Sep 26, 2008
At the house where I stay there lives a good Doctor, his wife and his pipe, two princess puppies, one of the prettiest pianos in the world, and a quiet blue pool outside.
I don't get to be where I live very much. The house where I stay is not home. And I am getting used to this, which is one of the six or seven feelings one year ago I never thought I would feel.
When it was very late and I got back to the house where I stay, I was filled up with music and I couldn't fall asleep for hours because the soul of that night had made mine so gentle and awake, like candles.
In other news:
Fall left for a while and is coming back next week. 60s. I love my scarves.
I haven't written because so many things are coming up on me. October is going to be half gone before I see it. Recital this, concert that, Competition. I have a teacher now. I have practiced so much my hands ache to practice some more. I've been discouraged and afraid and hopeful and the closest to confident yet, in that order. I have a teacher now. I felt very stupid at first and quiet and then very small and trusting at the piano next to hers, all of which I need to feel to grow.
Well, I have written actually. Stuff. Like PAPERS. I hate papers. I'm supposed to be writing a paper right now. I'm not good at writing papers. I can't write papers on a schedule because I get hung up. I get hung up on one word, every time, because usually it seems to me that the choice between that word and another word make all the difference.
1) Good grades
2) Social life
Someone very wise told me I have to pick two.
But, lest we forget, coffee.
Sep 9, 2008
I thought I should also say that maybe sometime soon I'll write things. A million shapes have changed, inside and around me but a million more haven't. The weather still starts turning after summer and I still go all crazy happy and want to tell someone about it. People ask me what I want to do and I still say music, because I still think that explains everything.
* Important Neologistical Footnote:
Homeweather is kind of like homeboy/girl/fry/slice, only slightly more atmospherical
Aug 12, 2008
Aug 11, 2008
Aug 10, 2008
Aug 9, 2008
I thought I should whine that all today my eyes burn and I don't want to clean up other people's messes or take vitamins or do much of anything even that I want to do. A little while ago I tried to nap and I slept for about eleven minutes and had about that many dreams right after each other until one when I was stepping where there was no step and my whole body fell right down le gasp onto my very own bed and I woke up and realized a few things. Namely, that a) there was a blue HOT WHEELS® car sticking me right in the back and my pillow smelled quite certainly of diapers, b)I was cold, and c) the handyman in the bathroom across the hall was talking to himself again. The first two items are explained easily enough by the fact that a bunch of three year olds had a sleepover party in my bed last night, a party apparently complete with mini car races sticky fingers and poop, while I curled up in the basement and got a chill and four hours of sleep. The third is different. Besides the fact that the handyman is not very handy, nobody trusts him much. People's history follows them in this house. I'm undecided. He doesn't make me nervous but the fact that I can't figure him out, does. He did admit the night I torched the trash to being fascinated by fire, which gives him tentative points in my little book of observed people. Most of the day he mutters and hammers and sometimes screws something up and says OH FFFF....iddlesticks... and at least all the three year olds aren't around anymore to hear such shocking language and I don't mind a lot. Not like my bathroom hasn't been my rehab center before. Which sounds weird. In other news, it's gold outside.
Aug 8, 2008
Aug 4, 2008
I haven't thought much about writing. Nothing happened. It rained and filled up the ground. Our uncle drank himself to the hospital. We waded barefoot down the wide shale creek. The sun came and it got hot. I listened to baseball. I missed a lot. I couldn't help it.
So now I sit at my piano and feel covered in my perfect music shaped bubble because I don't have to hear or tell or remember anything but this. And I wish I wish I wish you could feel exactly what it is, this golden ageless pain that shines right on my inside that is all mine and yet not about me, because I can't say it. You I guess would have to be me to feel it and for my part I don't wish that on anyone for too long.
I got angry and bored and made my heart too nervous to write. Nothing happened. I created some drama until it was real. It was a part of me and I didn't know much without it. I broke with the wind and the concern was crippling. I looked down and up. I decided I wouldn't grow up without God.
So now I don't want to be any farther from home than the runaway trails or the river because from there I could always come back. I can still always come back. But they were home too. This, is not. Though human beings, they adapt. But we who aren't always make big deals out of things that aren't. You can see why I have to tell my head shut up just to get any sleep.
Jul 31, 2008
The Princess Goddess Divine Lucia, also known in the nearerthanyouthink land of Pell-Mell which is inhabited mostly by creeps and geniuses who think they are one and the same, as Noir Dixie Susan the Black Eyed Happy Smudge of Tara in the Night Sky with Diamonds
Jul 16, 2008
It is a watermelon day and the sun is unhurried. It is an ice cream day. It is a wildflower day. Most importantly it is. I've found out something about myself which is amazing which is that I am not afraid. And I am not sad. Not careless. But not sad.
I think whenever I need to wherever I am I can come back here, to right here where I have been firmly planted, with the trees by the water.
It is healthy they say to get feelings out. Right now I feel like a rocking chair which is nice. So I'll only let a little of that out and keep the rest. I am only writing because I am aware. The Paterfamilias just got his new generator and is carrying it back and forth with the tractor like Kiddy does with his toy when you give him a toy and he's not sure what to do with it. Flash is Kiddy. Kiddy is jealous of Puppy. Puppy is sprawled sleeping. So far we are calling Puppy, Puppy. Names for her are hovering - what do you think?
Jul 15, 2008
- The daisy follows soft the sun,
- and when his golden walk is done,
- sits shyly at his feet.
- He, waking, finds the flower near.
- "Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
- "Because, sir, love is sweet!"
- Emily Dickinson
Jul 14, 2008
that the sun loves, Kiddy plays in and I walk
through, while precious things catch my fingers:
my favorite flower.
They remind me of innocence. Winsome.
We are the flower, Thou the sun
Forgive us, if - as days decline -
we nearer steal to Thee
Enamoured of the parting west
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Jul 11, 2008
Jul 10, 2008
Right now it's so 90°.
Right now the sun has not stopped being out for seven million or two days and the Cardinals are winning just because I am happy even if they're not really winning but scoreless it's all just as fine
The Young Man we were all supposed to marry is leaving the countryside and I am baking today away to celebrate / the air is swirling with vanilla cakes and kissy frostings and salty sweet macaroons /I'll sell my confectionery candied dreams and never leave my kitchen windows, never be done dancing on this the barest floor. Shouldn't we make divinity? But I don't know how to make divinity and all granddaughters should as all grandmothers did, in the Christmases in big houses. My hands since childhood have been sere like theirs, I suppose. and turn and twirl breathing in spice tastes and you
such an active imagination
You get used to things since it's been like this every time, a sickness like speeding and a simplicity like singing lullabies to yourself and what it all means is I don't know but really
who do I think I am trying to be just me when the field is daisy wild and you and I yeah we were it so baby let me follow you down baby let me follow you down oh I'll do anything in this godalmighty world if you'll just let me follow you down
Jul 9, 2008
I am considering in my mind a complete overhaul of the Spinet. I was considering in my mind chopping it all to splinters with the Paterfamilias's machete and making a resolution to give up every other luxury I would ever want to use money for like education and food, and taking all the money I have and buying a sleek black grand piano, a Steinway I think, a really really really big one. But then, I thought, where would I put it. Plan B is overhaul. First I'm going to dust it off lovingly. This is what we call small steps.
My dear little piano. We are both so poor and beautiful.
I am very untroubled and silent, only being Now and only thinking about the little boy coming today in four hours. When I was looking at the spinet earlier doing all that considering, I noticed that it has slowly and surely changed since he began to come play it. There are sheets of smiley faced stickers where all my Beethoven used to be and there's a glass full of colored markers on my pile of staff paper and little scraps we've practiced drawing treble clefs on and the metronome is sitting open and askew in a prominent place because all of the sudden it is fun? Whence cometh this? My piano is becoming a teacher piano. It's a mommy piano. This is terrible and different and so OK.
Jul 8, 2008
Jul 5, 2008
Yesterday evening I went on the smallest walk, on the road in front of the house back and forth never leaving its sight because I didn't want to be far but I did want to be with the fireflies, and twilight and thumbnail moon. The dirt road is smooth as paper. I was just now wondering why I am writing any of this but it is obviously important and sometimes if you're smart you just stop that wondering and haul yourself out of bed, and have a day.
Jul 4, 2008
Jul 2, 2008
Mississippi is more loving by far than the flat land we had been through. I may love that place if only for the trees. I could touch a window and say pine forest at every one that passed, and smile. Everything reminded me of dreaming.
Reunions are probably grand were you ever unioned in the first place. No one really knows anything or one. Nice, quiet on & off, for me. Strange to be shy around family, to have the sameness and yet want to be different (yet want to be same). I realized this half of my crazy clan could split again, when reintroductions faded, and the grey and older ones talked under tall trees, being those who know the purpose from before and speak in remembrances, being walls removed from the insiders who speak the streets, who know bass and music loud enough to start your heart, who, if you aren't careful, will make you dance.
What I liked was that to everyone I was uncomplicated. She's Bobby's girl, and being this daughter and not so much else, I didn't mind me.
Jun 18, 2008
P, he said before I could explain, is peace.
And Forte means to play loudly. This one took a moment until he brightened and he said, funny! Like laughing really LOUD! And then he did.
Now I promise, I promise I will quit talking about him for an entire whole week.
When he was running outside, his Mom who is not his mom sat next to my chair and told me about his yesterday, how his father who never called, called and how the little boy played all four of his songs for him then and how afterward he didn't want his grandparents he wanted them and couldn't know couldn't find why they didn't come and never sat on his bed with him and why and why and why.
Through the window I saw him playing in the tree branches and felt this pain again.
When everyone was gone I went out in the sun, sat on my knees in the garden for half of an hour weeding and thinking, words standing still in my head: I had so much anger in my heart - the question of how it reconciles with a smile that's six years old.
Later I fed the hummingbirds. And then I played Joplin, and then I played a duet.
On the community crisis end of things
I don't like them much because they never wave.
The National Guard people things are sleeping at the high school down the road. It is so cool to see the black heavy trucks passing and the camo-clad saviours, everyone reckons.
Walls and sands.
What happened is the water grew. Really really. When John the Eldest was here for PaterFamilias Day I took him down to look and we saw the River from the road (on the road, over the road) from the tracks (reaching the tracks) and from the cemetery on the hill (safe place and untouchable). I have the pictures from then but then changes every day. I am OK with the rising. I am not OK. But I am close, somehow, to this.
Also when John was here he took his car and I took not my car and we raced each other down a highway I had been missing for a while, why, because we are crazy showoffs because we intend to die insanely funly not drown in the drowsy flood water. Or mostly because there is a long hard turn in the road about seven miles down and if you take it at an exact and certain breakneck speed, it feels just like floating.
Jun 15, 2008
Jun 14, 2008
Jun 13, 2008
I sometimes dream in golden and about finding and lions. Lions are important to me. I don't remember why.
I'm listening to the rain on the roof and thinking of walking, thinking of laundry and Hanon and breakfast and the North. There is so awful much to think of on a Friday. I think I want to be a brown horse and have all the fields, I think I want to see you approaching down the path my feet are on, I think I could feel gentle and glad.
Jun 12, 2008
My mother told me once, you were always sensitive, and quiet so quiet.
For some reason I was told recently by a dearest friend who will remain namel(auren)ess that lately I have seemed depressed and that the things I think are terribly low, and why do I always look at the past, and that she does not like it when I am not happy. It made feel responsible when she said that. It is true that my books are all heavy with my brain now and sometimes my heart hurts. And I may have mentioned this before but I am almost getting somewhere. I had an idea to have a place to keep the pretty things, like a dusted front parlor for all company that wants to stay, practically a world away from the room in the back that is dim and full of music, where Christina is hard at work tapping away the mess in her mind.
Jun 11, 2008
I poked around in the garden for an hour when I came back from walking. Somewhere between the strawberry and lettuce beds, I met a little friend. He had a British accent and a slightly uppity air but I liked him right away. He had been paused in the search for his misplaced top hat by my mumbled talking to myself and when I paused he looked up and said kindly, Do be careful, my dear, the gardens have ears. He made a move to go before adding, and I say, it's hardly a cakewalk being a toad either, you know, and he hopped on.
Jun 10, 2008
Jun 6, 2008
Jun 4, 2008
May 28, 2008
May 27, 2008
So here are the strawberries.
May 26, 2008
The best thing was being silent and sitting in the lumberyard entrance with the windows down, watching water gust under the streetlights, and hearing faintly the wail of storm sirens. I hadn't heard that sound since I was very small.
I forgot to mention that there was a flash flood and water over the highway on the return voyage. We had to wait in a long line of headlights for a long time. It's funny how people feel closer to you when you are all waiting for the same thing. To pass, to move. To get to home. People were walking around and talking through open windows. Aaron Copeland's Rodeo on the classical station. I was thinking again, laying on the seat while K hugged my knees to her as her pillow, mostly about what is precious to me, a lot about why it is such a useful thing to have a bladder of steel, and about the difference between the storms in my family and the ones surrounding us, and about being safe and about beef it's what's for dinner and about the silhouette of my Daddy's face against the headlights in my sleepy brown eyes and
May 22, 2008
I just slept for an hour, or more than an hour disorienting sleep losing track of the world. Curled up tightly under my blue blanket. I felt my mother come in. She covered my cold feet. I woke up at 4:07 and I was breathing in time with a piano. Mozart. Salzburg concerto C Major, Amadeus. Theophilus, Gottlieb.
Aperto. My heart is open and full.
I love you too so I'll be funnier.
I've gotten dressed finally and wrapped my pathetic self up in the blue felty illness blanket. I am listening to the classical station and becoming slightly delusional and eating some quaggy carroty mushy soup. I won't say exactly what it looks like. And it tastes like rot too. If I sipped between the pulpy orange bits there supposedly is some sort of tolerable liquid I daren't call it broth, but I don't have the will for it and hardly the appetite. I think quaggy is a word. When the sun comes out I'll delete all this anyway. I promise. I wonder if there is a hospice like service that sends someone to your house to love you when you're miserable and have only got one can of quaggy carrot mush soup rot to eat. One that doesn't necessarily require you to die after it's all said and done, though I suppose I could if it came down to it. Mum used to take care of me at times like these, but presently she is 1)Too busy and 2)too susceptible. Actually this morning when I announced my condition from my pillow she said something along the lines of oh shnike I can't get sick and ran off to search for a gas mask, now she's my shadow with the can of disinfectant. I laugh so I don't have to cry. I think shnike is a word.
When the sun comes out I'll delete all this anyway. And it will, the sun.
I wouldn't mind rainbows.