“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


reverb 13 / day 15. view from a bedroom window

right through the heart. caught.

from the living room, it looked like a bird, but a few steps into the bedroom and i could see it was a leaf, and a heartleaf at that.  and in further truth, in real life, none of these lines run straight across the view - they are all crooked, running north downhill, the fence more downhill than the back of my new neighbor's garage.  from my spot here on the couch, i can see the uneven space between the garage and the back gate, and in that space i can see the curly cue of a chair on her back porch, up the back steps.  it looks like handwriting, that bit of a curl, black letters against the peach of the house.  a love letter, i think to myself, or a bit of music on another rainy morning.

i wrote that paragraph yesterday, and then discovered the garage will be torn down.  life moves forward and on, and my view changes once again.


Give us a sensory tour of 2013.
from reverb13.
day 15.
easy to want to cheat on this, to backtrack through this past year's blogposts and secret journal pages, but i won't.  i'll close my eyes and see what's there.
gray.  it seemed gray.  too much beyond my control.  colors i loved painted away to colors i don't, juxtaposed by colors i love on the end of a paintbrush, covering old memories and darkness.  a bit of dark, a bit of light.  gray.  it seemed rainy, and green with that gray, and it smelled like pain and honeysuckle.  it sounded like too many phone calls from too many emergency rooms in the summer heat and my heart beating fast and loud and hard.  it tasted like fear and freedom.  and always, it felt like bare feet on a constant journey, every day new.  
it was gray and soft and hard and i turned away from too many others and embraced a chosen few.  all my clothes felt too big or too tight, and i gave away the ones that scratched at my skin.  i floated on warm water under hot suns, slow, slow, my eyes closed behind black glasses, my skin older and wiser. my fingers learned again the ache of writing.

it was gray and quiet, gray, then full of noise.  i daydreamed of running away and dreamed nightly of returning.  it smelled of long ago, root beer and butter cookies and cold fried okra.  i muted them all, desaturated, turned the volume down.  i watered the colors but they ran like tears across pages that refused to stay empty.  it was gray and sepia and the color of my mother's dress in an old photograph, faded blue.  she wore pearls.

the itch of an ant bite below my left breast.
outside, december sunshine and christmas sparkle against exhausted trees.
they assumed when their leaves fell, they could exhale, relax,
but they are burdened with tinsel and bows.
inside, the house is too cold in one room, too hot in another.
there are clementines in the refrigerator, and expensive strawberries,
and on the side of the bathtub, shampoo that smells like green tea, and frasier fir candles.
i am touching christmas with only the tips of my fingers.



    Just when I think you can never outdo yourself...you do!
    'fear and freedom. it felt like bare feet on a constant journey, every day new.'
    can I borrow those words of yours with proper credit given to you? They are ME.
    If not, I understand. They are your words. I find so much sometimes of you, in me.
    But you voice it better than I ever could.
    in my fondest.

    1. of course! how could i say no? :)

      thank you, thank you, thank you!

  2. I love this, and I think your photograph is so beautiful.

  3. let me be blunt.

    this is fucking amazing.

    there is no other way for me to say it.


  4. I've had this post open since afternoon, but didn't have time to read until now, just before bed, when the rhythm of your quiet colors wash over me to paint my dreams tonight.

  5. i am smiling at our finger tips... and you did this so well, i could see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. as i read my way through, the line from that song, "grey is my favorite color" kept playing through my mind...

    and this line: "i watered the colors but they ran like tears across pages that refused to stay empty." ... oh my. xoxo

  6. Grey is also elegant, timeless, soothing. Like your words.

  7. Ok, I won't ask to borrow your words... because they are yours and only yours, and they are beautiful to look at when you place them where you place them. But your eyes.. might I borrow your eyes for an afternoon? So that I can see more hearts and hidden things within ordinary things?
    God, I've missed you.
    I say that a lot, don't I? I miss you every time. And I am all the more enchanted when I return.
    Love you xo


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .