our names as the night sky.

Magic

I love it when things just happen. like , bing, it becomes or it falls into place.
executed with the perfect timing only the universe can muster.

This happens frequently, so frequently that some people really do believe I have some kind of magic power.

Today it was 2 books, that I've been pining over for my personal edification. and went to the thrift store and bing, right there on the shelf, brand new, both of them, bing. It made me suspect that someone knew I was coming and planted them there just for me. it's true though.

What is even stranger is when I walked into the thrift store today I thought, 'this was the very first thrift store I was brought to before we even lived here and that was our first thrift store together' and on that first visit I found this amazing book, writing down the bones, that I had come to think was only legend. found it, bing. I freaked out about that one for days.

Lauren Nassef

Lauren Nassef is such a treat, I love her dainty lines and all the graphite and little bits of color.
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Your memory is a house

and all the rooms are filled

even the ones you don't know about yet, or thought you had forgotten.

I have rooms that I can only find in my dreams.

Mari Andrews

Mari Andrews is inspiring today:
Time spent gathering, cleaning and storing of collected objects, whether they are man-made or natural, allows for a kind of wonder and intimacy with each object. This gleaned information is crucial while combining materials to make new, hybrid forms.

Structures of all kinds from cellular and mineral to plant and skeletal, inform the work. The pieces become a collaboration of materials and intention, with the materials often altering my concept and practice of working. Various temporal and delicate objects I elect to work with often mirror our human sensitivities and vulnerabilities.

check out her website here

False expectations.

I'm sorry I was never able to see you as clearly as I should have.

my infinite playlist of minor personal dramas got in the way.

And maybe, because of this I only really was able to appreciate the idea of you,

and the versions of your past I could imagine were dusted with a thin layer of falsely imposed ideals.


Many months have passed and I appreciate how your memories have seeped into my own
and tangled up with the memories in which we both existed and the ones we only imagined together.

a tea cup; you were a baby.
washing dishes in the hot hot water with the yellow tiles
white lillies and stacks of books
every heavy crease of the page; your fingers
Showers at night and in the morning
salty skin and sunshine; ages 9-12
your morning drama
milk glass
every stitch; your birthday card

late nights

tonight

She is an artist of subtlety, high hopes and imagined spaces.

If I had a garage I would work every day to build a boat.
If you must drive across the state with the dogs listening to Johnny Cash, I would understand, send me a postcard.
If you wanted to dig up all the grass and plant only soft moss I would dig the entire yard up while you were sleeping.
If you were here I would count the freckles on your hands.

Apricot almond cake for breakfast with milk in my chamomile tea.

Bobbie pins of assistance, bobbie pins of patience. my hair is getting long.

We could spend millions on typewriter ribbons.

I never stopped praying.
Maybe thats why things seem to have gone so wrong.

tall

one thing after another.

my own trail of tears. maybe not that dramatic.

I'm eating edamame.
tired, so tired.

My adult life has consisted of waiting for the right moments
to make big jumps, to feel big pushes. and often they are in the dark
or maybe just with one glimmer of something ahead.
but always with faith.
Hoping that one day all this leaping will make sense.

This time the leap is a solo one.
A hard one to heft alone.

But I'm made of sturdy stuff.

it's time to pack the family wagon one more time, this time we head north.