living through my 11 year-old niece, whose particular-friend Philip said in her absence, "I see your face everywhere, even in my lunch tray..."
true love. there it is.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
no need
to keep a complete dream journal. but...another 'visit from an old friend. nice. but no. nothing left.
anything interesting today? perhaps just the first tidbit in the newspaper - a new 'spy' robot you can have in your own house for just $299 that can read stories to your kids by remote control while you're travelling, stake out your cheating whore of a wife AND clean your rain gutters. Indispensible.
aside: i love my leaf blower even if it just goes 'puf' and takes ages to get the damn leaf to the curb. i only wish it had a shotgun mic on it so i could hear my neighbors talk about their storage problems.
anything interesting today? perhaps just the first tidbit in the newspaper - a new 'spy' robot you can have in your own house for just $299 that can read stories to your kids by remote control while you're travelling, stake out your cheating whore of a wife AND clean your rain gutters. Indispensible.
aside: i love my leaf blower even if it just goes 'puf' and takes ages to get the damn leaf to the curb. i only wish it had a shotgun mic on it so i could hear my neighbors talk about their storage problems.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
branches
not quite sure why i set up this page.
to avoid actual work i think is the answer.
notes for me then. always about dreams. this - one of those great ones where the object(s) of your fancy is most truly in love with you. here - who was it - a combination of James McAvoy and .w or a.k. - Nope. It's too late in the day and the dream has become a kind of cushion at the back of my mind still covered by the branches of the central park trees that have closed over and blocked access except to glimpses of the festival that I turned back towards after he left me only to find him at the edges of the crowd again, aware of me and drawing closer. sweet all of it. all of it in the middle of the night, in the park, in the dark.
that's as gone as the real walk through central park. when it snowed and snowed and snowed and every single black branch held five inches of white and we all were there in the middle of the night at Christmas and under the Narnia lampost mom recited something - what? Frost, surely. But more. Perfect from start to finish. The only other sounds
the drift of easy wind and downy flake. How lucky we were then. We knew it - always. Paid attention to all of it. I know that. But how now to have those things comfort and not torment.
The spray as we ran through the deep snow fields.
Reminded now too of Andrea and I on the ice field in Montreal that looked just like marshmellow cream and mostly would hold us up but we'd every 7, 10 steps or so suddenly fall in up to our hips. It was hilarious. We were desperate/in pain with laughter.
A hundred years ago, it must be, at least.
I have a title for something i want to write anyway. The Same Life in Which I Loved You. As hard as it is to believe. It is. Always will be. Come what may, as it will.
The only other sounds
the drift of easy wind and downy flake
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
but I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
to avoid actual work i think is the answer.
notes for me then. always about dreams. this - one of those great ones where the object(s) of your fancy is most truly in love with you. here - who was it - a combination of James McAvoy and .w or a.k. - Nope. It's too late in the day and the dream has become a kind of cushion at the back of my mind still covered by the branches of the central park trees that have closed over and blocked access except to glimpses of the festival that I turned back towards after he left me only to find him at the edges of the crowd again, aware of me and drawing closer. sweet all of it. all of it in the middle of the night, in the park, in the dark.
that's as gone as the real walk through central park. when it snowed and snowed and snowed and every single black branch held five inches of white and we all were there in the middle of the night at Christmas and under the Narnia lampost mom recited something - what? Frost, surely. But more. Perfect from start to finish. The only other sounds
the drift of easy wind and downy flake. How lucky we were then. We knew it - always. Paid attention to all of it. I know that. But how now to have those things comfort and not torment.
The spray as we ran through the deep snow fields.
Reminded now too of Andrea and I on the ice field in Montreal that looked just like marshmellow cream and mostly would hold us up but we'd every 7, 10 steps or so suddenly fall in up to our hips. It was hilarious. We were desperate/in pain with laughter.
A hundred years ago, it must be, at least.
I have a title for something i want to write anyway. The Same Life in Which I Loved You. As hard as it is to believe. It is. Always will be. Come what may, as it will.
The only other sounds
the drift of easy wind and downy flake
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
but I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
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