Messages started to come in today- although I don’t have my copies yet, 
my book is out in the world!
Thank you to everyone who helped me along the way, both with editing and suggestions, and with support and the last ditch efforts to hit the required pre-publication sales. I couldn’t have made this without you.
I’ve decided that I like deadlines.
Thus enters into the world Monday Journal. I’m going to be posting excerpts from my journal every Monday. The internet is a dangerous place for journals, but my intention here is not to go on and on in a narcissistic fashion but to combine text with image. Since I figured out how to post pdfs on here I’ve been trying to think of a way to use this, and Monday Journal seemed to make sense. You can click here to go directly to the page, or use the tabs and look under Projects.
I hope I can balance between raw and refined with this new idea, using brevity to keep from becoming just another ranting journaling space. These will be small pieces that might become part of something larger to publish, but have no homes now; they are half realized and half formed starts. I might update more than just Mondays, but at minimum it’ll be a once-a-week routine.
I’ve added a “Projects” page. Check it out and let me know if it’s working properly!
My mother used to sing this song to us:
On a wagon bound for market
There’s a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there’s a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky.
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer’s night.
Dona dona dona…
“Stop complaining” said the farmer
“Who told you a calf to be;
Why don’t you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?”
How the winds….
Dona dona dona…
Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
Like the swallow must learn to fly.
There’s something silly in the text of a song. Words alone can’t quite get at it, and if they could, then what would be the point of putting them to music? I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately, though really it’s just that I’ve been noticing music more lately, always having been an avid listener. I envy song, but I realized that I don’t listen to the words for content, but for how they hit and resonate in my chest. I can’t tell you what most lyrics are, but I know what they mean. Not literally, of course. On the bus towards work today I turned on The Distillers and the light against the buildings of downtown Seattle seemed nearly violent, the glass of windows reflecting the contained energy. Barely contained. Bursting. The small movements of other commuters felt pent in, carefully controlled, as though something Bigger and Greater lay beneath everyone’s skin, just beyond the rush of traffic, just over the mountain edges. I want to do that with my voice, but I haven’t the courage to sing deeply. I skim songs; I hum along and keep my voice halfway in my throat when I sing along.
Some day I’d like to go out into the middle of fields, where I know no one is listening, and see if I can unleash. Some day.
I’m in love with:
the way the mountains here disappear in the clouds and reappear larger than I remembered.
ink and watercolor and the way my fingers are stained after every project.
my friends, distant though they may be.
the sound of a voice singing where the words fade and the text is sound.
poems that make my breath intake sharply.
cold walks around Lake City with my aunt.
color and color and color.
Though in general I’m not a fan of Valentine’s day, beyond making glittery collages for my girl friends, this is sort of wonderful. I’ve heard nice things about Dancing Girl Press from Kate Durbin, and I just purchased a few books from the winter sale. I don’t know anything about the authors, but I’m still excited for the books to get here.
I do need to get out and buy some glitter though, so that my lovely lady friends can have glitter explosions in their mailboxes around the 14th. If you want a valentine, send me your address! The last real valentine flurry I sent was while I was at Moravian College. I gave one to my friend Tim and (though I don’t know I told him this) I panicked after I put it in the drop box, thinking I’d written the wrong box number. I kept checking by the mailboxes until I saw it appear through the glass and I broke into the box to take it out. After running upstairs to the information desk and checking the number I found I’d done it right in the first place, and sheepishly broke back into the box to put it back. Later Moravian put guards on the mailboxes and we couldn’t card into them anymore. Safer all around, but I would have been a wreck, watching through impenetrable glass the glued and collaged valentine slanted against the metal post box walls.
I want to start integrating drawing, collage and poetry into a larger project. At Moravian my thesis project took the form of a field guide, and maybe I’ll start along that sort of vein again. I feel like I keep starting projects and wandering off mid-way. I’m not finished with my collection of ether/light yet, I haven’t found a home for my larger collection, and now I’m starting off down a path lined with botany and insects. During all of this, I’m trying to find a better suited job and properly start out on my own in Seattle. So many tasks, so much to do. All of this will eventually end up as part of the same thing, but here are pieces and snippets for now.
Mohavea confertiflora
A body to confuse, ghost flower
against a sandy hillside. Already, my tea is bitter,
the leaves over steeped. I have forgotten names
I thought irreversible, I am stumbling into the center
only to find my tongue empty.
