The streams are sweating, fogging incessantly. The fairies tell of summertime. It's time to hide a holey stone beneath the door. She doesn't think she can stand anymore fairy-flies.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Foggy Stream
There are fruit flies in the house; they're secretly pesty fairies in disguise, seeking shelter from the rainy outside. It's been raining a great deal, and the flowers have been coaxed from their hiding places. In the mornings, the sky mists over in a tearful fashion.
The streams are sweating, fogging incessantly. The fairies tell of summertime. It's time to hide a holey stone beneath the door. She doesn't think she can stand anymore fairy-flies.
The streams are sweating, fogging incessantly. The fairies tell of summertime. It's time to hide a holey stone beneath the door. She doesn't think she can stand anymore fairy-flies.
Friday, March 19, 2010
City
Cities are big, tall things with many eyes and streets for legs. They don't scare her--not one bit! They loom over the horizons, lurking and silent, and hold secrets close to their bellies. They seem cramped, overcrowded, but upon investigation, there is enough room indeed--
enough room for kites to get lost in trees,
enough room for cupcake shops on lost alleyways.
And also matutinal runs in sprawling parks.
She's going to be swept away again, she reckons. The windy city won't leave the mind easily.
enough room for kites to get lost in trees,
enough room for cupcake shops on lost alleyways.
And also matutinal runs in sprawling parks.
She's going to be swept away again, she reckons. The windy city won't leave the mind easily.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Boxed
She is too living a parcel to be packed up and stowed away in the corner. That kind of treatment is left for broken toys and old ladies. Not yet.
There is a sincerity to her walls; no one but herself put them there, and now she defies them, scraping her fingers, flesh to cardboard. She is not plastic.
She screams and writhes and cries out, pushes and cranks.
It's time to wake up; It's time for bed.
Enough.
Where is the girl with the smile? Her return is overdue. Look, for outside, the world lives. Spring alights gently, softly, casting a green cloak about the snow. There is no such thing as plastic.
There is a sincerity to her walls; no one but herself put them there, and now she defies them, scraping her fingers, flesh to cardboard. She is not plastic.
She screams and writhes and cries out, pushes and cranks.
It's time to wake up; It's time for bed.
Enough.
Where is the girl with the smile? Her return is overdue. Look, for outside, the world lives. Spring alights gently, softly, casting a green cloak about the snow. There is no such thing as plastic.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sleeping Unicorns
She wanted to sink into the city. There is a sort of transparency here, a luminosity; the trees are gray, as blank as doves, and alight. They are bony and balding, their little snippets of red and orange hair hanging by tips. Roads seem to sparkle in the dim fog. Now the mornings are like weak coffee, dark and without substance.
Driving through the night with him, she thought that the car ride mustn't end, not here. The fall is too glamorous, the landscape too greedy for souls, the wind far too quick and the car interior far too heavy.
Fall brings all sorts of little memories to call. The smell of leaves ushers in visions of blanket tents, the dawn of early runs in the prime of high school days. Everywhere the world is calm and in hiding, idle thoughts the only live beings in this dying world. But yet, it is pleasant; there is a joy in this season.
She wants to watch this movie. Badly. For some reason it seems seasonal and appropriate. There are unicorns and fond times of mothers baking fall treats, and ponderings of where the wild things are.
In her mind she's still 12. Fall makes it so.
Driving through the night with him, she thought that the car ride mustn't end, not here. The fall is too glamorous, the landscape too greedy for souls, the wind far too quick and the car interior far too heavy.
Fall brings all sorts of little memories to call. The smell of leaves ushers in visions of blanket tents, the dawn of early runs in the prime of high school days. Everywhere the world is calm and in hiding, idle thoughts the only live beings in this dying world. But yet, it is pleasant; there is a joy in this season.
She wants to watch this movie. Badly. For some reason it seems seasonal and appropriate. There are unicorns and fond times of mothers baking fall treats, and ponderings of where the wild things are.
In her mind she's still 12. Fall makes it so.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Pretty Women, Dandy Gentlemen. Home for awhile. Pie.
The girl's limping, but it's not so terrible.
She turned her ankle in a Cross Country race and got to ride in a silly little golf cart. It's only a little sprain--a wee, tiny one. She never thought that she'd miss running a race so badly. It was a hard thing. But life is full of all sorts of hard things, and lessons can be learned if one is true and wise.
This brings about a decision for thinking on. Shall she continue to run, or be swept away to the city?
She's home now, too, for a little while. Nothing so much has changed; it doesn't smell like fall here. Winter came prematurely. She likes the smell better in her apartment in the south-land. She also misses her prince.
She's also decided that dear Edward Scissorhands must be a very sad and lonely fellow indeed. His story made her eyes sting with salt and think of crystalline walks on silent winter evenings. And if she should ever have liked an old-man actor, she would choose Vincent Price. At least he likes cookies.
Oh, do smell that?
The house is beginning to come alive! The musty corners are fretting and retreating; mother has made pumpkin pie. Tonight there is also noodles and sauce, bread and faux sausages. Little by little the sun creeps away and the pumpkin-orange decorative lights turn on. The branches outside are shivering, shirking.
There is a coziness here, one not present in the girl's apartment. There is a serenity, a monotony. Instead of the old man that lives upstairs and goes to work at 5am, there are cats mewing and an early-rising father. The latter are far quieter and a little more sympathetic to sleeping ears.
She has missed the simple, heavy joy of returning home. She shan't get used to it for long. Tomorrow she will be whisked away again in a silver car. Home, never change.
Ever.
If there ever was a constant in one's life, it must be in this house, she thought. It must be here, tucked in the far north-land, in a wash-out suburbia with sidings the color of dishwater.
She turned her ankle in a Cross Country race and got to ride in a silly little golf cart. It's only a little sprain--a wee, tiny one. She never thought that she'd miss running a race so badly. It was a hard thing. But life is full of all sorts of hard things, and lessons can be learned if one is true and wise.
This brings about a decision for thinking on. Shall she continue to run, or be swept away to the city?
She's home now, too, for a little while. Nothing so much has changed; it doesn't smell like fall here. Winter came prematurely. She likes the smell better in her apartment in the south-land. She also misses her prince.
She's also decided that dear Edward Scissorhands must be a very sad and lonely fellow indeed. His story made her eyes sting with salt and think of crystalline walks on silent winter evenings. And if she should ever have liked an old-man actor, she would choose Vincent Price. At least he likes cookies.
Oh, do smell that?
The house is beginning to come alive! The musty corners are fretting and retreating; mother has made pumpkin pie. Tonight there is also noodles and sauce, bread and faux sausages. Little by little the sun creeps away and the pumpkin-orange decorative lights turn on. The branches outside are shivering, shirking.
There is a coziness here, one not present in the girl's apartment. There is a serenity, a monotony. Instead of the old man that lives upstairs and goes to work at 5am, there are cats mewing and an early-rising father. The latter are far quieter and a little more sympathetic to sleeping ears.
She has missed the simple, heavy joy of returning home. She shan't get used to it for long. Tomorrow she will be whisked away again in a silver car. Home, never change.
Ever.
If there ever was a constant in one's life, it must be in this house, she thought. It must be here, tucked in the far north-land, in a wash-out suburbia with sidings the color of dishwater.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Arrival. Thoughts in words and pictures. Songs to hum to. Dandelions.
There has been an awful lot of business lately, and the girl has not been able to write here in ever so long.
There is an apartment, too, finally, full of cobwebby corners and dusty mornings. The lamps here shine dimly at night. It is almost sad.
The girl goes to school again, too. It is a wonderful time, full of insides, outsides, and upside-downs. Dear things were missed over the summertime. There is an air of intellectualism about the school grounds. The girl feels in a bubble, little bits of knowledge buzzing about her like bumble bees.
Memories nip at one's toes here a little bit like the coming fall. Sometimes it is unnerving. The girl is reflective, pondering the exploitation of happiness, the doubt of humanity. There have been realizations and little happy moments, flashes of contentment and solace, prickly little heartaches, and truths and perceptions.
Human emotion is a lovely little riddle.
She is beginning to believe in an overall sense of being, a mentality for the positive, but permeable to the negative.
But she believes in beauty. Oh, there is infinity in beauty!
There are such wonderful little things to be had in this world, savory little moments to ponder and allow. There was a glimmer of serenity in the crunch of the leaves on the sidewalk. There is solace in the smell of burning candles and the far-off thrum of opera music. There is softness in Sunday mornings, when there is no need to get up early, and one is content to waste the day away giggling over nonsensical things.
She has come to believe in herself, to believe in being.
She believes in emotion, sometimes in the beauty of suffering, in artistic expression, in reality, in perception, in phantasmagoria, in inhibitions, in happiness, in choice, in caring, in hurt and anger, in memory, and also in unicorns and caterpillars.
I feel like this song. Floating and transparent, absorbing things, processing, neutral, yet dynamic. It is wonderful how some music comes to one just as needed.
The distant sky, in the noise of the revolving ring of flowers
That day, on the day, the moment that I cross over, I wake up
Sketch the flame in the haze and pursue the girl playing in the street
Someone whose name I don't know appeared on the high ground and its moving
That road seen in a dream and the shadow's voice murmurs
The coming days too, the coming days too, thousands of hours crossing over
The wise man in the darkness is assembling the meanings that were cast aside
On the coastlands, on the coastlands, the invisible flames were made to dance
The high sky, the dyed scarlet day's flamelike cloud patterns
That day, that day, at that time show me the road that was lost
Repeating, the resounding dream, the time of chasing the wind descends
Along the river, along the river, the invisible scarlet flower was spotted
Aah, the mantle goes up in fire from loquacity
Congratulate the one standing up in the abandoned field
Aah, it's peaceful, it's peaceful, the girl's field of vision
Aah, in the strange city the lamp is lit.
Leave this with a sense of beauty, an idea, a thought to stick in the dusty corners of one's mind for a later date. I do not yet know if beauty and happiness are related. I think there is also beauty in sad things, too. Beauty is emotion.
People do not recognize beautiful things anymore. There is too much hurry, too much gazing at watches, too much of this and that. Emotions are far too materially influenced; there is not enough realization to allow the raw.
I think one needs time alone once in a while to appreciate the noise the world makes in the mean time. Silence is sometimes just as gratifying.
There is an apartment, too, finally, full of cobwebby corners and dusty mornings. The lamps here shine dimly at night. It is almost sad.
The girl goes to school again, too. It is a wonderful time, full of insides, outsides, and upside-downs. Dear things were missed over the summertime. There is an air of intellectualism about the school grounds. The girl feels in a bubble, little bits of knowledge buzzing about her like bumble bees.
Memories nip at one's toes here a little bit like the coming fall. Sometimes it is unnerving. The girl is reflective, pondering the exploitation of happiness, the doubt of humanity. There have been realizations and little happy moments, flashes of contentment and solace, prickly little heartaches, and truths and perceptions.
Human emotion is a lovely little riddle.
She is beginning to believe in an overall sense of being, a mentality for the positive, but permeable to the negative.
But she believes in beauty. Oh, there is infinity in beauty!
There are such wonderful little things to be had in this world, savory little moments to ponder and allow. There was a glimmer of serenity in the crunch of the leaves on the sidewalk. There is solace in the smell of burning candles and the far-off thrum of opera music. There is softness in Sunday mornings, when there is no need to get up early, and one is content to waste the day away giggling over nonsensical things.
She has come to believe in herself, to believe in being.
She believes in emotion, sometimes in the beauty of suffering, in artistic expression, in reality, in perception, in phantasmagoria, in inhibitions, in happiness, in choice, in caring, in hurt and anger, in memory, and also in unicorns and caterpillars.
I feel like this song. Floating and transparent, absorbing things, processing, neutral, yet dynamic. It is wonderful how some music comes to one just as needed.
The distant sky, in the noise of the revolving ring of flowers
That day, on the day, the moment that I cross over, I wake up
Sketch the flame in the haze and pursue the girl playing in the street
Someone whose name I don't know appeared on the high ground and its moving
That road seen in a dream and the shadow's voice murmurs
The coming days too, the coming days too, thousands of hours crossing over
The wise man in the darkness is assembling the meanings that were cast aside
On the coastlands, on the coastlands, the invisible flames were made to dance
The high sky, the dyed scarlet day's flamelike cloud patterns
That day, that day, at that time show me the road that was lost
Repeating, the resounding dream, the time of chasing the wind descends
Along the river, along the river, the invisible scarlet flower was spotted
Aah, the mantle goes up in fire from loquacity
Congratulate the one standing up in the abandoned field
Aah, it's peaceful, it's peaceful, the girl's field of vision
Aah, in the strange city the lamp is lit.
Leave this with a sense of beauty, an idea, a thought to stick in the dusty corners of one's mind for a later date. I do not yet know if beauty and happiness are related. I think there is also beauty in sad things, too. Beauty is emotion.
People do not recognize beautiful things anymore. There is too much hurry, too much gazing at watches, too much of this and that. Emotions are far too materially influenced; there is not enough realization to allow the raw.
I think one needs time alone once in a while to appreciate the noise the world makes in the mean time. Silence is sometimes just as gratifying.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Moonbeams and Firefly Havens
Dawn is a treacherous thing. It always seems to come suddenly. The girl far preferred dusk. Why, the day only begins so it may end, she thought. And isn't the ending a fantastic deal indeed? The end begins at three in the afternoon. The windows grow weary from so much light, and the dear sentient sun takes pity upon these flat transparent beings, dimming and departing.
And it is slow, like a damask Victorian funeral processional, that the evening comes to be. The sun flees, a wanton traveling salesman to the day, pettying the wares of presumed warmth and shamefully dressing itself in cloaks of vagabond clouds. The sun is a petty and overrated thing, sometimes. The girl is happy to see it go this eve. Night seems much calmer--and the Princess Moon much more a composed extrovert. The moon does not care for gaudy displays of affection; she floats in her cosmic void as silent as a dove.
She welcomes day's unwanted creatures, too. She is not one to judge.
There are fireflies living in the garden now. The strike their lanterns as soon as free from the sun's maurauding, suspicious glances.
They play around the trellises and hum around the garden-gate. The girl finds them merry things and does wish more to come.
Soon it will be high summer, and the nights will be as sticky as caramel taffy. Slowly one comes accustomed to this, though, as it is far more comfortable being nocturnal than facing the sweltering of the day. The smoke of candles and burning incense is suited better for night anyways, mimicking cobwebs and whisking one away to some gauzy tale out of the Arabian Nights.
The girl has been listening to these three synth songbirds lately. They make her think of summer things, and the season is due for summer-things indeed. Here is a snippet left by a finch for your own viewing:
Best wishes and shining, treasure-like thoughts to reader[s] and dear browsers.
More shall be writ quite soon.
And it is slow, like a damask Victorian funeral processional, that the evening comes to be. The sun flees, a wanton traveling salesman to the day, pettying the wares of presumed warmth and shamefully dressing itself in cloaks of vagabond clouds. The sun is a petty and overrated thing, sometimes. The girl is happy to see it go this eve. Night seems much calmer--and the Princess Moon much more a composed extrovert. The moon does not care for gaudy displays of affection; she floats in her cosmic void as silent as a dove.
She welcomes day's unwanted creatures, too. She is not one to judge.
There are fireflies living in the garden now. The strike their lanterns as soon as free from the sun's maurauding, suspicious glances.
They play around the trellises and hum around the garden-gate. The girl finds them merry things and does wish more to come.
Soon it will be high summer, and the nights will be as sticky as caramel taffy. Slowly one comes accustomed to this, though, as it is far more comfortable being nocturnal than facing the sweltering of the day. The smoke of candles and burning incense is suited better for night anyways, mimicking cobwebs and whisking one away to some gauzy tale out of the Arabian Nights.
The girl has been listening to these three synth songbirds lately. They make her think of summer things, and the season is due for summer-things indeed. Here is a snippet left by a finch for your own viewing:
Best wishes and shining, treasure-like thoughts to reader[s] and dear browsers.
More shall be writ quite soon.
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