we're so unsure about it

listening: andrew bird & the mysterious production of eggs
dreaming: stupidly significant dreams about horses

stranger, there is a september tree in the public gardens that is blushing into autumn. its leaves slowly turn to the colour of rose petals...
i followed the harvest moon all around tonight; along igneous sidewalks, over angry seas. (you are the feeling of motion & the fact of standing still). the smell of burning leaves is all caught up with the night sky. from the hillside, satellite antennas look like distant castles & spotlights pour down the sides of office towers. this city never sleeps.
wait for me on street corners and when we meet, let's go right home. we'll drink tea and sit against the radiator, watching unsettling films with our tired, mid-week eyes.
these are days of small destruction; the chapel has gone missing from the cemetery on my way downtown. the footprint concrete floor has been laid bare, then piled high with withered blossoms and the torn trunks of cut down hydrangeas. i gathered the flowers & placed them on sweet, anonymous gravestones.
the wind keeps blowing; the world is stripped of colour.

oaktree & the acorns

mood: mostly tangible

we are in the heavens

music: the pillowmaker, john southworth & the south seas
mood: walking away from the crowd

last night at st. matthew's church, i wandered to the basement bathrooms before the music began. i eavesdropped on the banjo humming warm-up of great lake swimmers and smiled hello back at a whirlwind jenn grant. like the winter, we sat in number 33 and listened but i was not the same.
i've been busybusy with new classes and overwhelmed by everything, but mostly, everyone else. new schedules and assignments are good grounding against the raspberry jam-fingers of my own life. for now, just school and stillness suit these days; i cling to silence and the summer set. i go where i go, i leave when i leave, i do what i do. you people have gorgeous souls, but the empty places have been calling me.
my phone is muted, my plans are secret plans.
and the world brings such gifts: a long-sought, fantastical album by john southworth (do write for a copy), coffee-shop word games, a single mote of dust falling through the concert lights, walking backward along curbsides, chai lattes and scones (or scones), early reading on the king's library steps, puzzle-piece thinking, cardigan weather & hand-delivered letters.

grow into childishness! see past surfaces! never stop changing!

this is where we came; this is what we saw

music: rented rooms, tindersticks
mood: tree branches against rainy skies

i am exhausted by self-sufficiency and my initiative is worn right through.

i am moving through seasons and phases and friendships. i am learning how i can't afford to spread my feelings far or feeble. mostly the small hours i inherit are not worth their effort. i am not for amicable apathy, i can't face being taken for granted. will you walk through the rain to my door? will you seek me in the places i travel? will you call when there are no plans?
i can let go of my expectations but i will not be let down.

you; you should be more careful with me.

daylight and the dreamer

music: we made this ourselves, essie jain
mood: joyous, joyous!

this day is my very favourite of all days for no reason but the constant and perfect unfolding of small things. the brewing storms of yesterday are gone, they are replaced by giddy delight for the intricacy of all things.

early morning uncommon grounds clatter & chatter, for hugs & a latte. shopping for books and scraps of japanese paper. soft hellos and hugs hello and backward glances on the streets. the beating of my heart necklace against my body as i walk the city. my quiet, unshared thinking in difficult classes. letters slipped into red postboxes, emails from professors & paris & a postcard from mum. the lingering taste of fresh passion fruit and blackcurrant tea. the potential of the hours still left to me.

tell me again i'm a character from your dusty dog-eared books. my world is another world, it's motion so charming, so fey.

we got lost tonight, we got carried away

music: i am john - loney, dear
mood: lonely, dear

i've been thinking of nabokov & the gift; cryptic keys lost in text and hidden behind locked doors. and ambiguity has it's charm, the obscure will always allure. i've been asked and the answer is that for the purpose of these pages there is no you, or rather, there is no singularity to be found. somedays you are you, somedays not. often, you're not who you'll expect.
and there is a different me for each and every instance.

your far-away voice is old & forgetful & you've been doubting my love again.

our days before we knew

on the way home from mahone bay, we stop at a roadside flea market and watch offbeat vendors with the knick knacks of their trade. tea cups, war memorial metals, books long-bought and never read. pennies the pound, two dollars a dozen; this smells of basements and summer haze and the cheap claptrap blues.

beside a bridge and below oaktrees,
i have found a new & secret land.
it's a place of tiger-striped rocks,
giant ants, blackberries, acorns, lichen.
if i ever need to be away,
we will bring blankets here
and lie side by side on the rocks: us
& trains & the glow of city stars.

i read in a book that love is arms open so let's hug like we're airplanes.

the boy who sits on his front door stoop is moving & he just wants to know my name.
black cats that cross my path just want to play. and i want to walk forever and to listen.

us of the rainy day roadtrips

.

the tide goes out & the bottom of the ocean becomes a planet...

you surrender to the sleeping

music: hold on, hold on - neko case
books: shop girl, steve martin (also scott pilgrim 2)

hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on...
today my horoscope told me to undo the mistakes of april but i think my failings have undone themselves before me, already and so simply.
visitors and the ones who will stay begin to filter into the solitary spaces of my summer. it has been a season without finale and without much flourish. but completion is false comfort and the tangent lines spread out & forward & beyond with such rare, wondrous potential. potentially. it's time to start telling my small stories again.

i am almost almost here.