The arm chair is arranged.
The putti readies his bow.
Crystals concentrate transparency,
reform it into something seen.
Now
Shake your salt and pepper words
across the lacey table
near the window
where there is just enough daylight to reach into
your eyes
brown
so familiar
and promise to tell me
only the true stories.
Proof positive, I was there when the pinkness occurred in Verona, Wisconsin – April 12, 2012.
I don’t think April likes this any better than we do.
More blatant bloggy laziness…can’t decide about my own image, so today I am throwing myself on the mercy of the crowd (you dear, kind souls who have made it your business to visit the blog despite its self-indulgency, and to throw me kisses which I catch and pocket smooch smooch smooch). Which gypsy fortune teller do you prefer? The hot red lady who glows with color wherever she pleases, or color abandoned for the uncompromising gleam of black and white?
PS I believe the fortune teller can make your wish come true, wise heart – simply drop a tender thought in the comment box and I am for sure, your hearts’ desire will be granted (because your thoughtfulness will have made another someone very, very happy…)
It is the most blatant bloggy laziness to quote from Wordsworth. But there it is. I did make the picture, though.
You can (and yeah, you should) read the entire thing here. Amen.
Occasionally it becomes obvious to me that I have no idea where I am. Are my intentions as honest as I tell myself, or are they yet another layer distracting me from something I don’t want to say or know about myself?
It seems I like the obstacles. White puffs drifting between the tree tops entice my heart upward more than empty blue sky. Murky water reports the twists of light and dark with tantalizing clarity. Uncertain which way to look, I see what I think is there and then, fearing failure, look elsewhere.
Eventually I get tired of wondering what it means, how I’ve said and done things. I open the porch door. The breeze gets a hold of the curtains, puffing them inward, and outward. The house is breathing. Birds and traffic call and respond. With the door open, sunlight is reaching all the way to the floor, and spreading inward across the golden wood. The light is very, very beautiful.
It’s not that easy being clean
having to spend the day tidying up all my things
when i think it could be nicer
drinking coffee or reading or thrifting
or something much less responsible like that
but clean is what i had to do
so i would be able to sleep in my room
and not have to step over laundry on the way
to the window to take a picture
of the things that you see…
so i cleaned, and now its over, and
you still can’t really tell i did it, but i guess
it’ll have to do until i can’t
take it anymore.
Everyone starts with the same things:
One Papa, One Mama
Someplace to rest.
Not everyone arrives
with two hearts
beating not as One but
Always Together.
I love you Pammy! Happy Birthday!
“I lift my lamp
Beside the Golden Door.”
Emma Lazarus
The Thai Pavillion at Olbrich Gardens isn’t subtle. In the Grey of Spring Delayed, its roofline swoops towards the uncooperative sky in golden flashes between skeletal trees, as if the sun has descended into the clearing just beyond the Wetland Garden. Despite its whimsy (how incongruous are gold leafed shingles alongside the unassuming, stoic ranch homes of the Upper Midwest?), the unwalled pavilion invites ponderous, attentive steps. Even toddlers sense you are supposed to BEHAVE around this gem.
To get to the Thai Pavillion, you will cross the muddy wreck of Starkweather Creek. You will quickly discover that the planks of the bridge reverberate with every step. Stomp, stomp, stomp is the best way across, sending out reassuring echos of your presence into the world, and incidentally through any traveller who shares the bridge with you.
Here is the view of Starkweather Creek’s outlet to Lake Monona, from the bridge to the Thai Pavillion. Sometimes the gateway is the mirror.
Snowy earth, you can’t hide the garden forever. I can make flowers and butterflies, too. All I need is a little light and an open heart and just the right magic words, and here you go….I declare it “SPRING!”
Beneath the print of the giant green pear on the cafe wall, conversation bubbles. Plates chime against each other, the chef’s knife knock-knock-knocks away the part from the whole, and every so often chairs whine against the floor as they change partners. Fiestaware plates make brightly colored polka dots on the tables. Children too busy to eat prowl the crowded room in a game no one made up, and everyone enjoys. It’s sunny, and almost spring. It will always be almost spring when we are together for the last time.
Today, I came here with me, hoping for a chance to be seen by you. It takes me a while to realize I have no idea what to say about where I have been, to acknowledge that what happens now will be the same-old-nothing-new of beauty and insecurity that it has ever been.
The 29 butterflies always lead me somewhere that is just beyond reach. I watch the pink one for a while, as it floats along, then I follow the blue one, notice the orange one next. Pretty soon (but I really can say how long), I find myself at the end of the beginning. I have butterfly-ed the best I could.
The rest is up to you.
ps here is a slide show of the still photographs:
what is beautiful remains 