Monday, December 26, 2011

taking flight

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

-e.e. cummings

the nearing-end of december:
fleeing the sorrow of this year
entering into true-pure-love-and-care
growing in good graces and the knowledge of impermanence 
watching grin upon grin in the low light, holding each one close to my heart
feeling ukulele tunes down past the soles of my shoes
reckless rides in a big box van and a million walks treading dirt and dust
reconciling with the past and learning to appreciate still, more, always the present
hands and hugs and unforeseen warmth
films which reach down deep and pull the truth into plain sight
less time squandered, less time spent in regret
these moments are all we have

Monday, December 19, 2011

compiling and compounding

This has always been one of my favorite music videos. Probably always will be. 
There's a reference in the song to Canadian author Robertson Davies' novel,  Fifth Business,  
which I didn't know until I read about it on a once-upon-a-time close friend's blog. 
I read Fifth Business in summer, but I don't really remember very much of it because 
some parts of summer were sad and some parts were scary and some parts were simply too distracting. 
"I wish I'd paid more attention" seems to be the general theme of my life lately. 
I'll probably be working through summer happenings for a long, long time and my moroseness sometimes
gets the better of me, but the other night I read something Jack Layton said, 
"Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair,"  
and I think that's true, so obviously true, and, sadly, it is also rather easy to forget and allow myself to wallow. 
So I am trying, little by little, to turn my fear to hope and change my despair to optimism. 
It's just going to take a while is all.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

notes from saturday

     Remember, you don't have to make the whole world romantic, or even the whole bedroom. Just the small space in front of your face. A very manageable territory, even the working women will agree. Because when he looks at you (or she--romance has no biases!), he has to look through the air in front of your face. Is that space polluted. Is it rosy? Is it misty? Think about these questions during the lunch break. 
     We ate our sandwiches and looked at each other through the air in front of our faces. It looked clear, but maybe it wasn't. We thought hard about this while we drank the provided soda. This could change everything. 

-Miranda July, "It Was Romance"

we'll have a bookstore filled with books
we'll have a cupboard filled with chocolates
we'll drink tea like the british and eat baguettes like the french
we'll go camping in the mountains and hiking in the woods
we'll go for road trips and museum tours
we'll wear proper coats in the cold and let our limbs shake free in the sun
we'll live the life we'd like some day-- 
but for now, let's sit in bed and dream it

Friday, December 16, 2011

the days we had

"Think how you love me," she whispered. "I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember."

"You'll always be like this to me."

"Oh no; but promise me you'll remember." Her tears were falling. "I'll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

I am climbing into a translucent container of sea-colored glass
I am tying a yellow ribbon 'round the neck and corking the bottle
I am tipping and rolling slowly into the foaming water
Drifting as a message to whoever finds me
A testament to indistinct aches
Accompanied by a note which reads:
Bottle it all up,
Shrink to the size of a bouillon cube

Thursday, December 15, 2011

a grateful endeavor

My first longer-than-fifteen-minutes walk since June happened to fall on Thanksgiving. It was calming and lovely and precisely what the doctor ordered. I ran a bit on the horse paths with a nice old chocolate lab who took to following me around. Running becomes a whole new kind of exciting when you've only felt your limbs moving beneath you for a very short time in a rather long while, I must say.

(final finals today!)

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

all good things

I watched this film when I was in bed with a broken foot on July 17th. It was beautiful, especially the mock home video footage, but also very sad and strange. The parts when Katie and David are in love were blissful, but of course there's sorrow and gruesomeness and eventually a killing, because it's based on the real-life happenings of Robert Durst. Sometimes I wish movies could stay how they start. I would happily watch people acting as though they're in love for an hour and a half. 

It has been a teary day and a memories day and very-much-is-missing day. 
I can't wait for Christmas.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

particles of light

there are days when i feel like everyone else is much, much stronger than me,
and i am still a child in the sense that i simply want to be held and told that everything will be all right,
while having my hair smoothed gently, over and over again

finding my footing in the midst of the current (trying, at least)

Saturday, December 10, 2011

notes from saturday

Who knows how to make love stay? 

1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay. 

2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay. 

3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.   

- Tom Robbins
(forever my favorite postcard)

dreaming up a million changes, 
mulling over present choices, 
wishing for a bar of lavender soap, 
laughing in the morning light, 
baking in the afternoon,
peppermint tea and cookie dough in rounds,
listening to bonfire music by night 

taking it all in, all the while knowing everything will be different this time next year

Friday, December 9, 2011

piping red kettle black

we go to the library and wear buns in our hair and stockings on our legs
and even pretend to classy (but really just make fun) and this is a typical day.

Temecula above, Murrieta below, both from November

Monday, December 5, 2011

nearing the end, nearing the beginning

"As silly as it sounds, I think one of the most important things is believing that everyone contains magic. Magic's not the word for it, but what I mean is that at some point, everyone was a child and completely fascinated by something, and that childhood belief/fascination is so so beautiful to see glints and glimmers of in people."

Sometimes we all need simple reminders; this week, this month, this year, I need simple reminders. 
My mind is a teeter-totter of fleeting reflection, up, down, this way, that, I am tugged to the best of it, 
then back to the worst, but I will always be ever grateful for those who help me find my balance again.

Nearing finals and winter and a new season of splendor, to be sure! 

Saturday, December 3, 2011

in the quiet

Thy fingers make early flowers
of all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
(though love be a day)
do not fear,we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
(though love be a day)
for which girl art thou flowers bringing?

To be thy lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).
-e.e. cummings

Wild Geese 
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
-Mary Oliver

1. Sophie Van der Perre 2. Chad Siddall 3. Kaye Blegvad

Thursday, December 1, 2011

this year

There was that one night I lay there longing for someone, anyone, but especially you, and I pulled the covers up around my throat which made me feel warm but not loved, and I wondered if you were longing for someone, anyone, but especially me, too, and I hoped you felt both warm and loved.

There was that one night I decided I wanted to sit cross-legged and alone in the middle of an empty room and close my eyes and breathe and feel my breath inside of me so I went through everything and put my books in a box and my clothes in a box and my clutter in a box but it still wasn't empty enough for me to feel anything besides stale air and memories.

There was that one night my dad told me his friend from high school, who he met in 1975, passed away three days ago and at the funeral that day his wife died and I asked, "How does that happen?" and he looked at me with grave eyes and said, "The heart, it just fails, it can't take it."