Ivory Buttons, or “Not With Haste”

She returned because she had too many words in her mind, all strung out like cracked ivory buttons on a shoestring. Nothing matched, nothing flowed.

There was a shiver that still ghosted over her skin, pulling lightly, that could have been from from the wind that had pushed gentle fingers through the curls of hair at the base of her neck and teased the fur lining her coat hood, but she suspected it was from something else.

Perhaps it was from when she’d knelt in the mud and new grass at the foot of the cairn, salmon-tipped fingers clasped earnestly, head bowed, ears attuned to every sound. The wind, rushing; the waves below, murmuring. Crashing just a little.

She had felt something then, that slid past her shoulders and loose hands and settled, pooled around her knees in the earth. There were so many sounds, yet the world somehow stilled. Peace, she wondered. Maybe that’s what it feels like. And she said thank you, thank you, again and again.

Then again, perhaps it was from when she had stood at the edge, looking down, and tears started in her eyes for a reason she could not find as she looked to the sky. The tumbling clouds, awash with a divine glow. And she looked to the water, where the deep, teal waves pushed ever to shore, breaking gently, surely. A golden film had settled on the layers of mountains that slept across the water, and as she had turned to go, the rush of wings overhead had grounded her to the spot.

Perhaps, then, it was from the flock of swallows that had wheeled over her head, swooping and diving and spinning; flinging themselves unabashedly to the darkening sky, only to tuck their wings and fall, plummeting to the greening earth below, some innate sense assuring them that they will be caught in the gentle hands of the wind and tossed aloft once again.

Her wondering eyes had tracked their movement, the reeling motion underfoot and in the sky making her head spin, and she thought- perhaps that was all there was to it.

Teal Tangerines

‘Cause that’s how I roll. Latest art project; done in far less time than I would have liked, but I’ll have to admit I impressed myself with this one. The last picture is close to done, but I will probably work on it a little more when I get it back after it’s been graded.

(I am thinking that posting my artwork and stuff here will be a better idea than on Facebook, because you just can’t trust Facebook these days.)

Maybe

Sunday, February 17th, 2013.

“I don’t know where I am. The setting just… doesn’t matter, maybe. I don’t know. I know there are people there, probably people I am close to, but I don’t even know who. I think we are outside, and I think the sun beats down, but I’m not even aware of it. I’m not even aware of myself. All I know is that he is here. Standing in front of me, and it’s all so strangely vague that I don’t even notice his face… Just… him. And all I do is hold him. Wrap my arms around him and hold on as tight as I can. He is wearing a simple, white t-shirt, that’s been stained and dirtied, because he’s been working. Good, clean, hard work outside. I can feel the soft fabric of the shirt under my fingers, and I can feel the solidness of his chest. I feel his arms wrapped around me, smell his clean, real, scent. I think I tell him that I would like to just hug him forever, and he laughs. I know he says something back, because I can feel it rumble in his chest, that special feeling when a man talks. But I don’t even know what he says. Maybe that’s okay.”

Maybe. I don’t know. There are a lot of things I don’t know right now. Some answers would be okay, I guess, but maybe they’re answers that I really don’t want to hear. Maybe.

Below My Feet

I think up close
In textures and patterns
Translates down through veins
To hands
Reaching finger thoughts
To push lens closer

When I look at an object, I think about the curve of its surface. I think about IT in focus, WORLD in blur.

If I concentrate, I can feel my veins, all the way down to my fingers, and I realize I’m here. No getting around that.
It’s strange to feel yourself through your fingers. Distant; and your head forgets where it belongs, just for a minute. And your fingers are alive, all on their own, but they don’t know what to do with their new found freedom, so they let it escape back to your mind, where it goes back to the endless mad tumbling. Blown about the pavement of your brain like forgotten newsstand papers. My brain thinks too much, dry leaves tossed and harried by notions and wondering.

Text: July 30th, 2012

Photo: October 2nd, 2012

Many Curious Things

Sometimes I just say “WHATEVER”, and wear my jeans to bed. If they’re a little bit loose, they’re totally comfortable. Or maybe that’s just me… At any rate, I’ve been viewed skeptically for it before (not gonna say any names *COUGHJAMIECOUGH*), which I just can’t wrap my brain around because really I just kind of want to be able to DO WHAT I WANT THOR (sorry, Internet meme. I don’t expect anyone to get it) and in the long run of things does it really matter if I wear my jeans to bed? Heck, would it even matter if I wore my bra to bed? (Holy crap, just actually said “bra” in a public blog post. Oh the horror) Because sometimes flannel pants and going braless are totally overrated, man. I mean, what about when you suddenly have to get up in the dead of night, when the moon is glowing hazy through the darkening clouds, and be hastened off through the silver dark, wrapping your coarse woolen cloak around you for warmth and safety? Wouldn’t you like to be able to just lace on your sturdy leather boots, grab your knapsack, and head off into the wild adventures? (I bet you’ll start wearing a bra to bed, NOW, ha ha) Because that’s what I would like. I’ll write more on adventuring later, I promise.

*****

In the meantime, people are the craziest things ever. Did you know that some people are seriously crazy enough to marry their pets?! Yeah. I’ve heard of people loving their dog or their cat so much that they got married to it. I have no words for this. None. BUT WAIT. THERE’S MORE. Yeah, it gets even better(?). I read this article online one time, that was about this guy in China, who MARRIED HIS PILLOW. HIS PILLOW, PEOPLE. I KID YOU NOT. I’m talking, like put a wedding dress on it, and drew a face on complete with lipstick. Sometimes I don’t want to live on this planet anymore.

*****

Furthermore, let me tell you about the people I have fallen in love with. I’ll start with Tucker. In 2009, myself and my partner in crime (the Short Ginger) traveled down to Southern Idaho to attend the very 1st “Writers @ Harriman”. It is a small scale camp located in the beautiful Harriman State Park, and it is dedicated to helping High School students that show writing promise to improve, broaden their minds, and learn more about the writing they love to do. It was truly a gratifying and eye opening experience, and I’m very glad we went. Anyhow, halfway through the week, they took the whole camp (less than 30 total) on a trail ride. We were all Jr. age and up, so they led us (or rather, the horses) up one of their steepest, longest trails, that took us right up to the top of the Caldera Rim, which mostly encircles the park. It was definitely the highlight of the week. Also there were four cowboys leading the trail ride. Now, THAT’S where things get interesting… Even if pressed, I would never be able to remember the names of three of those young, dashing cowboys. But the fourth one was named Tucker. He had a pleasant, cleanshaven face that had been tanned almost golden, the bluest blue eyes you ever saw, and lips so full you couldn’t help but stare. I was the last person to be paired with a horse, and when he was the one to lead that horse over, I probably nearly had a minor heart attack. He offered me help in mounting the horse if I needed it, but my sixteen year old self was, lamentably, a showoff, and so OF COURSE I could get on a horse by myself… It only occurred to me later that it would have been in my best interest to pretend like I did need help…

The next man I fell in love with was very different, and in a way I’m still very much in love. He was a man with sandy hair, scars on his face, and he played with fire. He was the most lost soul, and for so long never found what he longed for. He did, eventually, but I still love him. He wasn’t particularly a good man, but he definitely wasn’t a bad man. He was a weasel, for sure, and he weaseled his way into my heart and made me weep more than once. Even now, when I think back to him, my heart aches for him. But I won’t tell you his name. I don’t feel like it.

And then I fell in love with Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston and it all went downhill from there. Because of reasons.

Finally, I fell in love with someone else, and I’m not going to tell you anything about THAT. So there.

*****

Also, the following pictures are definitely an accurate representation of who I am.

Because My Sketchbook, The Avengers, Ugly Dolls, My Kitty, and Elf
Ears sum me up pretty good.

And I REALLY REALLY Love The Avengers… but why no Loki on the cover?? D:

And this ^ is how my blog posts are made.

*****

I should definitely be done with this post by now, or everyone will start to hate it. So, here, have a pictures of some glass bottles, and soon I’ll post about how God reminded me that wind is my favorite element.

Peace!

I Had A Sock In My Hair!

And the reason why, is because yesterday was such a very good day for a sock bun. Because when your hair is over two feet long and needs washed (again, for crying out loud), sometimes it’s just better to bundle it all up onto the very top of your head. And the sock bun is really such a clever little thing too, only here’s a little warning: it doesn’t exactly work like it ought to on hair so long as mine. I had to wrap the ends around about twice instead of tucking them. (Google “sock bun”, it’s actually pretty clever how they do them.)

But gosh, enough about socks and buns; there is a real reason why yesterday mattered! It was the 75th anniversary of The Hobbit today, which made the entire earth (the earth itself; not necessarily the people on it) nestle back further into its atmosphere armchair, and give a sigh so deep and happy, because “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” is the start to one of the most beautiful things ever created by man.

Can’t tell I’m a Tolkien fan, can you?

In my opinion, such great literature ought to be celebrated every day, or at least once a week. But I suppose once a year will have to do… Since some people do have a life or something. Ah well. Such is the way of the world.

At any rate, the first order of the day was breakfast (always a good way to start). But it had to be a small affair… because the second order of the day was, of course, SECOND breakfast!

So breakfast (on the porch with a lovely setup)- sausage, fried eggs, toast with peach jam, and coffee.

And then second breakfast (on part of the lawn by the lilacs, with a candle, the proper book for the day, limited company, and extra teacups for the people we most wished could have been there with us)- loose-leaf pear tea with honey, and banana chocolate chip muffins.

So you’d think that would be some lovely little festivities for the day… But THAT was only the BEGINNING. And I’m starting to think every weekend should be like this.

So Ma left, and took the little sisters with her, and then we implemented the “divide and conquer” strategy for the little brothers for several hours. You wouldn’t think those little things would affect the day so much… but we’re talking 1) sudden and drastic peace and quiet, 2) no more arguing amongst younger siblings, 3) little brothers suddenly having sweet, manageable, pleasant attitudes towards life. And that is invaluable. INVALUABLE I TELL YOU.

So pictures were drawn, housework was sort of accomplished, and then all of a sudden it was Lunch Time. Which, given how the rest of the day had been, automatically turned into Picnic Time. Because what else would you do with the rest of a Hobbit Day??

So we broke out the picnic basket, the paper plates and cups, the special little foods that we don’t usually have…

We piled into the basket the following: apples, yogurt, chips, homemade sour pickles, peanut butter and peach jam sandwiches, cheese and turkey sandwiches with sweet onion mustard, more banana muffins.

We fetched a gingham sheet for the grass, mix up some brown (because of sucanat- the natural sugar) lemonade in the vintage thermos, and headed out to the yard.

And then we braved many stickers, some chickens, a few curios cats, a very rude pug, quite a few spills and almost spills, and had ourselves a picnic. And then a walk. And then a movie. And then little boy(s) that were splendid all day decided it would be cool to act like babies because the movie had to be turned off “early”. Before it was done. OH THE HORROR.

So Happy Hobbit Day yesterday, and also Happy Birthday today to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins!

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

-The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien.

~~~~~~~~~

And also I carved this into an apple. Only most of you probably won’t get it. That’s okay. Not everyone can be a nerdly as I am.

-Al

Bluegrass & What I Really Want

I always think to myself how much I would like to make bluegrass music, and then I realize that what I actually want… is to be bluegrass music.

I want to be the strings thrumming into the warm summer stars. I want to be the golden grasses and the dust, home to grasshoppers and trapped melodies. I want to be the worn, finger-stroked wood of mandolin or guitar on Southern porch when the blossoms close against the night and fireflies dance.

The moonshine in a jar on the windowsill. The callouses on strong brown fingers that coax banjo twang. The thin spidery cracks in over-loved, leather, field-hand boots. The swirling dust devils down the back county roads, and the shatter cracks in Chevy passenger mirror. The golden honeybees on the sun-faded daisies around peeling-paint bee boxes.

I want to be summer in all its fullness, all sun and warm and dust; all its fiddle scraping and bucking hay bales. All the huckleberry high country and honeysuckle.

I want to be every dust mote in the sun gold, every acoustic note plucked swiftly, and every harmony. Every dull feather on every crow on every lonely power line.

More than all the world, I want to be bluegrass.

I want to be summer.

-fin-