So I promised to post some photos of our new casita<3
11.30.2009
11.17.2009
That house, the one by the river, wooden
with windchimes and driftwood and rain on the windows
The river, called Siuslaw, was a wide mouth,
giant logs cast down, rapid and uncrossable.
In the enclosed porch, I sat quietly, fingered fishermen's twine, listened.
The weather today reminds of Bré, Ireland,
and the cliff path we walked all afternoon to neighboring Greystones.
I am back in Monteverde, Costa Rica, the Cloud Forest and its "cat whisker" rain.
I called for the orange kitten again today as I followed Cedar.
It did not come.
Perhaps it is curled up near a window inside.
Shiloh Hill smelled all of pine, damp and deep.
My bare arms were chilled, but I was adamant.
The mountains now deep green (only Dominion and the top of Paradis have kept their snow),
my footsteps sturdy and ears searching for the wind.
with windchimes and driftwood and rain on the windows
The river, called Siuslaw, was a wide mouth,
giant logs cast down, rapid and uncrossable.
In the enclosed porch, I sat quietly, fingered fishermen's twine, listened.
The weather today reminds of Bré, Ireland,
and the cliff path we walked all afternoon to neighboring Greystones.
I am back in Monteverde, Costa Rica, the Cloud Forest and its "cat whisker" rain.
I called for the orange kitten again today as I followed Cedar.
It did not come.
Perhaps it is curled up near a window inside.
Shiloh Hill smelled all of pine, damp and deep.
My bare arms were chilled, but I was adamant.
The mountains now deep green (only Dominion and the top of Paradis have kept their snow),
my footsteps sturdy and ears searching for the wind.
11.15.2009
A little orange kitten bounding through the snow to Liz and me,
walking Cedar Loop
I picked it up, fingers on its belly, damp from snowflakes,
released it back at its driveway, voicing quivering mews.
And pitbull puppies at the Flour Mill when I went to pick up hay yesterday,
tiny and fast asleep. I pet them gently for a long time.
At the Vineyard today, 3-year-old Naomi let me hold her,
play with her hair until she whispered she was sleepy and laid down beside me smiling.
I don't know what it is about baby things, the way my insides feel all soft around them
(and I'm not saying this is necessarily a "Feminine" thing),
but one day I hope to stand in that grove of matriarchs,
to join the shining women who have been the glue of my life.
walking Cedar Loop
I picked it up, fingers on its belly, damp from snowflakes,
released it back at its driveway, voicing quivering mews.
And pitbull puppies at the Flour Mill when I went to pick up hay yesterday,
tiny and fast asleep. I pet them gently for a long time.
At the Vineyard today, 3-year-old Naomi let me hold her,
play with her hair until she whispered she was sleepy and laid down beside me smiling.
I don't know what it is about baby things, the way my insides feel all soft around them
(and I'm not saying this is necessarily a "Feminine" thing),
but one day I hope to stand in that grove of matriarchs,
to join the shining women who have been the glue of my life.
11.13.2009
on my favorite park, and missing eucalyptus trees.
The Kettle Song (in the park)
Sounds of Lyon Fell | MySpace Video
Please check out my dear friend Trevor's latest project, music I honestly would love even were he not my friend. And if you happen to be currently living in San Francisco, try to catch a show!
11.11.2009
"You haven't been writing much," he told me on the phone tonight.
On my blog, he means.
True.
The pages in my notebook are information, processing, dissecting.
And who wants to read (or share) that?
At the meadows yesterday, I looked at the golden clouds in the west,
then the pink-lit tree tops of Dominion Mountain
and almost felt crushed by the beauty.
Tonight, also, Paradis Peak grew violet as the sun went down,
and I was paralyzed.
Now the sweat glitters on my palms,
invisible but for the light
And who, I wonder, will milk these sentences out of me,
will coax them from my breasts?
Words are wrought like iron,
must be mined as salt.
And sometimes I feel so empty-handed,
so naked and ill-prepared for this work.
The tossing of our sleep is in itself a language.
On my blog, he means.
True.
The pages in my notebook are information, processing, dissecting.
And who wants to read (or share) that?
At the meadows yesterday, I looked at the golden clouds in the west,
then the pink-lit tree tops of Dominion Mountain
and almost felt crushed by the beauty.
Tonight, also, Paradis Peak grew violet as the sun went down,
and I was paralyzed.
Now the sweat glitters on my palms,
invisible but for the light
And who, I wonder, will milk these sentences out of me,
will coax them from my breasts?
Words are wrought like iron,
must be mined as salt.
And sometimes I feel so empty-handed,
so naked and ill-prepared for this work.
The tossing of our sleep is in itself a language.
11.09.2009
a picture is soon on its way...
Kate and I moved in to the Bird House! And it is wonderful.
And today I made the best, best discovery while walking by the cedars:
a Seventh Day Adventist health food co-op and bakery. About ten minutes from our front door, and less expensive than the natural market I normally frequent!
Woot!
And today I made the best, best discovery while walking by the cedars:
a Seventh Day Adventist health food co-op and bakery. About ten minutes from our front door, and less expensive than the natural market I normally frequent!
Woot!
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