I'd be totally regal when I acknowledged the thunderous applause for my splendid derring-do but, alas, have yet to perform the beauteous ritual publicly. The truth is I'm just a tad less vigorous. Most of my body parts jiggle and I can't stay up past 9:00 PM. It's doubtful I'll any day soon stun an audience with my superb back flip twist on a cantering palomino mare or regale more than a handful with my dandy lion taming outfit. Rats.

The good news here is I know there's an end to this madness and I'll neither belong in prison for the bodies I strew behind me nor in the psych ward for the non-sequiturial ramblings that unnerve so many. I recognize from experience there's some wondrous thing abirthing; plus, there are always sublime moments awaiting me. For example, yesterday I finally wore myself out and gave up trying to control the jitters. I stepped outside to say an evening thank you and, there, with just a tiny, truly an infinitesimal tilt of my head, were ten gazillion katrillion breath-stopping stars winking at me. Ah, yes, I sigh. The Great Cosmic Reminder. Be easy, girlfriend. It's all working just fine, thank you.