“The sound of winter is the hum of wind through bare trees and the creaking of those wise branches, so like these brittle mortal bones save in their innocence. On frigid mornings I hear my humanity coming in from the cold.” ~ Christopher Troise, from See Troise Write
Friday afternoon. Rainy and unseasonably warm, 57 degrees.
There is no snow here. No cold. No flakes falling and collecting, amassing into unknown structures, waiting to be unburied with the sun’s warmth. I know that I should be happy that we don’t have a lot of cold and snow here as neither are good for my bones or my back, but I long for snow, wet flakes on my face, the chance to photograph the vast whiteness, the trees cloaked in inches of froth, the dog carefully stepping so as not to sink.
Snow would be nice, would be lovely and white and banking. Instead, we have rain and mud puddles and lethargy, so I will write about nothing and nothingness and nothings.
Random thoughts:
- Post-rock is an actual category in music, but I find the term to be grossly uninventive. Is not everything after the Stones, the Who, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin post-rock?
- I have deliberately not learned how to make GIFs as I know that I would spend a disproportionate amount of time playing.
- Who are these people who can watch a show and do screen captures while watching and post them immediately?
- Am I being left behind technologically?
- For someone who lives in the past so much, someone who loves ancient ways, I love technology.
- I am using quotes in this post by two people I found on tumblr.
- We have raccoons living in our attic, and Corey thinks they are cute, she said, apropos of nothing.
“Time takes life away
and gives us memory, gold with flame,
black with embers.” ~ Adam Zagajewski, from “Shell”
Odd memories out of nowhere:
- Two scents I used to wear along with my power suits (neither of which exist in the original formulation any more): Lauren and Dioressence. Everyone else wore the first, so I switched to the second, and people either loved it or hated it.
- Power suits with shoulder pads and pumps. What were we thinking?
- I miss dressing for work, the whole thing—hair, makeup, jewelry, but I don’t miss pantyhose at all.
- Does anyone still wear pantyhose?
- I remember years ago when I worked at the newspaper there was a woman who wrote about fashion, and she always complained that the women in this area were so unimaginative because they only wore suntan-colored pantyhose. Funny the things you remember.
- Another odd memory from the newsroom days: There was this reporter who had a terrible crush, bordering on stalkworthy on a male reporter who I happened to be dating casually. She would come into the newsroom and stand and stare at his empty chair. Sometimes she would stare at me. Very, very creepy.
- During that same period in my life I kept a journal called “Dear God.” In a word, embarrassing.
“I go through phases. Somedays I feel like the person I’m supposed to be, and then somedays, I turn into no one at all. There is both me and my silhouette. I hope that on the days you find me and all I am are darkened lines, you still are willing to be near me.” ~ Mary Kate Teske
List of minutiae:
- I wonder if I still believe in angels.
- If I wonder, that is probably indicative of a negative, isn’t it?
- Whenever I dream of my friend Mari, I awaken with a hard spot in my chest, as if the dream has carved a scoop of flesh from me and left a hollow impression.
- I always feel strangely accomplished once I have calendars throughout the house, but I have to wonder about this obsession with time. Does recording it slow it?
- I discovered Adam Zagajewski quite by accident when I unearthed a book of his poems in the ratty old bookstore that used to occupy the corner of the local shopping center. The store is long gone, which is sad as they had the most amazing undiscovered poetry section living on the bottom two shelves in the far left corner. I think that’s where I found my first Rilke book.
- Oh how I long for the day when all of my books of poetry can reside on shelves again and not in storage tubs.
- I am still thinking about the concept of holding sadness in my spine.
“I love the dark hours of my being
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Ich liebe meines Wesens Dunkelstunden” from Book of Hours (trans. Anita Barrow and Joanna Macy)
Did you know?
- Brett has synaesthesia. He once told me that a cologne that I like smelled too green.
- Apparently, synaesthesia is fairly common in newborns, which makes sense when you think about it. Newborns have so many capabilities, but they cannot tell us, so they get no positive reinforcement, which helps to explain why these capabilities might fade.
- I remember an episode of “Criminal Minds” (of course, I do) in which the killer saw people’s names in color, and if the name was red, the killer knew that the person was bad.
- Having a killer with synaesthesia would be a pretty cool plot device, don’t you think?
- My preoccupation with killers has nothing to do with my childhood, which was the epitome of normal, except for the travel.
- I really wish that I had come of age in a time in which it was quite possible, normal even, for women to become criminal profilers.
- Did I ever mention that I once applied to the FBI? It was for a marketing position, and I really didn’t want it. Who wants to say that they do marketing for the FBI. Not at all cool.
“People often ask me questions that I cannot very well answer in words, and it makes me sad to think they are unable to hear the voice of my silence.” ~ Inayat Khan
And then there is this:
- I’ve been so poor that I combed the house for change to buy gas for the car.
- I once claimed that I was sick at work so that I could leave and go for a drive. I got in the car and drove for two hours.
- While I was an undergraduate, I routinely ate Nacho Cheese Doritos and hot pepper rings for dinner.
- When I was sixteen, I picked out the names of the six children that I was going to have with the boy who was the love of my life. Nothing about that was correct—the boy, the names, or the number of children.
- When my contemporaries were listening to Jethro Tull and Deep Purple, I was listening to Broadway soundtracks and singing to myself in my bedroom.
- I think that people find it easy to lie to me.
- I do not miss the 80’s like some people do.
- I fear that I’ve already had the life-defining moment, and I didn’t realize it.
More later. Peace.
*All snow GIFs taken from a tumblr post; sorry, don’t have better source than that.
Music by The Smiths, “Asleep”
Strange Little Prophets
When is the smell of a blackberry tree
a harbinger of violent movement
rather than simply the recollection of
a childhood Sunday dress hem-dipped
in mud, handprinted with juice and seeds?
Hard to say. A mind, when playing tricks
is at its most sincere — at home raking
through the body’s history, repeating
the strange and nostalgic. The taste of
dirty copper, the imagined cockroach
in the corner, the sluggish slow of the clock
— doctors call these strange little prophets
warning signs of a seizure, synaptic misfires
looming like a song discordant, until the body
— an unplucked string — is finally strummed.
~ Barbara Perez
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