Scheherezade

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

- "Scheherezade", Richard Siken

i miss my constants.

petticoat junction

 "Why do women want to dress like men when they’re fortunate enough to be women? Why lose femininity, which is one of our greatest charms? We get more accomplished by being charming than we would be flaunting around in pants and smoking. I’m very fond of men. I think they are wonderful creatures. I love them dearly. But I don’t want to look like one. When women gave up their long skirts, they made a grave error…"

— Tasha Tudor

bean boots

fireworks

so. july is back. last july, i was happy, with my chair up by the pear tree. fireworks lasted for two days, one night i had company, the next, was me and a bottle of muscato d'asti. i can remember the feelings i had,  looking towards the house, warm lights from the windows. my crumbling ball and chain. joy and fear and pride. i missed my girl. this year, i will try harder. i will run to the river with my girlfriends and watch the fireworks in the town that inspires me, flushes my cheeks, where there is life. the next night, after i pull a full shift in my home, i will put on a dress, drag my chair, dog, and a bottle of handmade reisling to my pear tree and look at my home and see if things change. everything looks sweeter with fireworks and fireflies.

home

new friends

the buzz

so, this weekend, after pushing and pushing of dates, i pick up my bees. terrified and excited and proud, i look forward to the smell of propolis.  i am thinking that this is the final stretch of a really trying time, my hands are wrung to the bone, my heart has only a few strings left, but my hindsight and minds eye are strong. i have had encouragement and strong armed friends. my new (old)(but steady) blue bathtub volvo, my oh-so-close-just-waiting-for-the-mail divorce is about to be finalized, and my sad eyed girl with no front teeth is officially my responsibility, with a smattering of well deserved me time thrown in. i never got a garden in, other things needed to be tending to, which is sad, but freeing.  the night is smelling like summer again, which to me is a musky warm corn pollen scent, though the corn is only a hand high. tonight, i realize that i never let thankful stay up late enough to actually see the fireflies (she is quite disagreeable if we go to bed too late), and i let her catch a few and set them free in her room. thrilled. it really is the simple things. for her, its to collect, see, and build a fantastic story around it, so she remembers it. for me, its to take on more, to take care of something, whether i could actually care for it or not. thus, the bee fear. but i am serious when i say that i am learning. really.  i am learning to identify if i can really honestly devote my time to something, to pick my battles.  i have been forced into patience, i have had to go to grown up places and put my feelings aside. i learned that i cant change anyone and that i probably wont change either. and i am okay with that. i am learning that i can accept help, but it still feels shitty. i learned that people change, and that i never want to get divorced again. never. and i learned above all, that happiness is a choice, and its always there, i just  have to decide i am happy. soo, if you see me driving an old loud volvo down the road, with a whining five year old in the back, and all the windows are down because it has no ac, remember that i am thinking my car is hot, and i am carrying a sweet girl who is learning to express her sound opinions and our hair is blowing in the wind, like a neil young song.

puddle jumper

neshaminy creek, rock beach, sweet girl

sweet jane

go ahead, shake your head. if i ever am brave enough to put another smattering of ink on my body, jane austen it is.

london, simple, sweet.

love love love

i am a coward.  i have sweet words and strong words and hard truths. but sometimes, no words.  self preservation. i love you, i love your smell. i admire your resolve and your smile. you scare the shit out of me. i try not to think about you. i would follow you into the dark.

soft shoulder

front yard

spring 2011, before the petals fell... i swear you could hear
the tree sway her hips to drop the petals

may

lilacs

so i have lost my train of thought, i get overwhelmed and bam. nothing. not even bits of striped linen could bring me back. i even lost my garden belly fire. but tonight, i was stomping around the yard in my bare feet, hollering for the pup, and i caught a whiff of that lilac bush. and it was back. thunder road lyrics, about dancing on the porch and running off with my love, second chances, last chances, teenage lust and cold cold lemonade in moonlight. hearing people talking in the distance. deafening crickets. sunburn on my cheeks. my daughter with her hair sticking to the back of neck and a pure shit eattin grin. when i was younger, i had a business. it was called lavender dusted jazz baby, and i made soaps and lotions and i was happy. and i made lilac soap. it was a smell tonight, that brought me back to my creative productive self. before i was who i am now. i went inside, tucked my sweet(whining)growing girl into her bed, and lulled her to sleep with me, droning on and on about how my room smells like beeswax because of the frames that i will be filling with bees in just a week or two are in my room, and how i miss the smell of bread. and how i am forgetting. i talked about the tarts that were coming in the end of summer, from those fig bushes. and how just before she was born, i wandered around my yard eating fresh figs and blueberries from the bush in the evenings. and how on the very day she was born, the cotton in the field went from green to brown, i had felt it was a gift, the keep up my spirits. i chatted about hidden dresses in my closet. and how much i dislike ginger. she was snoring by that point, so i went back downstairs, marched right up to the bush, and tipped my invisible hat at it. so great. so glad no one else was there.

strange..