Friday, December 2, 2011
a few lines of boredom, in a windstorm
The wind breaks on the house like waves on the sand. Aggressively rubbing its shoulders against the bricks like it’s trying to make its way through a crowd. The pine tree branches shimmy like the frame of a Civil War era skirt rustled in a waltz. Inside is still. The heater has retired. The lights are disobedient. The miniature green mimes have fled their black stages. We are waiting.
The blinds make sliced sunshine on the white wall.
These sundressed walls and silent daytime shadows watch and wait each day. They wait for my baby to grow, wait for that future transformation, the one that happens when you’re not looking, that makes everything different from now, that makes now only an idea, no different than the unmade future.
The blinds make sliced sunshine on the white wall.
These sundressed walls and silent daytime shadows watch and wait each day. They wait for my baby to grow, wait for that future transformation, the one that happens when you’re not looking, that makes everything different from now, that makes now only an idea, no different than the unmade future.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
a happy list
Dear Dawnley,
Will you see this post? If so, when? It took me a couple months to notice the last time you posted on this blog. In fact, I deleted all my other blogs, but this one I still have faith in. And today, I feel like sharing a happy list. 10 things that make me happy, the 10 things I thought of first:
1. My baby sleeping cuddled up with me in a sling, with her hand under her cheek against my chest.
2. Evening walks in the cemetery by our house with my husband’s arm around my waist.
3. Organizing my home office.
4. Reading past journals, especially the ones from high school and childhood (especially the one where I wrote, probably as a 6-year old, "I wich it was when I was three beace then things went beter." ...nostalgia, anyone?)
5. The pine trees on top of the hills I see from my window.
6. New shoes that only cost 6 dollars.
7. Summer storms, especially when the evening sun lights up the raindrops like crystals.
8. Making a tasty, healthy, and satisfying dinner without a recipe.
9. Wearing my hair curled.
10. Seeing my baby smile at her daddy when he comes home from work.
Love,
Kirsten
Will you see this post? If so, when? It took me a couple months to notice the last time you posted on this blog. In fact, I deleted all my other blogs, but this one I still have faith in. And today, I feel like sharing a happy list. 10 things that make me happy, the 10 things I thought of first:
1. My baby sleeping cuddled up with me in a sling, with her hand under her cheek against my chest.
2. Evening walks in the cemetery by our house with my husband’s arm around my waist.
3. Organizing my home office.
4. Reading past journals, especially the ones from high school and childhood (especially the one where I wrote, probably as a 6-year old, "I wich it was when I was three beace then things went beter." ...nostalgia, anyone?)
5. The pine trees on top of the hills I see from my window.
6. New shoes that only cost 6 dollars.
7. Summer storms, especially when the evening sun lights up the raindrops like crystals.
8. Making a tasty, healthy, and satisfying dinner without a recipe.
9. Wearing my hair curled.
10. Seeing my baby smile at her daddy when he comes home from work.
Love,
Kirsten
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Centered on a clean street like a freeway, there were buildings.
At the left of the street. Where she stood they were at the end of the city.
The street stood clean. No car's nor people walking down side walks.
In the horizon stood nothing but a cement bridge in the distance. An over pass.
She looked towards the horizon where the over pass stood. Watching the sky that stood the same.
A foggy musky clouded thick sky. No sun in sight.
The day was a dreary held no color.
Black's. Whites. Gray.
She watched the horizon for some time.
Listening. Waiting. Watching.
Her knees buckle & bend into a metal chair beneath her.
Sharing shelter under umbrella light.
Alone.
She wasn't alone.
In this chair.
Ten or fifteen feet behind her & the still standing horizon. Someone was there.
A significant gray jacket.
Then She falls asleep.
Sleeps in the dream. She could have woken up. Could have tossed then turned. Trying to fall into sleep again. She might have...She thinks she might have...
Rise & she wakes. Gazing, still looking towards the same horizon where the overpass stands.
It starts. The spill of rain.
Not the kind of rain that drip drops from above till it finally pours but, It was the kind of rain that you can see in the distance that approaches.
Moving. Approaching. Coming. Approaching.
It approached, She saw it & then She woke.
Woke uneasy.
Standing.
Moving from the chair.
Walking back towards the city.
Both the boy & i.
At the left of the street. Where she stood they were at the end of the city.
The street stood clean. No car's nor people walking down side walks.
In the horizon stood nothing but a cement bridge in the distance. An over pass.
She looked towards the horizon where the over pass stood. Watching the sky that stood the same.
A foggy musky clouded thick sky. No sun in sight.
The day was a dreary held no color.
Black's. Whites. Gray.
She watched the horizon for some time.
Listening. Waiting. Watching.
Her knees buckle & bend into a metal chair beneath her.
Sharing shelter under umbrella light.
Alone.
She wasn't alone.
In this chair.
Ten or fifteen feet behind her & the still standing horizon. Someone was there.
A significant gray jacket.
Then She falls asleep.
Sleeps in the dream. She could have woken up. Could have tossed then turned. Trying to fall into sleep again. She might have...She thinks she might have...
Rise & she wakes. Gazing, still looking towards the same horizon where the overpass stands.
It starts. The spill of rain.
Not the kind of rain that drip drops from above till it finally pours but, It was the kind of rain that you can see in the distance that approaches.
Moving. Approaching. Coming. Approaching.
It approached, She saw it & then She woke.
Woke uneasy.
Standing.
Moving from the chair.
Walking back towards the city.
Both the boy & i.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Dear Dawnley,
Remember how we use to be pen pals? I am sort of thinking of this blog as a collection of letters... I always loved yours.
I want to share this picture with you. I'd never seen the painting until I found it in the MoMA (the New York Museum of Modern Art) last month. It's another Gustav Klimt. It brings back lovely memories of laying down in the grass at the park or on a front lawn and staring up at the light shifting through stained glass twigs and leaves. I am in love with trees. They are sturdy and romantic. In this painting I see them protecting me, chattering with me in all their flighty shades of green, and pointing out to me where the light is, when it's time for me to go.
Does it seem like anything special to you?
Remember how we use to be pen pals? I am sort of thinking of this blog as a collection of letters... I always loved yours.
I want to share this picture with you. I'd never seen the painting until I found it in the MoMA (the New York Museum of Modern Art) last month. It's another Gustav Klimt. It brings back lovely memories of laying down in the grass at the park or on a front lawn and staring up at the light shifting through stained glass twigs and leaves. I am in love with trees. They are sturdy and romantic. In this painting I see them protecting me, chattering with me in all their flighty shades of green, and pointing out to me where the light is, when it's time for me to go.
Does it seem like anything special to you?
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