Blackberry bramble battle, small woody pinpricks and the scent of crushed sweet leaves. They don't suspect me when I come quietly, working diligently, and they forget to snag my clothes or skin in retribution even once they've been cut. They fall stiff and stunned to the pile on the ground. I hum to them under my breath.
The weekend came sluggish as the keys on this keyboard, old and reminded me of the mud squelching and suctioning under my boots. The caps lock light doesn't work, and it doesn't bother me except in places where it should be all capitals. The lowercase sounds like a hushed muffled little voice, and I want to shout.
I forgot about the time change until we went to the store and realized Oh, it's noon.
It is currently indigestible.
Hi, it's me. Hush, hush. Please have patience, please don't twist the tired blade.
Those dreams keep me awake. All these posts that begin with last night and tomorrow and yesterday and next week, all of them don’t mean anything. As with all writing it feels necessary to set the events in temporal context. When I’m awake I’m not interested in writing. It pleases me to know there always will be questions.
I hum to myself under my breath, some forgotten melody or harmony maybe and that's why I can't recall. How does that song go? Years before I was where I didn't want to be and worked at a music store, people would say Hey do you know that song that goes da-da-daaa, da-da-daaa-da-da? And sometimes I knew it but now I don't.
My parents came to visit and it was bittersweet, I love them and love to see them. Our house is very, very small, and spring break after a more-than-full-load of grad student classes is far too short. And the idiosyncrasies I never would notice if there was more room or if it hadn't been raining became irritants. He chafed. Theirs was an infringement, an intrusion. I cried because I noticed all the ways in which they're getting old. Not older, but old.
The songbirds are arriving with triumphant declaration, an exaltation, impertinent in the grey and wet days. Bare branches of spent blossoms become alive with feathery songs.
There is disquiet in my heart, and my boots are stuck in the muck. But I'll still hum something under my breath. If you lean closely maybe you'll hear, and hum with me.
The weekend came sluggish as the keys on this keyboard, old and reminded me of the mud squelching and suctioning under my boots. The caps lock light doesn't work, and it doesn't bother me except in places where it should be all capitals. The lowercase sounds like a hushed muffled little voice, and I want to shout.
I forgot about the time change until we went to the store and realized Oh, it's noon.
It is currently indigestible.
Hi, it's me. Hush, hush. Please have patience, please don't twist the tired blade.
Those dreams keep me awake. All these posts that begin with last night and tomorrow and yesterday and next week, all of them don’t mean anything. As with all writing it feels necessary to set the events in temporal context. When I’m awake I’m not interested in writing. It pleases me to know there always will be questions.
I hum to myself under my breath, some forgotten melody or harmony maybe and that's why I can't recall. How does that song go? Years before I was where I didn't want to be and worked at a music store, people would say Hey do you know that song that goes da-da-daaa, da-da-daaa-da-da? And sometimes I knew it but now I don't.
My parents came to visit and it was bittersweet, I love them and love to see them. Our house is very, very small, and spring break after a more-than-full-load of grad student classes is far too short. And the idiosyncrasies I never would notice if there was more room or if it hadn't been raining became irritants. He chafed. Theirs was an infringement, an intrusion. I cried because I noticed all the ways in which they're getting old. Not older, but old.
The songbirds are arriving with triumphant declaration, an exaltation, impertinent in the grey and wet days. Bare branches of spent blossoms become alive with feathery songs.
There is disquiet in my heart, and my boots are stuck in the muck. But I'll still hum something under my breath. If you lean closely maybe you'll hear, and hum with me.
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