“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


late august night into morning

my mother's wasp nest, found in a drawer wrapped in paper.  she knew the important things when she spied them.  her cat, now mine, happy asleep smiling, pushing hard against the glass that keeps it from her, pushing, pushing as close as she can get, and good enough; they sprawl lopsided lazy together across the shelf.

iphone.  earlier this year.  pink shadows.  

i told someone today that i'd been absent here because august needed me more than i needed words.  truth.  but i begin to feel their pull in the late hours of night when outside the darkness is still and filled with cicadas still singing and tree frogs ditto, when the inside is still and filled with only the swoosh of the fan and the muted hum of the air conditioner and russell crowe on the silent tv.

yes.  yes.  i feel the words beginning to whisper in my ear.



august 7

coming home tonight the sky was every shade of blue and gray, a hint of thunder in the far off background, and i wished for the first time in weeks i'd carried my camera with me.  the sun bursting bright and blinding in the western sky, white steeple against dark clouds, slate steeple against an eastern summer sky still blue with the afternoon. sidewalk with white poodle against green hedges, white chair in the side yard against the grass.

i am painting still, painting still,  feeling still as the color covers a door, painting doors to open new days.

dusk:  skye cat, the front door open, the sound of cicadas heavy in the air.  i have a broken thumbnail, down to the quick, blue painter's tape wrapped around my thumb to hold it in place.



painting walls and changing space

a gallon of paint is cheaper than a shrink and contains dreams we don't know we're dreaming and power and, for me, each brushstroke is a breath in, ommmmmm, a breath out, no thinking and all thinking, just me and the changing walls and the brushstrokes and silence.  i never play music, the same way i never play music when painting a canvas; the rhythm is no one's but mine.

i am not writing right now, and right now it feels right.  right now it feels releasing.  right now it feels like breaking the rules and escape and vacation.  i feel the old stuff draining away and new stuff flickering close to my skin.  i suddenly know the story i must write, but not now, not yet, but soon. right now is about physical spaces and changes and answered prayers and gifts falling into my hands.

august is filling up with all that stuff.
i will be back with tales and pictures.