Friday, October 28

the winter and the wolf,



Sitting underneath the waxing moon, bewildered by the day.
Winter clouds pluck leaves from the pine, the harvest has gathered all of it's honey. Whispering winds blanket the wood while I make shelter by fireplaces. It's not so bad.  
The landscapes will soon be filled with ivory steps.

When Winter kisses the hills, bare skin will nuzzle beneath wool, and afternoon candles will be lit.
I was born a spring girl on December 13.  From my head, to my belly, I belong to the petals, and nectar of sun beams.  Although, summer is my time of prize, and enchantment, the winter still sketches it's own beauty.

I like the bareness of winter.  I like the kindle of thoughtfulness, and imagination. In the winter, we are forced to dream of bluebirds, because we cannot see them.  If the seasons were a human body, the summer would be our outsides. A picturesque fairness of light, and simplicity. It is not summer nor flesh that require heart plucking.   The summer feels like a dream, as if I float through bubbly air. The sun kissed foot prints, the light of the morning, the dizziness of it all.  
 


If the seasons were a human body, the winter would be our insides. A story of trails, labor, and suffering. On a winter morning, the frosty window, and the nipping of snow set fire to our senses.

Instead of crawling into cotton clouds, and dreaming of ocean sands, I play with the wintry air.  If you want to marry the wind, or the winter,  you MUST bundle yourself in wool coats.  It is the only way.
The frost cannot be received gladly unless you are warm.  This is why I wear my gray faux fur.  I call her wolf, because she reminds me of the traveling dog. Within her, summer warmth suffocates cold skin.

Today, I watched a coyote howl, and ramble into the ravine. The handsome creature had fur as thick as moonlight. His color was similar to the gray coat. I wanted to follow him, become him, be brightened by his journey, then return home as a girl. (Only in folktales..)



Tonight, I will admire our hanging records. The Band, John Prine, The Tallest Man On Earth, Leonard Cohen, Bruce Springsteen.  They've all found homes in our music room.  Tomorrow, I will pluck my banjo, eat spoonfuls of oatmeal, and dress warmly.

Kisses!



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                                                                     what i wore*
wolf faux fur- Thrift Goodwill $12
wedges- ALDO $44
black pants- American Apparel $40

Wednesday, October 26

October music playlist,


Artist* Album* Song*
{Jack Marks} Lost Wages {Borrow It Gladly Away}
{Jack Marks} Lost Wages {Hard Times}
{Jack Marks} Two of Everything {The Dress Song}
{The Deep Dark Woods} The Place I Left Behind {The Banks Of The Leopold Canal}
{The Deep Dark Woods} The Place I Left Behind {Sugar Mama}
{Leonard Cohen}  Songs of Leonard Cohen {The Stranger Song}
{Leonard Cohen} Songs Of Leonard Cohen {Winter Lady}
{Adam Cohen} Like A Man {Girls These Days}
{Adam Cohen} Like A Man {Like A Man}
{Blaze Foley} Oval Room {For Anything Les}
{Blaze Foley} Oval Room {Cold, Cold, World}
{The Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band} The Whole Fam Damnily {Worn Out Shoe}
{Morgan O'Kane} Pendulum {Turkish Canal}
{Morgan O'Kane} Pendulum {Deep Mine}
{Daniel, Fred & Julie} Daniel, Fred & Julie {The Gambler and His Bride}
{Frontier Ruckus} The Orion Songbook {Dark Autumn Hour}
{Frontier Ruckus} The Orion Songbook  {The Back-Lot World}






Music soothes me, causes me to wonder, brings me to the forest.
I'm going to record with my guitar-bent companion,
sending melodies your way soon........
Music hushes the fever.


All of the songs are available on itunes.
Monday, October 24

leaf and pumpkin,

Winter is coming on, the country road is covered in Autumn leaves. Soon the mountain goats, and forest deer will be licking salt from the roads. The singing of tree leaves fill the Autumn space between earth and sky with music.

Yesterday, I daydreamed of climbing the oak tree. If only I wore fine feathers, or courageous armor, I could blanket my arms on the bark.  Whenever the world felt small, or my head felt sunken,  I could watch the fields of dancing blades.   Near my house, there is a hill.  Weeds, and cat tails fondle the moss. At the top, there is a wooden bench.  The horizon is covered with trees, and roads, and rooftops.  If you look to the left, you'll see the downtown skyscrapers. I walk here sometimes. It's the closest I'll ever get to tree-climbing.
While taking these photographs, on top of the crisp leaf, a spotted ladybug came to visit.   With one month of moons away from Winter, it was a pleasant surprise.   I've always felt so close to the black-freckled beetle. It's her way of attaching to the green leaves, sitting pretty below the sun, and showing up just when you need her.

When I was a girl, I took ladybugs for pets. In jars made of holes, rock, and grass, I placed the garden ladybugs next to my bed. I studied them.   Hours later, I would feel impeachable. As if I had sinned for jar locking the free bug.          I would catch them, make the ladybug a hotel, compose my research, then release them onto flower petals.  

Today, I spent happiness and breath with a friend over coffee, sipped almond milk, stretched toes, and listened to the Deep Dark Woods.  I'm making a play list for the blog soon.  What are you listening to right now?

besides gold and silver, give love.
Sending you hugs.
Thank you for reading, commenting, following.  You mean mountains to me XOXO



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                                                                     what i wore*
black skirt- calgary vintage boutique $14
wedges- the gap thrifted $10(worth more than $160!)
black + orange blouse- winners $20
black floppy hat- jessica simpson $20
Wednesday, October 19

for the piglets kittens fawns and calfs,


Hello clouds, books, stars, flower painted stockings, howls of the wild dog. Hello October.
When I wake in the morning to the coffee pot, and the sugar,  I also stretch to cravings, and sighs. 
I have been dreaming lately. More than the common dream. Ordinarily, my pipe dreams taste like love, daffodil petals, mayflower trees, and ocean salt.


Suddenly, there are dreams of waywardness, spine tickles, paint splashing white wood, dirt on knuckles, and simplicity.  No dreams of noble men, rivers, wedlock, or martians.   I've been dreaming of days as an infant, a seedling, a bud, a girl.

(It's not easy to write with hiccups..)

  Before I knew the calendar's steam, or the sound of the moon. Before I knew whiskey drips, or heart shaped quarrels. Before I knew touching one's lips to another, before morality, or sin.  Before burials, gray rains, shiver spells, or poetry. Before I felt the forest, and it's animals. Before landlocked, and belly ached, and bundle of nerves. Before charms, and guitar-bent fervor. Before the bearded, and the blue eyed. 

Before wrinkles, and uneven coverings,  before double digits. 


  When I was a child, I belonged to the mountain's bottom. The peak above me, like a clouded rose, sightly, and shaped for adventure.  With mismatched socks, and muddy overalls, I devoted myself to the climb.
For seedlings, buds, and girls, the gold is not found in the arrival of the peak, but the departure towards the mountain.   Every waking dream, head trip, and fond hope in October is sung by baby breath.  I miss my girlhood, the springtime of life. When happiness was hands for a paintbrush,  and wool-made bears were companions. Blankets for songs, and pillows for poetry.

This outfit is an ode to all that is young. young at heart, young at bones, young at song.


  "So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness."
by Herman Hesse



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                                                                     what i wore*
skirt-  zara $15
wedges- atseoul.com $45
white sweater- thrift store value village $7
floral tights- H&M $10
Sunday, October 16

yodel and blush,


Early morning rising, the Autumn leaf coddles the mountainside.
The wild yonder is caught by the fox trotting sun.   I am gladdened by the universe.  to be a child here, a companion to the stars, booklets, and trees.  Lumber catches fire below the brick frame.
The birds are wild, we are yodeling. 

I am dressing warm. drips of caramel coffee cause me to gleam.  Cinnamon buns are bubbling in the oven, but I've got an ache. This is life.  The tongue works separate from the belly.    For now, I am made alive by the bouquet of bakery scents.

 candles, flowers, spices, spritz of perfume.   Nothing can be bottled, as bewitching, or as inviting,    as the scents of the working oven.  Sometimes, I build castles in the air, mulling over heart-made meals, wishing I could share spoonfuls with the world. If I could send the scents of cinnamon, to all earth's babies, mothers, wombs, patches of pavement, horses, cowboys,  I would.    


smoke from the chimney mates with the fog. little baby clouds are born.  The moon will arrive, and palms will be cuddled by cotton sheets. The fire wood brings death to the frosty air. Wool leg warmers keep me fed.

"She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs."
by J.D. Salinger

Kisses,

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what i wore*

hat- h&m $15
legwarmers-  h&m $9
wedges- aldo $50
blue jacket- thrift store value village $5
pink shorts- forever 21 $12
Saturday, October 15

it was morning,

The shade from the oak tree bent our faces, limbs became shadows.   I was a sprout, a seed to a dandle, when I first began dreaming.  When winter hunted the kingdom,  I was a writer.
longing. pitted. dimpled. alone.

As a blushing crawl, I learned to pout, and smack my lips on rotten wood.  
Clocks spit numbers, leaves circled, milk soured. 
Baby breath turned into dust between knuckles. 


When the saffron sun enveloped summer, I knew what I needed.  Dust to be swept by the interlock of hands.
of fingers. of sweat. my companion.

I spent seedlings, cotton, firewood, and milky pen shapes. I spent numbers.      Wandering past damsels, and pony eyed suitors.    Some plucked mare's hair, some dined in boxes, some didn't dine at all.  I tickled pebbles.



Eyes called to undress me, the world was a buttoned window. 
always picking pebbles, as if you'd be hiding underneath the mud.  
All my wits, the sonnets, the hums, the vowel chimes, the broken heartedness.
empty, exist, shiver, 
it was for you.


We could marry beneath the June Tree. pressing white feathers to our tresses.
love songs brush the hollowness. never knowing nothingness. 
a womb was my knuckles. now they are kissed by the bone in your finger.
we could axe the redwood down, and use it for our cradle.
 
Apart, the moon is a cage.
 Together, we curtsy the wild river.










Writing by Amy Nelson.
Photographs for Blog post tomorrow..*