tears

crying is so draining yet relieving 

but oh so tiring

so very very tiring 

and a new feel for my eyes 

i just want to close them 

my eyes 

flighty

today a young man described me as "flighty".

he then proceeded to compare me to a leaf and a feather. 

"whimsical," he said.

funny. that was the second time i had run into him at that coffee shop and both times i was preparing to head out the door. 

but for someone i've only briefly met twice, he knows me quite well.

a close friend of mine gave me a charm bracelet with a golden feather. the packaging said the feather represents justice and freedom.

freedom. 

i've been thinking lately. about family, about community, about myself as an independent being. another friend of mine asked me if i've been lonely. yes, of course, i've been feeling lonely. but i'm getting to know me more and more. and i feel free. free in the sense that i can choose to stay in a place or go as i please.

i want to be a wandering cloud. delicate, or? 

art lately

learning to move past the mere state of dreaming and participating in the very act of creating, living, breathing

here are some personal sketches as well as chalk doodads i did for mean cup coffee.

random sketch i did while hanging out at the shop couple weeks ago

original sketch i'd been wanting to chalk

octopus i did a couple weeks ago

just another woman sketch

le materials

and little crazy ol' me

These Poems, She Said

BY ROBERT BRINGHURST

These poems, these poems,

these poems, she said, are poems

with no love in them. These are the poems of a man   

who would leave his wife and child because   

they made noise in his study. These are the poems   

of a man who would murder his mother to claim   

the inheritance. These are the poems of a man   

like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not   

comprehend but which nevertheless

offended me. These are the poems of a man

who would rather sleep with himself than with women,   

she said. These are the poems of a man

with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s   

hands, woven of water and logic

and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These   

poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant   

as elm leaves, which if they love love only   

the wide blue sky and the air and the idea

of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,   

and not a beginning. Love means love

of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.   

These poems, she said....

                                       You are, he said,

beautiful.

                That is not love, she said rightly.

Robert Bringhurst, “These Poems, She Said” from The Beauty of the Weapons: Selected Poems 1972-1982.
Copyright © 1982 by Robert Bringhurst. 

we soaked up 

in three four time 

one two three

one two three 

fingers

even your 

own ten fingers

are unequal

Jiangxi Province, Nanchang, Anyi Village (2012)

i need to go back to asia. oh, i miss it so.

rambling

i am sure of this curse of
perfectly imperfect timing
impeccable
-----------------------------
it hurt to know
you hurt
that i was floating away
while you made your world
small
me
drifting, drifting, drifting
you
shrinking, shrinking, shrinking
------------------------------
alas, alone
exiled from that world
stranger things, stranger land
a wandering passing stranger

snow blows

Snow Day, 2/3/14