A new thing

I played floor hockey today! And my face turned red, and I felt like a cup-- like one of those collapsable camping ones. But I pushed and ran and, well, we lost, but it was so much fun! I want to be one of those old people who just goes out and shakes up the world, or maybe just themselves, with their verve. Because, yes, one game of floor hockey has inspired so much of my future plans for life.

word.

First snow

This morning, the snow came down in clumps. At breakfast, I happened to look down to the Peirce patio and I noticed that there are now tables and chairs: perfect timing. But then there was the snow in clumps. That only lasted a little while, and as the day warmed up, it turned to harsh wind and rain, which is very unpleasant, as I'm sure anyone will attest. So, I'm stuck in my room, needing to do dance homework which will help me to be one with my body. But good news: although all of these windows are so drafty, I finally remembered to turn my heat on. Now, it may seem sort of silly that I left it off for so long, but the heat box is in a particular place. And that place is hidden. Because I've hung a canvas on top of it. Oops. It's a drawing of a camera by a friend of mine. He has a whole series of electronic objects that speak to us on small canvasses.

Here's a saying I learned today: House guests are like fish-- they stink after three days. A Californian friend of mine made a particular print that claimed: "Ideas are like fish." And while I think she meant that they are slippery and illusive, I can't help but tangle her words with the aforementioned saying. (Mostly I just wanted to say aforementioned. Because I like the bends of that word.)

Hills in two places

Today, I returned from a visit to Virginia, and already there is a fly buzzing in my room. The sun shines directly through my window and crests my computer at this time of day. I am thankful for these drab blinds but not for the fly. The drive down merited a vanilla latte but on the way back, I chose hazelnut. I prefer the first. The hills here are like the ones I hiked and the ones in West Virginia: covered in changing trees. The leaves are so pretty this time of year, and I can hardly imagine spending last year with only one fall day. England is missing out.

I came to Virginia with small bug bites on my ankles and frustration with my Islam class. I left with three big bumps that wake me each night with their itchiness: one on each leg and one on my neck. The neck one has formed itself into the more generally accepted mound of a bite, but it first spanned its space flat and long, like Tennessee.

Now, I've come back to two long hard books to read for this week and a project for printmaking. But that's alright: this has been a restful break. And I learned more about myself and interactions with the world than I would've in class. I read some Rilke. Here's some that moved me:

But your solitude will be a hold and home for you even amid very unfamiliar conditions and from there you will find all your ways.

I hope you are finding solitude in your unfamiliar place, becoming familiar.

Dusk writing

My room is filled with fruit. Mom came down today and brought a basket full of peaches. Said they were from our front yard tree. Smelled real good when I took them from her cradled arms, but now all I can smell is feet. Because the rain soaked my shoes and reminded them of when they would sweat. Lots of smells surface with the rain. Got pears too and an apple. Nesting in my collapsable metal basket, they keep their smell to themselves. If I had bananas and if these bananas were overripe, they'd be sure to mask this feet smell, but I have no such thing. And it's wet outside but not raining, so I'm having trouble deciding about riding my bike, though the seat is saturated.

A man approached a group as we left the dining hall. Said he went here fifty years ago. It's some sort of alumni weekend, and they're all here in their colorful suits and white, balding heads and tripping over the puddles in their pointed shoes. Each has that giddy smile, that too happy with himself look that cannot fathom rain. Because they are going in to their old dining hall to eat, because of the newness of it all. He stops the group and asks if we still sing the school song in there on Sundays. A few words dribble from their mouths, almost a song, almost the right words. No one sings over meals. But I like to think that we did. I like to think that the we of it all extends from me back to this man who is likely retired and likely lives near a dock, lined with old tin cans bobbing in the water, catching what they can catch. A man who welcomes rust. When you're that old, you tend to appreciation the discoloration of falling apart.

Tree Frogs

One time, I told a woman that tree frogs sang to me in the evenings. The words sprang without though but with a full sense of knowing. They were each other's companions before they were mine. And when I tried to include myself in their thinking, I was undone. I proclaimed disbelief and hardened my lips.

Since then, I have found many brown frogs grass-squatting and small, only the length of my thumb. With their legs sprawling, which rarely occurs. Unless they are jumping and one measures that split in time when their legs are not pocketed in their bodies.

As these frogs are my witnesses and as there is no lack of trees in my vicinity, I can only conclude that my words knew themselves far better than I did. And indeed there are tree frogs calling to each other. And indeed the crickets join. But these are two distinct, unblendable hoverings that sound outside of my glowing bay window.

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In more recent news:
I walked that path that curves today, disclosing it to another of the few of those meant for knowing. I still have kept it from that boy I sometimes call a man, the one I cannot help but spool my arms around each time his long arms reach up in stretching. I drank tea and tea and coffee, and I read a poem I wrote aloud at a particular literary society. And someone said they would want to live in my poem, in the way that sometimes cartoons seem more real, more livable, than real life. And I smiled out small parceled thank yous. Small, because I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, I realized as I passed them. I thought about inking glass to press prints, but I declined action. I marked books with check marks and forgot the equation for a circle.

A full day.

Fallen Faces

There's a picture of you and me and one other, and the implication of another from some time when birds nested. But it's winter there and all color is ignored. It is difficult to say if the eggs of the nest were from robins without a blue. It is difficult to say if there ever were any nested eggs, since it is empty.

The wind blew this picture from its point of leaning on my ledge, which is not quite large enough for comfortable sitting. The wind blew the cardboard backing and our faces fell forward because this picture, this matting, is not in its frame. Because the frame and its glass were not securely protected on its overseas flight. Nor were they secure from Chicago to Cleveland. And the glass crumbled. There are probably still shards in my luggage. Because unpacking seemed more important than forgetting the presence of glass. And then I never reframed the piece. So it leans lightly and is moved by slight wind.