The snow stopped in the evening and this morning all that remained were small icy white patches in the hollow places.
The sky feels luminous, white and icy blue. I walked to the river and in between the trees there is ice on the bright red fallen leaves that look like blood under glass.
Here comes winter, and she didn’t creep along like she did last year, she didn’t tease us with promises of wool and plumed puffs of breath. She opened the valves full throttle and made no pretenses or niceties.
I can feel the cold air bounce off my skin.
It’s 35 degrees and raining.
Tonight we’re headed out to Sam Bond’s Garage to see the Grasshopper play and to hear the lovely JJ sing her soulful songs. She has a voice that reminds me of honey, of the ocean, of a flock of birds. The band hasn’t been playing for a month and I have missed hearing their brand of Buddhist country-swing. Tebone says they’ve been in the studio working hard, and I am looking forward to getting my grubby little hands on their new cd.
On this coming Saturday I am substitute-teaching for R’s beginning Middle Eastern dance class, and I’ve been thinking all day about the two hours I’ll need to fill. She mentioned I might teach a choreography, since I know a few and they’re not her cup of tea. I covered her class for her before, and enjoyed it, but I always have worries about teaching. The class is fun, and it is supposed to be fun, and it’s my job to make it fun. It’s going to be cold and rainy and dark outside and twenty women will be looking at me backwards in a mirror, imitating my every move. Last time I came dangerously close to bursting into hysterical laughter at the whole “Simon-says” element. Put your hands on your head, put your hands on your mouth, pat your tummy and walk backwards…
No, I won’t. I’ll behave.
Aloha.
Clay blefines blogs.
Sex Hamlets.
And hello to those brown-eyed handsome men in California.
The sky feels luminous, white and icy blue. I walked to the river and in between the trees there is ice on the bright red fallen leaves that look like blood under glass.
Here comes winter, and she didn’t creep along like she did last year, she didn’t tease us with promises of wool and plumed puffs of breath. She opened the valves full throttle and made no pretenses or niceties.
I can feel the cold air bounce off my skin.
It’s 35 degrees and raining.
Tonight we’re headed out to Sam Bond’s Garage to see the Grasshopper play and to hear the lovely JJ sing her soulful songs. She has a voice that reminds me of honey, of the ocean, of a flock of birds. The band hasn’t been playing for a month and I have missed hearing their brand of Buddhist country-swing. Tebone says they’ve been in the studio working hard, and I am looking forward to getting my grubby little hands on their new cd.
On this coming Saturday I am substitute-teaching for R’s beginning Middle Eastern dance class, and I’ve been thinking all day about the two hours I’ll need to fill. She mentioned I might teach a choreography, since I know a few and they’re not her cup of tea. I covered her class for her before, and enjoyed it, but I always have worries about teaching. The class is fun, and it is supposed to be fun, and it’s my job to make it fun. It’s going to be cold and rainy and dark outside and twenty women will be looking at me backwards in a mirror, imitating my every move. Last time I came dangerously close to bursting into hysterical laughter at the whole “Simon-says” element. Put your hands on your head, put your hands on your mouth, pat your tummy and walk backwards…
No, I won’t. I’ll behave.
Aloha.
Clay blefines blogs.
Sex Hamlets.
And hello to those brown-eyed handsome men in California.
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