“I come from a place where breath, eyes and memory are one, a place from which you carry your past like the hair on your head. Where women return to their children as butterflies or as tears in the eyes of the statues that their daughters pray to.” ~ Edwidge Danticat, from Breath, Eyes, Memory

Rockwell Kent Illustration from Moby Dick (published by The Modern Library, 1982)

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“I wish you what I wish
myself: hard questions
and the nights to answer them,
the grace of disappointment
and the right to seem the fool
for justice. That’s enough.
Cowards might ask for more.
Heroes have died for less.” ~ Samuel Hazo, from “To a Commencement of Scoundrels”

Wednesday afternoon. Partly cloudy, 80 degrees.

This morning after I went back to bed to try to get some lost sleep I had a very strange dream in which I was on vacation on an island with a bunch of rich people who I didn’t know all that well. I decided I really needed to fly home, so I went to the airport and made arrangements. Apparently, I was flying in a private cabin that was stocked with liquor. I didn’t even ask how much it would cost. Obviously, a dream.

So I’ve realized something: I like doing these posts that contain content from other sites. I like them, so there’s no reason why I should stop doing them.

I had thought that it meant that I wasn’t being true to myself because I wasn’t writing the content, but you know what? I can write a nice introduction and still share with you some of the amazing things I find on these interwebs, things that make all of the other banal crap just fade away.

So there’s that . . .

Also, I have to do a lot of cleaning today because Corey comes home tomorrow. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to make his flight today, which means one less day for us to have together. I realized last night that I’m spending half of my time alone now, and to be truthful, I really haven’t figured out how I feel about that.

Anyway, enjoy.

More later. Peace.

                   

The small things that are really big things:

Something beautiful from beauty // terror:

Always remember . . .

                   

The Conversations I Remember Most

The way a sweet cake wants
a little salt in it,
or blackness a little gray nearby to be seen,
or a pot unused remains good for boiling water,

the conversations I remember most
are the ones that were interrupted.

Wait, you say, running after them,
I forgot to ask—

Night rain, they answer.
Silver on the fire-thorn’s red berries.

~ Jane Hirshfield

                   

Music by Ruu Campbell, “The Call”

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