one night a long while back. winter. reading. kindle.
I can't remember the book. I think it's one I'd borrowed from my local library, but possibly not. I didn't highlight this quote, just enlarged the words and took the picture and kept reading. I think it's maybe from the Fire and Thorn series, but I'm unsure, and I apologize to the author of whatever book it was. It was just something I liked.
I liked the idea of all those secret tunnels. Hidden pathways. And though I knew at the time what here was and what there was, I like, all these months later, not knowing. I like here being anything and there being maybe everything. Anywhere.
there is no rain today. there is sunshine outside and inside, on the television, theoden has become the king we always knew he was. i am writing, just writing, no sentences, no stories, just a list of things i see:
the blue green of my mother's table
the light brown of cardboard
one granny smith apple
digging a secret tunnel from words to painting, i think. i have been sketching. making lists. watching the wind. small time journaling.
may 1: sunday morning. may. the churchbells are ringing it in, accompanied by a woodpecker on some tree somewhere out there in the chilly sunshine. april was poets and rain and tornadoes and stuff i can't talk about. i paint walls to the sound of baseball games and movies on the television, breathing out the thoughts that scare me, breathing in the brushstrokes and nothingness. with every flood warning, i toss things out; the house empties bit by bit. i think in images i've yet to paint, and read instead of walk.
there is a cardinal nest in the cherry laurel tree, the mama cardinal's tail feathers still against the storms. a skill i envy.