yesterday's trees leaning against the true cold sky.
there were robins and rain and enchiladas in the late afternoon. wind against our faces, coats flying behind us, following us. i remember the warm blueness of a stranger's eyes. this morning was frost painted across the winter grass, the trees leaning against sunshine and a sky that matched those eyes, but cold. robins again, swooping past the door, dropping into the creek. a streak of cardinal here and there.
i've done nothing i'd planned. laundry waits in silence. the cat, asleep in front of the fire, wakes fast when a bird bounces into the glass of the door - it was just a matter of time; they are drunk on the day and winter berries - and now stands guard, awaiting another.
the house stays cool, so i have moved the furniture, the couch now angled and closer to the heat and fire. the curtains that separate the kitchen and dining/art area loosened, untied, enclosing. the floor, damaged still and again from last year's floods, needs new paint and repairs, but i am lazy with the weather and books to read.
"Everything we say is a story.
But nothing we say is just a story."
~ Anne Fortier / Juliet
i write, and then i don't. the words come out a sentence at a time, and i pick up a pen and write them down, or type them into my phone, always with intentions to use them, with faith that more will come. with faith that when once used they will remind me of moments of days i have long forgotten.
katie and i were talking yesterday, tossing out ideas and opinions, driving through the cold, laughing at our silliness, knowing that the courage to be silly, to say right out loud the stuff that seems crazy or wrong or broken, is how you get to where you want to be. so i type these words in all their vagueness, in the way they feel against my heart and hand, underpainting. i will come back one day and read about the wind and our coats and i will remember the stairs we climbed, how i tried in vain to keep the collar of my coat against my left ear. i will recall the cold of the stair rails, how my feet seemed clumsy on the concrete. i will feel once again the easing of the wind as we reached the upper floor, and its returning fierceness as we headed back down.
it is a nothing story, just a bit of a day, but i will see the colors, she in coral pink, me in black, my coat the wings of a wounded crow, not able, not yet, to jump to the sky. i will see my boots, the brown toes scuffed away to the bare leather. i will feel the smallness of the rain as we raced to her car.
The colors of the underpainting can be optically mingled with the subsequent overpainting,
without the danger of the colors physically blending and becoming muddy.
If underpainting is done properly, it facilitates overpainting.
If it seems that one has to fight to obscure the underpainting,
it is a sign that it was not done properly.
the television moves from whatever movie was on to six days, seven nights. i leave it on, sound off, for no other reason than the colors of the hospital at the end. i open the door and let the cat outside, but the birds are all gone and the cold drives her back inside, back to her spot in front of the fire. she is almost asleep.
i buy more candles to light against the darkness.