self-evident half truths

i wasn’t whole

i wasn’t unstarted

i was half-way

sometimes things happen, and people come into your life, ever so briefly, like a match struck and out as quickly.  those people, brief though they are in your life, help to put the broken pieces together, and go on their way.  i am happy, no, thankful, for those people.  remembered with some fondness, grateful for what they left behind.

i recently slipped my chains.

i am more than half-way

i am almost all of the way there

Fruit Don’t Fall Far

By Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven

From Daddy sprung my inborn ribaldry.

His crudeness destined me to be the same.

A seedlet, flowered from a shitty heap,

I came, the crowning glory of his aim.

From Mother I inherited ennui,

The leg irons of the queendom I once rattled.

But I won’t let such chains imprison me.

And there is just no telling what this brat’ll…!

This marriage thing? We snub our nose at it.

What’s pearl turns piss, what’s classy breeds what’s smutty.

But like it? Lump it? Neither’s exigent.

And I’m the end result of all that fucking.

Do what you will! This world’s your oyster, Pet.

But be forewarned. The sea might drown you yet.

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Ice

December is generally a difficult month.  This December has been no different,  and perhaps more so.  The past couple of weeks have brought much introspection, most of it painful.

I am a woman well used to being alone.  I was alone for many years, through college, and after while traveling with work, helping to open retail stores. Even during my marriage, I was alone, almost from the start.  I used solitude to escape the pain of those years.  In the ensuing years, I have continued with my solitude.  I am not sure if it is self-imposed at this point, or if there is a deficient quality in me, which seems to be the most plausible explanation.  I have flirted with relationships, including my marriage. None has succeeded, including a recent foray that left me so wounded that I do not think I will venture out again.

I will continue with my solitude, striking out with my camera, and immersing myself in art.  I play at being happy, and laugh when I am supposed to.  I believe my heart is turning to ice.

Lorelai ~ Robin Pecknold

So guess I got old
I was like trash on the sidewalk
I guess I knew why
Often it’s hard to just sweet talk

I was old news to you then
Old news, old news to you then

You, you were like glue
Holding each of us together
I slept through July
While you made lines in the heather

I was old news to you then
Old news, old news to you then

Fell for the ruse with you then
Old news, old news to you then

And I still see you when I try to sleep
I see the garden, the tower, the street
Call out to nobody, call out to me
Chip on the shoulder, the dime in the teeth

Now I can see how
We were like dust on the window
Not much, not a lot
Everything’s stolen or borrowed

I was old news to you then
Old news, old news to you then

Into Winter

Just into winter I will submit a bit of color from the summer months.  We all know I like flowers.  I like them far too much as subjects.

The scrumptious color, the sensual shape of the petal, the golden light of late afternoon all make them an irresistible target.

To Summer

William Blake

O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched’st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

Non-Disconnect

I spent the day Sunday out in the cold.  I needed to find the beauty around me.  It has been a difficult couple of weeks, however there has been major resolution to what was bothering me.   It is a good time in my life. I find myself looking forward to the further beauty of the winter.  Blow, winter winds, blow.

Winter Song

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, who would be sad tho’ the sky be a-graying,
And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare;
For softly and merrily now there come playing,
The little white birds thro’ the winter-kissed air.

 

The squirrel’s enjoying the rest of the thrifty,
He munches his store in the old hollow tree;
Tho’ cold is the blast and the snow-flakes are drifty
He fears the white flock not a whit more than we.

 

Then heigho for the flying snow!
Over the whitened roads we go,
With pulses that tingle,
And sleigh-bells a-jingle
For winter’s white birds here’s a cheery heigho!

 

Bonneyville Winter 2016

Bonneyville Winter 2016

Bonneyville Winter 2016

Winter Birds

Walls

Walls. Put up as boundaries, fences; a way to keep things in, as a way to keep things out.  Built of wood, brick, stone, barbed wire, they all serve the same purpose.  And sometimes they are completely invisible, built of heartbreak and betrayal.

I am struggling with those invisible walls right now.  Unlike walls built of physical materials, which are easy to tear pull out and tear down, my invisible walls are hard to grasp and pull free. But there is a door within those walls, and it waits to be opened.

I have given away the key.

Scaffolding

Seamus Heaney

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

 

solitude

once, there was a girl who, broken, left her color and joy behind, forgetting her worth.  days passed into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.  she built her walls, brick by brick, settling into solitude. gently, the world slowly wove its way back into her soul, spots of color here and there. smiles replaced the tears and she no longer mourned for what was not and what could not have been.  the years of introspection and self-examination showed her that she was enough.  enough for herself. that she was full of color.

Solitude

By Caroline Caddy

It’s something they carry with them

                      – explorers  night shifts  seamen –

like a good pair of binoculars

or a camera case

                perfectly and deeply compartmented.

It has a quiet patina

that both absorbs and reflects

                           like a valuable instrument

                                                you have to sign for

 – contract with alone –

                     and at the end of the voyage

                                                          you get to keep.

Sometimes it’s very far away.

Sometimes so close

               at first you think the person next to you

is picking up  putting down

                                 a personal cup

                                    a book in another language

before you realise what

– when talk has moved off

                               leaning its arms

                                       on someone else’s table –

is being

handed to you.

acquainted with the night

It has been some time since I have visited my little haunt at night.  The sidewalks and streets are empty at night, save for the sound of the occasional car, or horse and buggy clip clopping a block or two away. It seems I have photographed everything that has called me to this tiny town in the past, and I need to find a new muse.

Living in a rural agricultural area has its disadvantages for a person driven to photograph its scenery; it doesn’t change much, and let’s face it, after doing a full 365 and two additional failed attempts, I am fairly selfish about the time it takes to really get out and find some “new brush.”  I do have some locales calling to me, but do I really want to go to an unfamiliar area alone at night, knowing that the bogey man might be just around the corner waiting to jump out?  Especially at Halloween?  EEEK!

Acquainted with the Night

(Robert Frost)

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

it’s what i do

i shoot flowers.  yes.  they are easy. non-moving targets, they can’t get away from you. but, that doesn’t stop me from sighing at the sheer perfection of the shape of a petal, the color dripping from the top of each stem, the negative space that surrounds each blossom.

i need a bit of pretty every so often, and each garden i visit throughout the warm months, gives me that pretty freely, abundantly and exuberantly.

it looks as though i’ll simply keep doing what i do.

Requiescat

Tonight my love is sleeping cold
Where none may see and none shall pass.
The daisies quicken in the mold,
And richer fares the meadow grass.

The warding cypress pleads the skies,
The mound goes level in the rain.
My love all cold and silent lies-
Pray God it will not rise again!

-Dorothy Parker