An earlier post introduced My New Pad, as in “abode”. I call it “The Pirate Ship.” I received a lot of email on it, so here’s an update. Every thought, action, and experience is exactly as it happened.
And btw, none of this has anything to do with 4 Seasons in 4 Weeks except that this is the place from which I am now creating everything for my 4s4w followers. This is the only reason I place this post on this particular website blog. In addition, The Pirate Ship is where I’ll do my private, one-on-one, 4s4w all day coaching sessions in good weather.
The Pirate Ship Chronicles ~ Dec. 11, 2014
By Suzanne Mathis McQueen
The Storm
The Pirate Ship indeed, is on a ghostly adventure in these wee hours of the morn, being tossed and turned in the vast open seas of rolling hills and vineyards.
Exposed to near hurricane winds like a palm on deserted island, this skinny 4-story Beverly Hillbilly’s shack-teau is hanging on tooth and nail to keep its roots from disengaging and being overtaken by supernatural 50-foot waves. So far, earth and ship are clinging tightly to one another for support, in the same way that Todd the Loverboy Cat is hunkered down on top of my head and positioned pillow. All feels firmly attached for now. Writing keeps me focused and my fear at bay.
Sitting up slightly in bed next to a window is probably a bad idea. I mean, Dorothy got bonked on the head by a glass pane during the tornado that took her Kansas house sailing into the whirlwind of her black and white existence before landing over the rainbow. Maybe my world is about to get very colorful.
Fully alert, thoughts are swirling in opposite synchronization with the whistling, whipping gusts. Once in awhile, absolute stillness steps in and fools me into believing it’s over—but my mind, instead, becomes more active. I begin to understand things that don’t matter: Why lighthouses are built out of rock or concrete (as opposed to the recycled barn wood of the Ship); how the pig who’s house was built out of sticks must have felt completely traumatized, needing grief counseling after it was all blown down; thinking that all the kids who belonged to the old-woman-who-lived-in-a-shoe must have piled into bed with her when things got scary; how spooky it must have felt to explore a damp, stone castle wearing only a long nightshirt and lantern in hand.
After the calm comes the storm—harsher than the time before it. Mother Nature goes rogue, dressed as Maleficent—sudden, swift, relentless, releasing, howling, laughing, rising, scaring—proving who rules. Should I hide under a desk or doorway? Perhaps out in the vineyards with the coyotes. Bigger than life, the Ship groans, creaks, and shakes in a darkly orgasmic “shiver me timbers” fullest expression. I get that term now.
I’m feeling sorry for the Pirate Ship. It’s being mightily tested and so am I. But I think I’m good.
I have to pee but don’t want to budge. I’d like some coffee but not sure I should be turning on anything electrical. I decide to finally brave up and go for it, which means I have to pull the thick rope on a pulley to open the hatch that leads me down the spiral wooden steps and into the cold, but very cool bathroom (it has a beautiful clawfoot tub). I notice that the playground swing that is hooked up to my entry porch is wrapped around the front of the house. I’m wondering where I’m going to find my yoga mat in the morning that I left on top of a box under the carport. I shine-on the coffee and follow the vines of heavy chains that line the stairs back up to my cozy nest. The structure and my bones sway and rattle. I brace myself midway. A symphony of sounds is composing outside. I call on my ancestors and the greater love force to keep me solid.
I step up and onto the 2nd floor to find that one of the many big, heavy doors to the outside had blown open in my absence (Insert scary movie music and momentary heart-attack). Really? Are you kidding me? I take a quick peek onto the side deck, along with a hit from the cold blustery air, and then slam and bolt the door. I find Todd under the bed now. Smart boy. Perhaps I’ll join him.
I think pirates must have been nervous, jittery insomniacs. I now understand why they looked so bad, drank too much, and went around shooting each other’s eyeballs out and hence, the patches. I have a radio interview in the morning and I’m grateful it’s over the phone and not on Skype or Hangout.
It’s still dark and I hear a chainsaw at the main house (which is just a bit away from me). A tree must have fallen and sitting precariously. Hoping things will settle down with the light of dawn when otherworldly swashbucklers are supposed to go back through the portals from whence they came.
The Pirate Ship
The Pirate Ship’s Partial View.