November 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
Thanksgiving is the bomb. Hoping everyone’s happiness trickles into the weekend and stays. Too much to be thankful for. Too little pumpkin cheesecake left.
I spent my Thanksgiving with my boyfriend and none of our family members. It was quiet and wonderful. My day was divided between helping Danny cook for hours and hours, listening to loud music, reading the news, and watching Holiday-themed-things on Netflix.
This is where I say that this Thanksgiving felt very nontraditional. This is where I say that I am privileged. This is where I say that it was hard to acknowledge my happiness on such a perverted holiday. Which, when we’re considering the actual historical implication of the colonists and co. on the Native Americans, can and should no way be justified ever. Or the image of the illuminated Seasons Greetings banner over Ferguson. Or the scene in Holiday Inn where Bing Crosby’s character Jim Hardy smears black paint over Marjorie Reynold’s character Linda Mason which she cheerfully says is a form of “punishment” before they perform a blackface routine celebrating Lincoln’s presidency while literally personifying every stereotype of antebellum Black culture. And this is where I say that my Thanksgiving post was not supposed to take a political turn. Oops.
Historically/politically/technically Thanksgiving is not the bomb, but a day devoted to being thankful is. I’m glad for Natalie Diaz poems and how beautifully she writes about the contemporary Native American experience. I’m thankful for every single post attached to the #BlackPoetsSpeakOut hashtag. I’m thankful for Gilmore Girls and health and education and snow and friendship and words and vegetables and warm coats and vintage jewelery and onion soup and the shirt photographed that makes me look like Thanksgiving-pilgrim-witch. I’m thankful for the space that begs for positive change. I’m thankful for the souls in my life and their nonstop love. I’m thankful. I’m lucky. Every. Single. Day.
November 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
What makes a good story: finishing it. I’m in South Carolina (oops) and there is rain and large cars and, like everywhere, coffee. I left Normandy early because (I’ve mentioned this before) I’m somewhere and then I’m not. Girl on the go. Girl going. Motion and more motion and now, maybe, a little bit of staying put. Sure, I have some destinations up my cable knit sweater sleeve… but let’s just pretend that the only thing I need to do is sit here listening to Bing Crosby before it’s even Thanksgiving. Let’s just pretend our stories go one way until we make them go another. Honey, I think. Honey, I think I might just be home. « Read the rest of this entry »
November 23, 2014 § Leave a comment
I’ll say this: there are special places and they’re obvious. They’re storybook. They’re historical. And you’re lucky, really, to enter it. To eat it. I kept a food log during my time in Grandcamp-Maisy, in northwestern France. Those entries speak louder, more clearly, more articulate of how it was waking up and sleeping and just being there than the photographs do. Regardless, I took these. I look at them. Voilà.
November 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
I wake up and it’s pink. The sun rises in Normandy in jewel tones. No lie. Or at least it does on the mornings I stop and notice it. Like a cartoon character, I wear one outfit: white crewneck t-shirt, black v-neck sweater, boyfriend jeans, a beige cable knit wool sweater of unknown origin (from a thrift store in The Isle of Mull), work boots, a watch. I read a poem from a particle blue book. I eat breakfast which is a third of a baguette with butter and a homemade jam (rhubarb, raspberry, peach, red-plum, blackberry, snozberry) , black coffee, and one glass of raw, unpasteurized milk. I chat with the sixty-four year old woman who lets me live in her house and work for her. After breakfast, I open the door to the chicken (and two ducks) coop, where they fly out without flying. They’re loud. Then I do the same thing, but on a separate part of the property. I walk past the Billy goat named Bebe, through a series of wooden gates, past the vegetable garden, past four apple trees, past a green lawn surrounded by trimmed hedges (like every fairy tale I ever wanted), and I let two geese out of their home. They are also loud. There is a donkey in a field and donkey’s are gorgeous which is a thing I didn’t know. On Monday, it pressed its giant donkey head against a crumbling stonewall and stayed there for a long, long time. Which was both depressing and adorable. I pick the apples that have fallen overnight. I walk to the stable and climb a pile of logs and throw them down near a wheelbarrow. I do this one at a time because my arms are pretty weak and also because this motion, the selecting and throwing the logs, is beyond therapeutic. I wheelbarrow the wood to the house and I feed them to a cobalt-blue enamel wood-burning stove. If you think it’s impossible for a human to love a stove, you’re mistaken. It’s a really pretty stove. And then I do whatever needs to be done, which varies. There is no such thing as clean fingernails in my narrative now. And the day goes on and eventually I’m in the parlor reading or I’m running on the shore of a famous part of the coast or I’m listening to someone incredibly generous talk to me about her children, fabric, fisherman or I’m making tea or I’m staring at the stove. And it’s very, very nice.
November 13, 2014 § Leave a comment
Unsure if anyone in Edinburgh actually lives there. The city is built on the grounds of natural disaster. It’s gorgeous. You can’t really blame it for being full of tourists. The architecture, the lights, that park, a castle, the leaves in November. These are all good, justifiable things drawing everybody in. Too many people wearing cameras (including me, let’s be real) but too many pretty things to look at. Balance, maybe. And many, many uphill steps.
November 12, 2014 § Leave a comment
“London returns in damp, fragmented/ flurries/ when I should be doing something else.” From Chelsea Rathburn’s poem English Sonnet. Fitting to say the least. Here’s a handful of images. Here’s a city I liked.
November 9, 2014 § Leave a comment
My mother and best friend in law school and guy I write love letters to are really glad I didn’t pierce my septum in London, but I’m not so sure. If it’s safe to say anything ever, it’s safe to say that I’m impulsive, often. It might be genetics, tbh. Things sound like good ideas or necessary ideas until they aren’t. And by that point I’ve usually spent a stupid amount of money on artisanal treats or put down a deposit on an apartment in St.Petersburg, Russia or sprinted, in Nikes, across Marion Square and down Charlotte Street to argue with an ex before he was an ex. Sometimes I curse this spontaneity and other times I look it in the face in the mirror and say hey, thanks for making that choice, just then. It has rewards– wanting to do something so badly at once. « Read the rest of this entry »