New work (or, not-so-new work, freshly published) now appearing here.
Daily Lesson in Color Theory
This is a scene of domestication—
oatmeal simmering on the stove,
the tea kettle about to whistle. My bare
feet against worn linoleum. Upstairs
a cat curls into my bed, her claws
sheathed. There are gardens over-spilling
their rock boundaries, there is a gate
that rings with each entry. It would be false
to say I am completely happy here
but there is an orange glass vase on the porch
with dark lilacs in its mouth, there are
sunny patches of carpet and windows
that let in the late spring breeze. Nearly
summer already, the days stretch like the cat,
now moving towards me, her fur not quite black
but a brown so dark it could be mistaken,
at the right angle, for that absence.
(work will soon be appearing in Anemone Sidecar, the Chapter is still in the proof stages but should be public shortly…)
“Such wildly fluctuating phase changes reflect light with what is known as critical opalescence.” -Peter Galison
Today has been a strange day, added to yesterday’s strange day. The bus tunnel was closed when I went to catch the bus, of an apparent fire. Of course, it was a faulty heat detector and there was no fire. That’s what the past few days have been- fire alarms for no fire. Even the stove light is stuck on, always indicating a hot burner.
Seattle is a place of shifting phases for me. I’ve been meeting some wonderful people, but it stills very much like a solo adventure here. I’d like to think that I’m headed towards critical opalescence. All sorts of glimmer and shine.
So I’m trying to make a space for myself now. I bought some lights, found some more sage incense, and I have a lovely four pawed roommate who has begun to curl up in my overstuffed chair. I am using the work I’ve been writing at work to launch into actual work, and I’m bringing my day-dreams to the page. I just needed a bit of chaos to get myself ordered again.
After a delay (again) the new Monday Journal is posted. It seems everything I had meant to do gets a bit shifted around. I’m still trying to figure out how I exist in my new place. I have plans to make more bread tomorrow, and I hope that goes as intended. Weekends in the middle of the week still manage to throw me off, though I should be used to it by now really.
I’m reading about Einstein and clocks right now, and it’s amazing to realize what I just haven’t thought about. Of course time is a matter of perspective and relativity, but I hadn’t thought about the massive effort that had to go into co-ordinating clocks. I seem to run across time shifts everywhere now. The refurbished tower at the Museum has a display about Zulu time, and I’m recently thinking of time zones more than I had in the past few months. I used to have two clocks running in my body, one for the East Coast, one for the West, but I find the East Coast clock slipping a bit into memory now.
I don’t have a clock in my room, and that’s probably why I ended up staying up too late with my housemate Sunday night. Instead of a night with a glass of wine and a book, like I had thought, I had good company and conversation, and we found this site. A metric poster will be en route to the Meridian house soon! Even converting inches to metric feels like it’s clocks again. Measurements made of arbitrary units, the length of a finger bone or the weight of a stone. The seconds tick away with a twitching hand, and already it’s the afternoon here, I haven’t begun anything I had planned on.
give me a pinwheel in exchange for my heart
a flower in exchange for my tongue
I will give you words and words and words
[Dear Mike Who Rode the Rt 10 to Capitol Hill, where ever you are; thank you for returning my pouch of Important Things. My night did get better. You are a wonderful person and I hope your kindness comes back to you many times over.]
This is the second week I’ll have to delay Monday’s project installment. Tomorrow, though, I’m off from work, so hopefully I’ll play a bit of catch up.
Here are some sequins to keep the crowds satiated, blurry with the storm raging outside and the rockingswayingmoving bus. [There is something wonderful about buses in the rain. The windows steamed, moving through the city with blinders on. I have a poor sense of geography, but I am beginning to embrace it and enjoy the mystery. Senseless to battle some things, and I will always turn the wrong direction. A bus in the rain compounds the mystery, arcs wiped against glass as passengers peer towards the nearly invisible street signs.]
Yesterday I ducked low beneath cherry blossoms, an arbor over the sidewalk like a portal into another place. The irises are beginning to bloom, the tulips exploding with the last of their strength, stamens like bits of char at the center. I even see California poppies, though we are no where near California. The sun is too hidden to be mistaken for California. Then again, my California is a southern one; smog covered, hot and burning. The ash here is of a more dangerous sort- mountain ash, volcano ash. Vancouver, Vancouver, this is it.
I battled rain and wind, after the archway of blossoms. My umbrella a sail; comedic. The gusts pushing me into laughter. What else are you supposed to do; wind torn, drenched, a black sail pointed and threatening to carry me across the street? I dissolved into gazelle laughter. Leaping.
By the time I reached my bus stop my shoes were frothing. Animal shoes, hungry for distance. A detail that reads as false but no, my shoes frothed. Sometimes the truth is entertaining enough to refuse embellishment. (There was a good reason, but I will let the reason remain hidden. I have to keep something hidden, and why not why my shoes frothed? It is a silly detail, a superflous detail. And you don’t need to know all of my reasons.)
[Again, this is taken from text written at work. Lovely day at MoF actually. Usually no better than a chair, or another placard with information sprawled on its surface, today I was a Person with Ideas and Thoughts to at least a few patrons. Maybe something was in the water, maybe it’s the spring time. Also, I need to read some more Robert Burns. After a quite pleasant conversation I find myself yearning for some words from the other side of the ocean.]