it is what it is

powells: It’s Friday! The sun is shining! Enjoy the evening,...

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 00:55:31 -0400

powells:

It’s Friday! The sun is shining! Enjoy the evening, Portland.

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Fri, 25 Jan 2013 01:48:25 -0500

Knit tin’

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 02:14:49 -0500

Knit tin’

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Fri, 23 Nov 2012 15:33:45 -0500

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Wed, 09 May 2012 07:46:13 -0400

How it Flew from Her

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 08:20:44 -0400

From her mouth. It gathered its small, soft body and leapt
forward, up and out. And then it was gone. She knew
because of the dark hollow in her chest, like the place a woodpecker makes,
keeps making, until it’s emptied the wood of food
and moved on. She didn’t try to stop it, because she didn’t know
what it was; what came from her mouth
looked like a white moth, the kind that eats wool, so she clapped her hands,
chased it to the window, pulled the shade down
and pretended that was that. It’s surprising it stayed
as long as it did, because most of all, she made it wait. She made it wait
while she beat a dead horse, hit the nail on the head, drove her point home,
split hairs, threw fat on the fire, killed birds with a stone.
Naturally, it grew tired of waiting,
tried to tell her, made a few practice runs, beat its wings;
she could feel it, don’t tell me she couldn’t, she could hear
the wings beat. She still feels it, like when you lose an arm or leg
and it aches but there’s nothing there
to ache. That’s how hollow she feels. She talks a lot, laughs
with her mouth open wide. Not everyone knows why,
but I do: she’s making a place for it to come back to.

–Amy Dryansky

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Fri, 09 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -0500

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Fri, 02 Mar 2012 03:03:50 -0500

brettandyou: From Flavorwire: The 20 Most Beautiful Bookstores...

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 17:13:11 -0500

brettandyou:

From Flavorwire: The 20 Most Beautiful Bookstores in the World

Mirabell Gardens (by Laura G Brown)

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 10:57:56 -0500

Mirabell Gardens (by Laura G Brown)

I haven't written in a long time.

Wed, 12 Oct 2011 02:21:00 -0400

Which is actually typical, I’d say. But I also haven’t read much. This summer, I was picky. I found a few books, but nothing that really caught my heart. This. This is the unusual one. Was it a restlessness? Or an unsettling?

I knew all summer that things were going to change. That comfortable old sweatshirt that was my life was going to be different soon.

It’s just recently that I knew it was happening for sure and how different it’d be. I can’t describe the mix of melancholy and joy such a change inspires. Just that. Melancholy and joy. I feel at once that I am seizing the day, taking charge of life and living it. Yes, that’s what I want. Yes, that’s what my friends are shouting for. But while I am preparing for this new living, I am mourning the potential loss of the rest of it. I will not drink my tea in this bed in this apartment again, will I? I will not walk the four blocks to sit in the sun at the coffeeshop and read my book. Of course, there will be other cups of tea and new places to read in the sun. I know this.

There is loss in leaving, however.

About one week ago, a great man that I knew died. This loss is amplified by the suddenness of it, how unprepared we all were for it. One can never guess the span of a life, certainly. It may be a repeated theme, but it has sure truth. Whispering carpe diem is not the worst mantra to take from a movie.

I know that life will continue, and in a different way. But I will adjust. Then life will become comfortable again, like that sweatshirt. It’s what we do. And I don’t believe that the places you leave, ever leave you. There memory in place, and in people. And memory might have the longest lifespan.

BUSES : Andrew Miksys

Thu, 24 Feb 2011 19:15:34 -0500

BUSES : Andrew Miksys

via 7.media.tumblr.com

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 12:16:21 -0500

via 7.media.tumblr.com

via 27.media.tumblr.com

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 12:14:26 -0500

via 27.media.tumblr.com

Make

Tue, 07 Dec 2010 01:37:00 -0500

I make lots of things actually. I made a curly scarf a few weeks ago. It’s chunky and black and makes interesting shapes every time I wear it. Yesterday I made curry. It was, dare I say, the best curry I’ve made in a bit. Maybe forever. I blame it on the fact that it was last minute and I didn’t try too hard. Therefore, almost perfect curry. Two weeks ago I was in a weird restless funk. It was during this really cold spell and I was feeling blue inside, all by myself. So I made pumpkin cookies and then I made my first ever stop motion video. I made it for E, for her birthday. It was a sloppy attempt, but I set against a cute French song and used my chalkboard door and I loved it. Afterwards, I felt a satisfaction that I hadn’t found all weekend. This is making. It’s what I like.

here is a fairy tale that I will write

Sat, 30 Oct 2010 04:10:53 -0400

It will involve a girl, who knows somewhat what she wants, but not completely because she’s yet to find it. (How can you know something until it’s actually there?) ((Also what is that thing that people do that they sort of visualize something to help bring it about? This is that kind of tale.))

The girl was hopeful, but not, because she didn’t always believe in herself. After years of feeling ugly, she was just beginning to realize what a beauty she was. She believed she deserved very much, but not all.

This was changing.

The story takes up when the girl has grown up. She has come to realize many things, but is still unsure of her capability to achieve all. A mantra rises up inside her chest when she finds herself wavering. I deserve it all. I deserve it all. The girl would repeat and repeat.

Each year passes and still she has not found what she thinks it is she wants. However, after a season of going to the market, she begins to notice a man. A man who seems to have imprinted on his face hard work and pleasure together. The girl is intrigued and buys from his stall. She notices his hands, full of capability. It is a little noticing and gets tucked away. In following weeks, she will turn her head to the man when she passes his stall and she sees that he looks as well. In a few more weeks, she goes back to him to buy something. His capable hands give her something that he has made. The connection between his hands and his own work, which she takes with her, is something else she tucks away.

Curious about this man, the girl learns he is notable in the community and has created beautiful things with those hands. As the girl approaches the next time, she hears herself say quietly, I deserve it all.

Suddenly their conversation is stilted, but with a feeling of delicacy and realization. The man discounts her purchase kindly. She asks about his product. He answers in length, although she is getting nervous. They both fumble a bit and then the she says goodbye. It’s a moment that probably reminds both of them of when they were younger and less sure. The girl walks away thinking there is more to this story.

And there is.

Hopefully.

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Sat, 16 Oct 2010 11:56:41 -0400

"You do not ask a tame seagull why it needs to disappear from time to time toward the open sea. It..."

Wed, 13 Oct 2010 01:39:00 -0400

“You do not ask a tame seagull why it needs to disappear from time to time toward the open sea. It goes, that’s all.”

- Bernard Moitessier.

http://www.poppytalkblog.com/blogimages/1bear.jpg

Wed, 13 Oct 2010 01:37:25 -0400

http://www.poppytalkblog.com/blogimages/1bear.jpg

There were images this weekend which I will remember.

Mon, 11 Oct 2010 01:31:24 -0400

I forgot my camera, that is. I remember nearly everything I photograph. That’s the way it works and thats part of why I do it. Photography helps me see better. This weekend, though, I was camera-less. A shame, perhaps, but a different lesson in seeing.

The first image is the artists table. A glass top, something more modern than our romantics’ image of painters. A sheet of thick plate glass atop a metal cart. The top is crowded in a methodical way. Glasses of potions appropriate to an old-time apothecary—linseed oils, concoctions that betray the modernness of the setup, hail from painters in every era. These glasses line the edge of the table and the center is the palate, swatches of color, fresh, wet, gorgeous. The painter depicts landscapes, a newer version of the story Wyeth was trying to tell. Buildings on a plane, with light cast in lovely stark ways. Few, lone figures, swept by wind and living. The artist is jovial, but we know his life has been struck with hardship lately. One painting sitting near the door contains a male figure, seated, with his head down in his hands.

The second image is the coffee ordered afterwards, across the street. The amazing intricate design in the foam made us coo. The interweaving loops of dark espresso and gradiations as it mixes further with milk. I can still remember sitting in the bar in Italy and having a tiny cappuccino. Unable to drink until I had committed to memory the look of that foam.

The images continue but merge together. Fiery leaves spot my windshield and fly off in bursts as I drive. The saturated streets Sunday morning. The curled orange bell pepper.

Today I feel hyper aware, restless because of possibilities. Part of this is a man. I looked forward to seeing him as I do on Sundays. I prepared intentionally and in ways that he would never recognize. I imagined that there was a connection there and I wonder now if it does exist. If I could have looked as an outsider I might say we both spoke nervously, but that is speculation from the person with the desire. And now in the most agonizing way, I must wait one more week. Sunday, again, sir, Sunday I’ll see you.