I’m good, then.
Book Pile (a.k.a.-the contents of a few of my book cases)
This, my friends, was the state of my studio floor a few hours ago. It looks better now, but still has a long way to go.
*Thomas Aquinas.
I’ve been celebrating my birthday since Tuesday. Although I will continue to do so for the rest of July (hey, that’s normal! Right?), I plan on reining myself back in tomorrow and return to cleaning the studio and write a little. I estimate that this project still has a week to go. Feel for me, lovely readers. It is truly a daunting chore and, so far, I have hated every moment of the project. Every. Moment. I promise to post a few reviews tomorrow. Until then, enjoy this slideshow of some of my little birthday adventures.
*All of these images were taken on my Blackberry, which had a swiftly dying battery. This means that I did not stop to compose scenes, I just snapped away while I could.
“Give me silence, water, hope
Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.”-Pablo Neruda
“I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.”-Pablo Neruda
Royal Decree VI
“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”-Fyodor Dostoyevsky
“An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”-Henry David Thoreau
I’m not an early riser, but I like the idea of taking a morning constitutional. Not a plain old walk, mind you: a constitutional. Yes, yes…I know it means the same thing. The latter, however, sounds vigorous and lovely and a bit old-fashioned. As if it takes work, thought, planning. A clear head. For the last few weeks, I’ve been threatening to get up early (for me) and drag my husband to the cemetery down the street. A four-minute drive for an hour’s hike. After sunrise, but before the work day has dawned. It is such a tempting idea, in my head. On paper. The reality will likely find me achy and whiny and yawning for the first half an hour. Yet, yet… the destination is the above scene: vibrant, bright, wild. Serene. All in the shadow of the city. How long can I resist?
It took a few weeks, but Daisy has finally been framed. She’s right at home in my studio.
This pig has been keeping watch outside the main entrance of our building since Friday. This is totally normal, right? Right?
What is this, you ask?
I recently wrote about one of my main concerns as a writer, which is feeling at home in my surroundings. I’ve struggled with this since moving to the Queen City six years ago. I love our flat, and our building; if the whole thing could be picked up and moved somewhere else, my contentment would shine forth like a lighthouse beacon. I know that I am guilty of focusing on what I wish I could change about our neighborhood, even as I am faced with all that there is to enjoy in this weird little corner of town. Mr. Enormous Pig has reminded me of some of the perks of living in the CW. They are:
Come closer.
Looking out our wall of windows, nine stretching full-height in a salute to the ceiling, I see colour and character; zest and life; dirt and beauty. It’s always interesting. A writer could do worse than to have so much at hand.
Don’t look into his eyes, or you will turn to stone.
Belly of the beast.
*This is a quote from George Orwell’s Animal Farm.
The sunset was almost enough to make romantics of us. I grasped his hand, compelled by nature to some kind of entry-level giddiness. I un-curled my toes and kicked the cool sand; it rained lightly over furtively scrambling ghost crabs. The dog whined on-leash. Bending over, a head pat; standing up on tip-toes, a hug and quick caress. Then one of us broke the sustained peace of the ocean breeze and lapping waves with a bad joke or punch on the arm. Ha, back to normal we went. Quickly, inward, like a collapsing house of cards. Laughing. Unromantic and inappropriate. Wisecracking. Bantering like Grant and Hepburn. Our normal. Content.
Honeymoon Sunset, Mexico Beach/Port St. Joe, Florida. June 2011.
“Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.”-Sylvia Plath
The direct nature of old architecture appeals to me: a glance transports you to another time, and a different way of life. Your imagination is free to conjure a dozen or a hundred scenarios or conversations, sometimes in mere seconds. I walk past these handsome buildings three days a week. They reside on one of the ugliest streets in the city proper. Hemmed in by nondescript banks, a mall where no one shops, and a hideous parking garage that mercilessly casts its blight to the East and West, they are easy to miss. I’ve seen them again and again, out of the corner of a careless eye. Distracted. Too busy. Focused on a destination or a passing thought. On Monday, I finally took the time to see them. It was only for a minute or two, while standing under a canopy as my best friend withdrew money from an ATM. The weird angle is a reflection of my short stature, deep concentration, and unwillingness to find a better shot. Sense of place and ambiance are acutely important to me. The necessity of feeling a connection to my surroundings is one of the odder factors in my struggle to become a better writer. It’s one of the things I have the toughest time handling, this lack of rootedness to where I live. I’m glad that I finally took the time to become better acquainted with this trio. The slideshow image is the result, a visual memory of an important moment in my deepening relationship with this city.
Gentle giant
I’m a city girl but I like my urban living with a side of greenery, please. I like to call it tree tourism. We visited this handsome fella and several of his friends last week. You cannot tell from this photograph that the countryside is miles away. Hop in the car and three minutes later you are in the shadow of a different kind of titan, all concrete and steel and cold comeliness.
*”And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.”-William Shakespeare
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 