Amy Nelson

wood and wonder,

I am fragile like chopped wood. I am curious like a hoodwinked gypsy. I am love like a sip at the saloon. I am powder like a heart reduced to dust. I am concrete like the home you were born into. I am all things spilling, benumbing, blooming, and withering. Sometimes, it's hard to live in an opposite world. One day, there's cherry crested trees, and our Mother mountain's prayer. Next thing you know, the sky turns while I sleep, creeks grow crippled, and Merry-making disappears.
I am a pyramid of emotions. There are endless days of weeping warm tears, and days where the water runs cold. When I find symmetry in my head, like the symmetry of leaves, and their bark, I will be free.

"I was raised by the song of the murmuring grove"

Dreams of mares in meadows, and bowls of rice milk for supper.
I want to wallow into a red barn, and hold hay fed horses. Lately, I've been thought planning my kingdom. A place where I feel like the queen, but I dare not act like one. A home where I can feed animals, and be the bride of the orchard. The orchard that bears large, sweet, purple berries. A place where honey drips from cloud shapes. Where family is drunken from shrubbery, and puddles. Where playwrights, poets, scientists, scholars, and drifters do a bunch of hand holding.

What does your kingdom look like?

I pass the days with

smiling sandwiches.
my best friend.
berries and oats.
one young furry button named Ari.
branches of the city.
wandering, and wood.

dream, dream, dream. . . .
I wish I could post more often, but!! school, sleep, snacking, and reading take days away from me.Hopefully soon, I'll return to your eyes.

Love and rest x

what i wore

Floral Shorts- Value Village $5
Faux fur vest- blue notes $15
fur boots- atseoul.com -sponsor

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to the pond with the swans and the swimming,

Good morning sweet friends (^.^)
I'm sitting in the shade, below the May Tree.

The crickets sing me to sleep, and the fields of song birds replace bedside clocks. The weather is as warm as freedom, and the grass is as soft as the new born's belly. I want to pick clover for my black dog, and stretch the good day's dimples.
I want to fold pieces of summer into a fish bowl... or a jar made for jelly. I want to place it upon my bottom shelf, and use it for fodder everytime I catch those blues. In the season of nectar, I want to undress and run my dark wine through the meadow. More than anything, I want to understand the language of birds.

The other day, a quite peculiar event occurred. I was bathing in hot soapy water, combing through knots, when I heard echoes of wind, and the sound of cups falling. I raced from the water, to make sense of my ears, that's when I found him.
One scavenger bird, a lost Magpie who found his flight inside of my home. He took wing down the hallway as I burrowed myself into blankets. Trembling in my nakedness, a coward in a cotton robe, I was alone and afraid. At first, I placed blame on my fingers for leaving windows open, but how could I have known? It's not every season that birds enter my dwelling. As I raked through thoughts of surrender, I found myself listening to his song. He was cooing, and crying softly for home. After pacing through heart beats, and how to's, I called the bearded one. He walked into my shack, took good care of the bird, and all was gentle again.

This post is decorated for you Magpie. For you. I watched you leave through the window, and into the wild. I hope your singing below berry-crowned bushes while sunshine licks your beak. If only we spoke the same language, you could have taught me how to sing.

Birds, and banjos, and dreams of tree trunks for sleeping.
Today is Saturday, I will hum to the blushing honeysuckles, bend strings for music making, and visit the daylight's kindle. The weather has been so pleasant, my dog's been stealing kisses, and I want the world to stay this way forever. When the moon hits the forest, I will be eating sushi with the bearded one.

Banjos, dogs chasing tails, melodious birds, sushi for dinner, I know heavens.

Kiss your mother,
Hugs and happy happy. x

what i wore

Floral Dress- Urban Outfitters $15
White Blouse- The Bay $20
Floral Crown- Flea Market
White Wedges- Aldo

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the bearded and the bell,

Good morning, I hope wherever you are, there are strings of happiness pulling clouds away. High as birds, humble as petals. The other day, ribs carried belly folds, and we found ourselves in the woods. Beside the wild Oak, there exists doughy white petals. Below the soft sod, land slugs wiggle and pebbles sleep.
If I could pull the lumber, and build myself a home here, I would.

monkeyshines, and banjo grooming. This is where I belong. When I was a child, small boned, and fragile like a soap bubble, I dreamed of this place. A home where the curtains of eye lids are naked, where the pinholes see boots, grass, milkweed, fingers, and wild flowers. A place where hair flows over ear pockets, and the only sounds are those of laughter, unbroken creek beds, and folk tunes. Until now, it was only a pipe dream...
...On our way to the shrubbery, a wild rabbit bumbled past us...

Carter, the one with the cap and the gentle hands, sometimes fetching a beard when he's not baking. He's the one who pressed my fingers upon silver strings. He's the one who displays the Banjo on my lap. If it weren't for Carter, I'd never carry an instrument. The only sound would be a singing voice. My song would only be a drifting echo. With Carter's hands, and heart, I am very awake.
In the forests of enchantment, we surrender our stale worries. The tree tops, and the long grass forgive our tender bellies. If it weren't for the woodland, I'd never know a true companion.

If your sitting in your chair, dreaming of composing, or singing, or hearing heart strings wallow against wood. Pick up the closest instrument, or find one. There is nothing, so softening, so ethereal, so delicate, as the way one feels when plucking a string, pressing a key, blowing a horn, socking a drum, or dressing as the canary. I've spent every bit of my life, building castles out of clay, and woolgathering dreams of Music making. Now, I spend my days building dreams of taverns, folk clubs, fields, festivals, and strawberry jam sessions.

The sphere of shrubbery sits with me. After a day of melody, and tree chambers, I feel alive for days. If only the sun always set high in the forest, if only everyday was this softhearted, I'd never fear the Moon running away.
Tonight, I've been craving warm soap, and the imaginary sea beneath a bubble bath.

Tomorrow, I'll drink apple juice, shine the room, play banjo, eat cream of wheat with maple, and maybe wander back into that crooked woodland...
I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.
George Eliot.*

Music has charms to soothe the savage breast
To soften rocks, or to bend a knotted oak.
William Congreve.*