i know i left them around here somewhere . . .

squirrel.

drab leaves.

hidden pecans.

december begins. 

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suddenly

The temperature has at last climbed into summer. The heat of the days welcome the crepe myrtle trees, suddenly fat with blossoms - white, pink, purple - hiding the last open spaces of winter, the spaces spring's watercolors couldn't cover. The red dragonflies return, also the orange daylilies, and the sweet willingness to do absolutely nothing settles over us, summer laziness relaxing bones and minds and hearts. The evenings overflow with muggy breezes and mosquitoes, and summer nights bring the cicadas' songs. The cat winds her way to the third floor balcony, summer sprawling dark and hot around the house, sliding up the stairs with her. I read to avoid thinking about things. All fiction and kisses and mexican hot chocolate.

a memory: 
once upon a time there was the way the sun fell through my mother's windows, puddling on the back of the couch of my young childhood.  i would sit backwards, books settled into that light, and get lost in their stories.  i still see the little ballerina in my memories, pink and white tutus glowing across the big pages, dust motes dancing - summer memories if the color of the remembered light is to be believed. late afternoon.

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from then to now and back again

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.

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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:

gray velvet

the blue green of my mother's table

the light brown of cardboard

silver

black moths

white ceiling

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.

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collecting moments.

january 31: i bought beer, lemons and bagels at the store, only there because katie mentioned my fridge was empty, unless you counted the cokes and pickled okra.  i do, and they were supper more than once last week, but she was right, and we headed out.  we talked about the perfume of coffee, and never mind that i'm not a coffee drinker, i wanted to buy a bag of beans just so i could smell them in the mornings.  i didn't.

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.

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