-
(Untitled)
huh. so this still exists. -
early winter imaginings
the sea is calling. the sailor scratches remembrances on postcards with the stub of a careworn pencil and strokes his beard thinking of home. the woman sands at the fence watching the storm roll in, wiping her hands on a faded apron, tucking a few blowing strands back behind her ear. both heads twitch at the keening of a seabird. -
All Hallows' Eve-Eve
Sitting at home, alone with the cats, watching bad tv movies. Imagining I should, instead, be howling at the moon somewhere, catching stars on the beach, dancing around a fire dressed as a wraith or a spook. -
Disappointment runs rampant in city
Bummed that I percieve that everyone else is having Halloween fun but me. Sick again, working nights again. Bummed again.
I woke up in the middle of the night scrounging for paper so I could write a poem. What? That hasn't happened in years. I need some serious forest therapy. It is different in there. -
The endings are a lie
Desperate for fairytale adventures, sparkles, lights bones and tea. lie down in crystalline fields of frost on a moonlit night and listen to the trees. It's been far too long. The heat of a kiss could transport me. Make me light as air, fleeting as perfume. -
short term solutions
Dyed my hair, drank a beer, bought frivolous shoes and b.s.'d with my dear friend. I feel better. And a trip to the library. That always helps. -
impending
So, what are you supposed to do when you realize you are not a young fresh anything? Getting really damn close to 35 and my coworkers are younger, the "important" women in Vogue are younger, people who are married and have houses and babies are younger ( Read more... ) -
late winter sunshine
I forced myself out of the house today for a solo walk lasting an hour. It was windy, but aside from that distraction a wonderful time. I found a dirty nickel; half a gallon of milk; a rusted pair of child's scissors. Alone time, for thinking, listening. Pondering the next move. -
lost things
It suddenly occurs to me that I really wish I had not sold my antique Kashmiri shawl. But $80 was a lot of money back in those undergrad days and I had not yet lost my unbroken heart and my relish for the modern. Increasingly - in fact almost exclusively- I want only to look at things that are 70, 80, 100 years old. Dust to dust, I have returned to ( Read more... )