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Jam another dragon down the hole...
Last night, I dreamt that I wandered into a little piano bar where a girl who seemed to be a cross between Jennifer Connelly and Regina Spektor was perched atop a piano, playing a ratty old concertina, singing Klezmer. In conversation with her later, I suggested that just because she CAN hit super high notes doesn't mean that she should, and ( Read more... ) -
I am disconcerted.
In my dream last night, I encountered a large beast-wolf thing that was laughing and laughing. When I asked what he was laughing about, he indicated with his muzzle a long line of smoldering coals. He said that the "Ragnarok fires" holding him back like bars of a cage had gone out, and the chains he'd been straining at for a millennium had begun ( Read more... ) -
(whisper)
Last night
I slept curled around the pillow
that still held the scent of you-
breathing deeply,
as though to draw the essence of you
into the core of me
woke today with a half smile
forgetting for a moment
that it was not you that I held
but the trace
of your skin against the linen. -
drained.
Last night, I dreamt that the San Andreas Fault finally CRACKED in a huge earthquake, and a huge portion of land from Vancouver to northern Mexico broke off into the ocean. Tectonic plates surged upwards, then fell to crush cities. Shockwaves from the quake lashed all coasts with tsunamis, and set off a wave of storms around the world that was to ( Read more... ) -
Winter solstice approaches, and I bathe in light.
Some may find it strange that I draw the greatest inspiration when the world is cloaked in shadow and ice, but it is in fact in the depths of winter's embrace that I feel most attuned-- both with myself, and with the worlds around me.
I seem to be most introspective in silence and stillness, and it is in this season that such can be found: animals ( Read more... ) -
(words spoken to the wind fly straight to Source)
I whispered a poem to the wind last night ( Read more... ) -
Ever she flows.
That low hum, that resonant song that breathes through the very heart of all things... it sounds low, like a male voice, or that of an ancient grandmother-- crone-bent and hoarse in her whisperings... but it is neither male nor female, old nor young.
It merely "is".
It has been called so many things by so many people, in as many names as voices have ( Read more... ) -
Writer's Block: Wild Rumpus
Sabriel, from the book of the same name by Garth Nix. No doubt.