Resolutionary?

I have no specific resolutions for the new year as it's bound to be one full of upheave and tumult.

That sounds gross, doesn't it?

Upheaval. Upheaval and tumult.

But something I am doing is making a journal of "found poetry".

I got a sketchbook for Christmas which was good because my old one was nearly full, but not-so-good because I've become a snob for uniformity and paper quality and this gifted one was not quite up to snuff. BUT I'm making the best of it and copying (by hand) poetry from the web that I like into this sketchbook. With proper credits, of course.

It's more paper for me to haul everywhere, but I'm looking forward to having a physical place to save good poetry from people I mostly read on my computer screen. :)

*big exhale*

Somewhere in my brain there's an imp that thinks that as long as I post faithfully, every day sharing a poem, some drawings, and some interesting thoughts, that the internet loves me. (In spite of myself, I am interested in the fact that my self esteem is tied more to posting [quality] than to getting feedback thereon.)

That imp tells me that I am loved and respected less when I take off days from blogging, or fail to post art and words and poetry. My rational mind does not understand the imp.

I cried today. It was the first time I shed tears about Reagan's impending departure. My rational mind does not understand that, either. My rational mind does understand that it's past midnight on December 31, which means we're down to 13 days.

December 31, 2008 is also exactly 3 years from the first day I met Reagan for the first time, and the first day I became a real person to him.

Non-sequitur: I am going to banish the imp for a while, posting only what and when I feel like it. Blogging is in my blood, and writing is an integral part of who I am. Most certainly I will still be journaling over the next week-and-six-days, both here and at Boot & Beyond, but I am going to do my best to live in the moment and not pressure myself to be perfectly faithful to my posting ideals.

I'll just have to hope that you all still love me anyways. :)

L&L
Annie

ps: and if you can forgive that, can you forgive me falling behind in keeping up with my reading list, too? -.-

Today and I are friends.

There is some kind of whispered magic going on today. I can smell it, but I can't taste it, like the flavorings in those fruit-waters Glaceau used to make (my favorite, Lemon-Cucumber, is long discontinued).

Like an egg, today's secrets are hidden beneath a bland exterior that is both stronger and weaker than it looks. And, my, are those insides nourishing.

I glow with the diffuse celebrations of tiny victories (like making the bed) and brilliant moments of beauty (like watching Reagan take his shirt off and do pull-ups).



I was worried I didn't have any old poems to post today that would fit my tone and mood (without requiring a ton of work), but then I found this one. It reminds me of my room in San Marocs, and how carefree and joyful the days I spent there were.

Courtship

I left your heart in san diego
then God fell in the sink
I listen to the sunset
and it tells me what to think
remind me not to wash this coat
before it starts to rain
and tell my mom to make that soup
then pour it down the drain

you go rolling in wild pastures
caught up in a great laugh
shake the trees and scold the moon
sayin' they watch you in the bath
I'll chase you round her silly world
and deeply through the night
but even if I catch you up
I can never do you right

Hilarious, am I right?

Reagan and I use "Coyote" and "Jackal" as affectionate nicknames for each other. In some doodles, especially my mini-world compositions, I throw in these angular stick-coyotes and -jackals. When they're not colored (ie: most of the time), the best way to tell if a given canine is a coyote or a jackal is to see if it has whiskers on its nose. If there are whiskers, that's the yote.



((If you find jokes funniest before they've been explained, here's the link at the bottom of the post. You can skip the rest. ))

I hate most pickled things. Eggs might be the only exception. But I definitely hate pickled cucumbers. It's a waste of a perfectly good fregetable.

A couple days ago Reagan was standing near me, holding a sandwich that had a pickle on it. We exchanged whatever words needed to be exchanged, I made a gross-out face in regards to the pickle, then he left to go to his computer. A second later the pickle smell hit me and I made another grossed-out face and comment.

Reagan says to me, "If I need to hide something from you, I'll just put a pickle on it."

Then I drew the above doodle. It makes me laugh like crazy.

Speaking of coyote-related things that make me hapy, I love The Daily Coyote to pieces. It makes me think of my husband. :)

Put simply, there is no replacing books.

Skimming the internet for information about the internet makes my brain explode. It's the end of the year so there are posts all over the place recapping the developments of 2008 and predicting 2009. I wish I had two brains so I could write about books/blogs/my dream development and the pace of innovation at the same time, but unfortunately I don't have two brains. I'm not being academic in these musings, either. All opinions are informed purely by experience and reaction.

One thing that makes books a great medium is the fact that they have beginnings. Not just a point at which they come into being, but honest-to-goodness, ground floor beginnings. Most books have no prerequisites before you open the front cover, no backstory, no need for familiarity with a particular industry or topic of knowledge. Such things help in many non-fiction instances, but books have the ability to start laying a foundation from page one and build on that foundation as it progresses.

In comparison, periodicals (blogs as well as magazines and newspapers) don't have that luxury. Each member of the audience has a different level of understandings of the topic at hand. Every item in a periodical has to take into account that the audience contains first time readers and loyal, well-informed readers. Depending on substance and style, this diversity of readership can be an issue of varying size; the more continuity involved in a publication, the more glaring the ignorance of a new reader.

I'm most aware of my own ignorance when reading a blog in which the author talks about their own life, and when I'm reading a magazine that might have had more useful tips in the previous issue. (The "relevant tips" bit crosses over into blogs, too, though a different sort, and the internet has archiving and search function.) I wish these things were more organized and linear.

Instead of a personal chef or trainer or shopper, I want a personal information curator that I can point towards a blog or two or four and have a distilled bundle of knowledge returned to me. I'd give it a link to memoir blogs like Waiter Rant and get back the full evolution of the idea, the voice, and the person; all the developmental highlights. I'd point this curator to Get Rich Slowly or Lifehacker or Wired and get all the strong posts from the past that weren't obsolete three months later, and also integrated versions of posts on those familiar topics that keep coming up over and over again. Best possible world: the comments would also be mined for data that supports or refutes the original post.

I've heard that if you subscribe to Cook's Illustrated long enough the content starts to repeat itself. The same thing happens with children's magazines (at least Cook's probably puts everything into different words!), and I wouldn't be surprised if original advice in magazines targeted towards writers get rarer over time.

Wouldn't it be more efficient for the readers if there was a starting point for all these publications? Then it would be my own choice to skim or read every word, but at least if I was feeling clueless it would be my own fault for not absorbing information. And the redundancy factor would be reduced, too.

No, it's probably not practical, but it seems like it could make my life easier.

I think the next great innovation for the web should be a system available to netizens at large to create something like.... well, basically "This Week In Your Pregnancy" for any topic. Essentially a book in which a chapter is delivered each day or each week. I don't want to embargo information, just let the timing of each delivery be customized to each subscriber.

Right now I'm gearing up to write about my experiences of being left behind while Reagan's at boot camp. It'd be nice to get a daily or weekly email with ideas and support for my situation, through which I'm reminded of my husband's progress and given a slew of ideas for what to do when he graduates at appropriate times. Like an advent calendar. For military wives.

Yes, my other blogging project, The Beginning, Boot, and Beyond, aims to be five parts memoir/journal and two parts ideas/advice for navigating all the "firsts" of being married to someone in the armed forces. "Aims" is a bit of a lofty word considering I've only posted twice so far, and am still mixing the cement that will become the blog's foundation. Ultimately, I want it to be something that can easily be read from the beginning, as the progression of this story intrigues me. Of course, it is my life, so I am a bit biased.



Reagan is my muse. Especially while he's sleeping*. It gives me a chance to consider him in both concrete and abstract ways. His body is here, a tangible reminder of his reality and of our relationship, but he is still, his mind journeying in the dream world.

Of course, as soon as I write anything like that, he takes a noisy breath and shifts in his sleep to get more comfortable.

This poem, like Geography, comes from the weary moments between preparing for bed and actually climbing between the covers, when my mind, full from a day of gathering information, is at its limits. I originally wrote this one a number of weeks ago while he was still working his retail job.

Nightshift

Spooning we will slumber
yet I don't hurry towards that time
as sleeping will obscure
your reailty from mine.

Though dawn is nearly breaking
I press my cheek against your skin,
listen to your breathing
and your heart beating within.

I wonder what you're dreaming,
hope to make the good parts true.
I sink to sleep, reluctantly,
knowing I'll wake--in dark--alone.

---
* he might be better for poetic inspiration while he's asleep, but he's much more fun to hang out with while he's awake. :):) I'm going to ink a portion of that scannie (after I get a little rest) and prove it!

I started a blog and pitched a book today.

What did you do?

Okay, I had time to do a lot more and got stuck in the intertubes instead, but both of those things took a considerable amount of time and energy.

The blog and the book are on the same topic: Year One. The blog (which I'll link to once there is more than one post) was a decision that took about 24 hours to reach, and I was lifted to it by the encouragement of some strangers. The book pitch was fully spur-of-the-moment when blog research dropped in my path a link to a literary agency. Not just the agency, but the form for submitting queries.

I'm glad I saved the text of my proposal. It has the potential to act as a guide for my Other Blogging Adventure.

--

Not getting enough sleep. I need a large bottle of CONCENTRATE, the product that has the ability to make anything more potent. Sleep. Orange Juice. Thoughts. Coffee. Poetry, maybe.

Hungover

your voice did echo
spilt words in my mind
of hours to come
and moments behind

that, having passed,
are nothing but warning
all is a day
and we are a morning

Yes. We needs it.

I want to etch that in the corner of a bold painting in sunset colors and a cliche, bereft figure or two. Something very 365.

Instead, I will take up my pen and hamoodle out some drawings while eating and con Reagan into scanning them for me. This note is entirely unnecessary because the lapse in time for you to go from here to the image below is a fraction, I say a fraction of what it takes me to make it happen. Appreciate it. (My goodness, the lack of sleep is making me punchy.)



ZOUNDS! that's not a scan!

Reagan went to bed and the scanner would awaken him. I draw, he shall scan, I then shall post anon.

*resets "days of non-goofy posts" counter to 0*

Post-holiday post

rockin' some christmas gifts :)

I'm not quite ready to descend into the "real world" and do things like blogging, internet-reading, or cleaning the room yet. Late December has so many reasons to "take the day off". :P Soon, though! And I did do drawing/writing while away. :)

The Holiday Post

(as opposed to the Holiday Recap which will happen (most likely) on the 25th)

Merry Christmas!

The all-important dates are upon us again, and it's currently Christmas Eve everywhere in the world, except for the special few, like Kiwis, for whom it is Christmas Day.

Although I guess I'm early in these wishes for some of the Eastern Orthodox among you. :)

Reagan and I collaborated on the gifts we gave my family. I did sketches of bunnies for my parents and sibling (and his wife), then Reagan did inks and watercolor. They turned out fantastic, so of course I didn't prod him to scan them.

On my dad's side of the family, we each draw two names out of a hat and get gifts for those two people. For my uncle who works for the USC football team, I did a graphite drawing of a water buffalo wearing a Roman/Trojan helmet. Sadly, a lot of the tonal subtlety was lost in the scanning.



For my cousin I did ducks and chicks. Reagan did the inking for me, then I added the watercolor. Surprisingly fun, that!



The fowl in the lower left was supposed to be a duck diving under the water, but I guess there was some ambiguity in the pencil work, so when the inks came back I had a rooster! :)

A Favorite Poet

#0 of not-a-series

Neil Peart

He writes most of the lyrics for RUSH, one of the few bands I've seen in concert.

Last night I was listening to music while waiting for sleep to overtake me. After a few epic, warming songs by Peter Gabriel (another lyricist and singer I love), I switched to some Rush (in Rio).

One of the songs on my mp3 player was The Pass:

(Live version below the lyrics. Both vids are in better quality on YouTube, and I find the album version to have very nice cinematography.)

The Pass

Words by Neil Peart, music by Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson, originally on Presto

Proud swagger out of the schoolyard
Waiting for the worlds applause
Rebel without a conscience
Martyr without a cause

Static on your frequency
Electrical storm in your veins
Raging at unreachable glory
Straining at invisible chains

And now you're trembling on a rocky ledge
Staring down into a heartless sea
Can't face life on a razors edge
Nothing's what you thought it would be

All of us get lost in the darkness
Dreamers learn to steer by the stars
All of us do time in the gutter
Dreamers turn to look at the cars
Turn around and turn around and turn around
Turn around and walk the razors edge
Don't turn your back
And slam the door on me

It's not as if this barricade
Blocks the only road
It's not as if you're all alone
In wanting to explode

Someone set a bad example
Made surrender seem all right
The act of a noble warrior
Who lost the will to fight

And now you're trembling on a rocky ledge
Staring down into a heartless sea
Done with life on a razors edge
Nothing's what you thought it would be

No hero in your tragedy
No daring in your escape
No salutes for your surrender
Nothing noble in your fate
Christ, what have you done?

All of us get lost in the darkness
Dreamers learn to steer by the stars
All of us do time in the gutter
Dreamers turn to look at the cars
Turn around and turn around and turn around
Turn around and walk the razors edge
Turn around and walk the razors edge
Turn around and walk the razors edge
Don't turn your back
And slam the door on me

At last, I remember my dreams

I wish I meant that title in more than a literal way. Only now, as I wind down for the day, do I think about the dreams I had last night.

I dreamed my Southern California town had an unnatural snowstorm, and I watched my world turn bleak colors and be draped in white.

Not in the most poetic mood ever, so here's something middling-new and very green. Perhaps one of those examples of bad poetry born out of strong feeling.

Grace

I wore her dress
on Saturday night
I hung it up Sunday
not sure things were right.
She whispered me stories,
I danced them away
She whispered me lies
I believed anyway.

And the songs that were sung
they were sung by a king
but the king had a secret
who envied his ring;
that ring was a symbol
over all of mankind.
This is the family
I left far behind.

Today was busy and thoughtful. I had melted cheese, was an accessory to a misdemeanor, and listened to a lot of NPR. I love NPR.

Most of the drawing I've done recently has been animals, so that will be the content of my posted sketches until Christmas, at least.

2112

Today is 2112. And winter solstice.

Live appropriately.

Who am I?

Warning: plate of beans ahead.

On the heels of yesterday's post about language not yet catching up with the experiences of the Internet, I'm taking a moment to look inward as I am wont to do after a period of not blogging, however short or long it may be.

As I was starting up the previous post with noise about status updating, I began pondering in the back of my mind what kind of blogger I am, how my style fits in with the "culture" of blogging, and what sort I might like to be.

While I post art, I'm not a sketch-blogger. Most art is vastly overshadowed by words. Words about what? My life, usually. My thought-life, to be specific, as my offline-life is a tad rusty these days (though not for long). I don't do very topical or news-related posts, nor am I at the deep end for any particular hobby, lifestyle, or what-have-you.

The reflective questions boil down to "If this wasn't my blog, would I read it?"

That raises the question "What kind of blogs do I read?". Primary answer right now is "not many". For all the RSS items I clear out these days, they either don't require reading or are saved in open tabs to be consumed at some proper future moment. I muchly enjoy blogs that have a personal mixture of diary, correspondence, and art.

Some periods of time I do a good job of performing the "would I read this?" test in mind as I write a post, other times, not so much. Perhaps that should be something I strive for in the future.

I'm calling this a plate of beans because whatever I decide doesn't truly matter. I'm keeping this blog for myself, and can't foresee this ever becoming a destination so popular that I where I care to cater to my readership. The goal, then, is to cater to the more demanding aspects of myself and try to please my harsh internal critic.

--

Today held the celebrations of my mom's birthday, my immediate family's Christmas, and the Winter Solstice. The only one it actually was was Solstice, which Reagan and I celebrate privately.

We're not pagan or druidic, but I, especially, like taking notice of the moment when the night is longest. Festivities involve cheese, fruit, something tasty to drink, and making a nest of pillows and blankets on the floor to feast by candle light. We use the time sans computer, tv, and other digital interferences to talk about everything and nothing. In the midst of worrying about family this and other family that, it's very nice to devote some quiet time to each other.

I took a moment to think about Hanukkah today, too, while setting fire to the wicks of pine and apple scented tealights.

Between the celebrations of Christmas and Solstice, Reagan and I went to the bookstore where I quickly spent my gift card on poetry books: The McSweeney's Book of Poets Picking Poets and The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I believe both will challenge me and give me a lot to think and write about in the coming months (which is a lot of why I didn't pick up a novel).

I hadn't heard of either book before today, and I haven't heard of most of the poets in either until today. With my limited experience with poetry, both points contribute to my interest in these volumes.

The bookstore trip also made me devastatingly interested in getting a e-Ink eReader. Technology. Wow.

Other, less amazing technology brings you a washed-out scan from my sketchbook, mostly of bunnies. These were practice for pencil sketches that Reagan turned into watercolors, which I turned into frame watercolors, given as gifts to my parents and my brother's family.



And last of all, a small stone of a poem devised as I was falling asleep last night. Oddly enough, it goes to answer the question posed in the title of this post. At least to a small degree.

Who Am I?

As I'm
a poet
my lines
should
be just
long enough to point.

That's your official poem.
Here's the collection of words inspired by writing it:

awake in the wee hours
just light enough to write
a burst of words on a post-it
(thankfully near by)
before more sleep

Merry Solstice. See you in the longer days.

Srsly, my brain was leaking out my ears

So glad to be back at the keyboard. So very glad. I had to step away temporarily to deal with feeling like crap and being stressed and not making enough artsy things.

[junk about video games and addiction]

As much as I want to talk and think about that, I'm going to do magic and resist. Magic is what I call it whenever I exercise willpower and avoid playing WoW. On this blog I like to pretend I'm more literary and cultured than a pie chart of my brain might imply.

A moment, however, to ponder scholarly-like about immersion in internet worlds. It's possible that articles have been written about this, or studies completed, but it would take me about 30 google search strings to be sure one way or the other (and I don't have much time). I wonder if, from a neurological standpoint, if there's any difference between offline interactions and online ones. (Initially I used "real-life" instead of "offline", but that tilts the scales and shows my own preconception.)

Without a doubt offline relationships and experiences are multisensory, and online ones are limited by many factors (availability of time, electricity, and access being only a few of them). But can the scientist inside my brain tell by the way I think and react and process information whether that data is coming from a computer or not? Are the parts of my brain stimulated by game-playing more active when I play a board game instead of a video game? Is the emotion-driven adrenaline rush more chemically decisive in person?

The internet is a tool, with no correct answer or use, but I don't think that just because we can't hold it in our hands means that we should consider it (or the communications it enables) less real.

A while ago I mused (here or in my head, I can't remember) about words that don't have equivalents in other languages. The train of thought took flight when I heard something about a situation or occurrence they have a word for in Japanese that we don't have in English. My feeling was that English didn't lack the word because English speakers couldn't be a part of that situation, but because it wasn't common enough for English-speakers to need to develop a word or phrase for it.

Similarly, I think that in scope of human experience, the Internet is so new that we don't have words for all the things that happen on it. And I'm not just talking about the neologisms for types of sites and actions, but there will be a new and very valid vocabulary for the kinds of relationships that are only possible in this new medium.



Something light and classic to distract myself.

Grown-Up

When I was small I tried to be taller
and now that I'm taller I want to be small
The wishing and dreaming
the stilts and the scheming
but when I'm asleep it means nothing at all.

Low Hanging... Fruit

Day off, three ways. I used a photo I took when R and I were last at The Ranch. It was slightly blurry because there was low light and I don't have a tripod.


(inspired by Postal Poetry. I love this image and design.)


(inspired by this Color+Design post)


(inspired by Photoshop Disasters. Mmmm... clone stamp.)

It's Tuesday, honest.

I've been running a mad blue streak all day. All day being since I woke up at 4pm Tuesday. It's made me mostly-useless.

Oddly enough, useful/useless-ness is the topic that I found at the bottom of the slump, and through understanding my own need to be useful, I've begun to turn things around.

Not sure I can turn it far enough to be alert and talkative in 6 hours for my last scheduled visit to my mom's class, but we'll see. The first time I went I had been up the full night before, but I don't recall being under sustained emotional stress.

ENOUGH EMO.

Have some sketchy animals.



I posted new poetry yesterday, and if I really cared about pattern I'd post an old-but-updated one today. But I don't. I wrote this before going to bed last night.

Geography

If our bed was North America,
you'd be the Rocky Mountains
with a firm grasp on the
Mountain and Pacific time zones,
your head is pillowed
in the snows of the north,
your feet (always hot)
jut from the blanket's embrace.

I could lie in
the Great Plain states,
uncluttered, smooth, inviting,
or leave that vacant land between us,
nestling my body
in the Appalachians,
and dream the wall's a window,
and I'm gazing across the Pond.

Instead, I squeeze myself
onto California
(though covers don't reach)
curling against your slopes
with my back to the sea
and feel the gentle, lapping
waves of wind.

It needs some love, and (despite the title) I played it a little fast and loose with the geography. Poetic license, eh?

bRAdburY

1.
I finished Fahrenheit 451 a few days ago and haven't posted about it yet. Maybe that's for the best; a couple extra days gives me more time to turn it over in my mind.

It was never assigned reading in school, so for many years the bulk of my understanding of the book was "it's about burning books". Some time during my year in Savannah I read an article about Ray Bradbury which discussed, among other things, his take on F451. That take being that to him the book is more about technology's effect on humans, not burning books. After doing my own sit-down with it, I have to say that I don't see how anyone could say it is about book burning.

The main lesson I took from Fahrenheit 451 was the value of giving your brain time to idle. It's something I need to remind myself to do every so often. I struggle to get so many things absorbed, so many things done. It's easy for me to lose sight of the benefits of slowing down and daydreaming. With a sketchbook or notebook near by, of course, but in releasing myself from obligation to them I allow my mind to make new connections and go new places.


2.
In middle school, I think, we watched a video one day that touched me deeply. It told the story of a class of school children living on some gray, gloomy, and perpetually overcast planet. Only one girl has ever been on Earth, and she is the only one who has seen sunshine and all the wonderful things it does. The plot unfolds around rumors that there is going to be a little bit of sun on this rain-soaked planet.

I didn't know until a week ago that the short film was based on Bradbury's short story All Summer in a Day (full story text).

Even better (for my nostalgia), the short is on YouTube in three parts.

The story is more nihilistic than the video. Today I wonder for the first time if there's a tiny sliver of Plato's Cave in the story.


3.
I love Ray Bradbury's writing style so much it makes me want to scream sometimes. The stories are great, and well adapted to film, but his wordsmithing is incredibly in line with my own quirk. What gives it so much life, to me, is the aspects of metaphor and imagery that can't be translated to visual media. I have a list of (children's) stories I'd like to adapt into comics/graphic novels, and while I'd love to honor Bradbury's work in that way, so much of what makes it special to me would be lost. I'll illustrate it, though. I'll illustrate the heck out of it. :)

A couple examples from All Summer:

The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
...
It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring...
...
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran.

So much love for that. Bradbury's writing is an inspiration. Because he writes the way I think, it gives me confidence that I have the potential to be a good and successful writer.


4.
In closing, some of my favorite Bradbury quotes. I don't agree with him on a lot of topics beyond life, philosophy, and the arts, but sometimes those are enough.

All that stuff that's collected up in my head -- poetry and mythology and comic strips and science fiction magazines -- comes out in my stories. So you get to a certain age and you're like a pomegranate, you just burst. And the ideas spill out.

Bonus points for the mention of a pomegranate there. :)

First you jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.

is growing on me.

A new find:

I have two rules in life - to hell with it, whatever it is, and get your work done

And my most favorite of all, words I try to live by:

If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.

X.
That was fun. I should read more books so I can do it more often.

I'm going to do something scold-worthy, but Mr. Ray inspired me (guess how!), and I, personally, need it.

to hell with it (whatever it is)

.
looking over
creation
without
comprehension

.
when my face
was hidden,
insincere

.
screaming
screaming into
a favorite pillow

.
abruptly
shaken out of
deep meditation.

.
in the kitchen
waiting for tea
giving up

.
bawled through snot
and hot tears
against his chest

.
under my breath
a final
invisible
resolution

Aaaah.



(ooooo! ;D )

The cheer of the season will find me...

Very, very occasionally, I miss game design. Today is one of those occasions, when I got this email:

Hi there! My name is Josh, and I just wanted to drop you a line to let you know that my girlfriend, our friends, and I had an absolutely wonderful time yesterday playing The Secret Lives of Gingerbread Men. Since our group involved a number of pagans and no kids, the story ended up being about saving Christmas from Fundamentalists, and Santa Claus with huge stag's antlers. Much fun was had by all.

If you'd like to see the photoset, it's here. Awesome game, and thanks for writing it!

I feel all warm and squishy.

Another email mentioned someone being sad that I had left game design, as he had just discovered my work recently. Internally I went through a list of half developed game ideas, wondering what could become of them all.

Now I can either do some drawing to remind myself (besides being physically disconnected from the community) why I left it behind... or I can play a little Warcraft and be nostalgic...

Real Linkpost

It's odd. I'm not even that into Star Wars (saw the whole trilogy the first time in my late teens), but each time I see it re-imagined in a different style by an artist, I am immediately taken. First it was Bjorn Hurri's Steampunk Star Wars (C3P0) character designs. Today, however, I'm even more enamored with...

Baroque Star Wars. (Found via imgfave)



My new mode, when finding an artist or photographer whose work I dig, is to google their name and look for a blog. Not only does Mattias Adolfsson have a blog, but he updates it regularly! Daily, even, and always with artwork. He doesn't skimp on the image quality, so you can get a detailed look at his intricate and whimsical designs.

Enthralled as I was at discovering Mattias, I browsed deep into the archives and found this hilarious post: Really Useful Tattoos. I think this is my favorite of the bunch:



Last but not least, he posts video tours of his moleskine sketchbooks on YouTube. The quality isn't spectacular (lo-def), but the chance to browse unedited work is nice.

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Other neat links: Found on this photo collection of unlikely animal friendships... something out of my Cheetalope story?!?!



Reagan says it looks like the not-cheetah in this picture looks more like a goat than any antelope, and I have to agree. Still, highly amusing.

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Cuban-American papercutting artist Elsa Mora created these plant ladies that blow me away with their simplicity.



I'm shocked that she's not offering them on a set of notecards in her etsy shop!
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It's probably for the best I waited a while to write this post. Some of the links lost their luster. But one more.

More for the lol value than any artistry: 30 ways to be electrocuted. Instructional-type illustrations from Germany. Bre Pettis found and posted them.

It's was hard to pick a favorite to share with you here, but I did it anyway.



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If only to make myself feel better, here's a cleanly scanned version of the art I posted earlier.

linkpost, unfortunately

If I can't manage to get this post to autosave, it may end up being my normal Saturday post (she says at 7am Sunday morning).

First I must pimp a minimal-ish site I found via MetaFilter Projects. ImgFave. ImgFave is responsible, directly, indirectly, or very roundabout-ly, for most other visual-based links in this post. coming soon to a post near this one. Posting the cool stuff after review would dilute both parts, so I'll hold off a bit longer.

While ImgFave is styled like other social image sharing sites (so I'm told), what I really like about it is the utter lack of "social" (see: minimal). It is linked to FriendFeed which I know nothing about, but the most interaction you ca have with another user on ImgFave is subscribing to their posts/adding them to your friends list. On Friends view you see only the favorite images of users you select, instead of the default public view where you see all faved images.

No social means no tagging of images, no talking about images, no commenting on images, no sending messages to other users. And I like it that way. ImgFave serves my needs of introducing me to interesting visuals. Besides the picture, each post includes a link to the page said picture was faved from, and a direct link to the image alone. My only complaint with the programming of the site is that the feed does not include those links to the image and the source, meaning I have to visit the image's post on ImgFave before I can see it full size or in it's natural environment.

The two things that would make my experience better: other users linking to higher quality images when they are available, and linking to the image in context whenever possible. For example, if this drawing of mine was faved from this url (http://www.itesser.com/updates/uploaded_images/cheetaline-777735.jpg) instead of this url (http://www.itesser.com/updates/2008/12/why-oh-why-are-cop-shows-so-pun.html), a user who comes across it would not be able to see more of my work.

I don't mean to apply this in a selfish SEE ME way, but from the side of the user who stumbles across the image. I often want to see more work from the artist or photographer who has been faved, and it's not always possible to track down the source if all I have is a direct link to blogger or flickr servers. Also, the above example does show the image as hosted on my domain (making it easy to find more of my work), but I'm somewhat of an exception. If I ran my blog through blogger, the image URL would be completely anonymous.

It is worth noting, though, that I dig that site because it feeds my creativity. I don't use it to share or store images as much as I use it to find them. I take away or learn something from almost every image I see, and I believe the time I take to study them contributes to my development as an artist.

But now let's talk about my development as a poet.

The base poem is a couple years old. It's hard for me to judge how well it works as a poem because Randy Newman's always singing it in my head, with a feel very similar to this song [youtube]

Parting Ways

Here's your wishes, all wrapped up
and tied with pretty string,
take 'em back to where you came from
and take all your girly things.
I'm all over and done with you now
pack your bags and let me be.
Dreams aren't like no shopping list
and I'm no grocery store, you see.

That day, through a window,
I saw a sorrow just my size
I was young and foolish
much too young to realize
that even if it fit me
if it fit me like a glove
it would give me too much wisdom
and drain my heart of all its love.

Maybe I gave you good times
maybe you gave me a little fun
But when you cry plenty tears for us both
I gotta stop what I begun.
I've been three kinds of crazy
six ways drunk and seven mad
but meeting you's the only
kind of sorry I've ever had.

That was one of the more intensive revamps I've done lately (while still keeping most of the original). Here are some more emo lines that were attached to it, but I don't know why:

All the words, like water, flow too fast
leave me like sand through a fist
but when I burn this notebook
only the paper will be missed.

Now to spend some time drawing. I don't want to do another digital art post.

There was some before, there will be some after (and you'll see that when I get a real scan of this), but I like the density of them nesting so well together.

I can't keep truth out of my writing.

I spent the first part of the day doing one kind of nothing, and the second part of the day doing another. Both of them online, and both of them totally worth it. Despite not being in a poetry-reading mood earlier today, I am now, after having written the following:

In The Empty Hours

I clutch the stubbornness
inside my chest
heft it in my hands
the immense weight
miracle of density
compacted hopes and
driftless dreams
migrated from imagination
doomed to sink
but stubborn, clinging
to my heart
like stalactites
stabbing as I feel
the edges of my stubbornness
its grooves and tumors
metastasized
to obligations
but also to desires
held in stasis as I
trace and squeeze
and curse and finally
meditate
on my stubbornness.

I really like it. (Stubbornly, perhaps.) Maybe I'll feel the same tomorrow, maybe not!

Today I want to set up a crafter's studio that runs like a gym, except instead of weights and treadmills, you pay membership to use space and sewing machines and paper cutters and printers and printmaking stuff*. Ceramics classes instead of cardio, selling specialty paper instead of specialty powders. And have a library of crafting books and magazines.

Another dream I had today was to spend my free 3 months next year focusing on writing (especially poetry) rather than drawing. One thing that keeps me from it, though, is that my husband doesn't get into poetry as much as I do. I'd rather reunite with him and have something I can show that he'll be as enthusiastic about as I am. Is that strange?

I currently have no plans to abandon poetry, just a firm desire to keep it in the Number-Under-Visual-Art spot. (Prose is under no such restriction.)

Dang. 7am. Spent a couple/few hours pushing pixels around and watching Kojak. Still life painting of some things on my desk, tried out a shading method Reagan works with sometimes.



I realize that the background might not make sense (I didn't do a meticulous job), so here's a cell-pic of the set-up. Bluetooth is a beautiful thing.

*and light boxes. and a photo studio. and a darkroom. and a few computers. and light tables. and drafting tables. and spinning wheels. and sergers. and long-arm staplers.

similar things are being done in other places! They're making it work!
IPRC
esty labs
Radius Studio
Stumptown Art Sudio
... but some are less "open house" than others.

and kilns. and field trips. and dressforms. and copiers. and typewriters. and every tool imaginable. and a kitchen. and KNOWLEDGE. and jars and jars and jars of buttons, beads, and ribbons... i should stop thinking about this...

Three-Quarters View

Three down, one to go. Next week is my last chance to be in the classroom with my mom's students, teaching drawing. Usually I have thirty minutes, but today I only had 20 due to some sort of clerical error.

I'm slightly disappointed in today's experience because the kids didn't get to draw much. The lesson was on drawing heads and faces. The bulk of it was demonstrating four main points:

+ Circle for the skull
+ Angular line for the jaw
+ Equator of the circle for eyes/ears
+ Longitudinal line for nose-direction and symmetry

... then having each kid come up to the whiteboard and identify those things. They traced those key parts on an image projected onto up the board.

Another fun moment was having them feel the spherical shapes of their heads, and how the jawbone connects to the cranium under the ear. Other than the drawing on the board, they didn't get a chance to practice what I was trying to teach.

The rest of the day was a stressful disappointment, except for spending a few minutes with my dad. He's having cataract surgery tomorrow. I've talked to him more in the past 2 days than in the previous couple months. He's the silent type. :)

So some drawing:



And an old-ish poem. Appropriate because I wrote it on an early date with Reagan under the influence of Strongbow, and tonight we had Guinness with our Lilo and Stitch. And I'm sleepy.

Preparing for Sleep


We reach through the bottle and into the past
wagering how long the feeling will last.
Cold comes to batter the bones of my keep
but the soul is warm, the roots are deep.

I love the simplicity of it. Remind me to tell you about Bradbury tomorrow.

When it was time for urgency
I did not act accordingly
Now it's time to say goodnight
but still I'm here and still I write

Tomorrow is my next-to-last session with the drawing kids. After Reagan and I came home from our evening out, I didn't start putting together the pamphlet quickly enough (although I knew what my plan was), and now I'm more than an hour late for bed (though hardly tired).

HOT DAMN

Next week we'll do perspective! If I go Wednesday or Thursday, they'll have gingerbread houses to draw. Rock on.

Another good day, though not productive as I'd like it to be. Too much time spent daydreaming about possibilities outside my control.

The poem today's offering is based on was written in high school, and I was so incredibly proud of it. It was one of mine that made it into the school's literary magazine. I remember we had a hard time laying out that page because the poem is a diptych... or whatever poetry word there is for two columns of poem side by side.

Recall

She says, "Broken."
Then after a pause

asks me what
I remember.


She says, "Red,"
and waits

for me to say
if, behind my
veiled eyes,
I see the autumn
forest, or that
violated house
that used to be
a rosy home.


"Yes," I say,
noting the color
inside my eyelids.

... and more drawings. Today I did better at doodling in a bookstore cafe. Probably because I never want to spend money at Borders, but I'm always anxious to browse at B&N.

A small matter of netiquette

Fellow bloggers, I know you're out there. I have a question to be answered.

How long after a post is published should the comment discussion remain active?

I know that there's no mechanical limit to how long a thread can be posted to, but surely there's some rule of thumb for the shelf life of run-of-the-mill posts. Sometimes I read posts two weeks after their publication, but feel conspicuous commenting, especially if I'm catching up for all two weeks in one day (perhaps not in order) and may be inclined to comment on multiple posts in the span of an hour or two.

So at what point is it strange to be commenting on old entries?

Or is it a matter of "who would ever refuse a comment?"

Invisible Norm

When I have my own place, I'm totally going to make myself a bear footstool.

Also, my first (practically) free issue of GOOD Magazine showed up today. I payed cover price a while ago and it didn't live up to my high expectations. Some of the research was shallow and the graphics misleading. But with the pay-what-you-want thing they have going on, you can get a year subscription for a dollar. I got my year subscription for a dollar. If I was flush with cash, I'd give more, but I'm not. I haven't read it yet, though.

I stayed up till 7am (or was it 8?) yesterday, and slept off and on till after 4pm. The block of sleep was interrupted with answering text messages, canceling plans, reading Farenheight 451 and checking headphone reviews for people not-at-computers. One person.

Inconsistent internet service kept my browsing experience from being fluid and transparent (when the tools give you trouble...). Lacking the fortitude to draw without TV in the background (that right there is a dangerous realization), I've spent a lot of today reading and closing the 120+ tabs that I've got open. And writing poetry.

Also related to inconsistent internet service, it gives me pause with the plan to store poetry in GoogleDocs for it's access-anywhere and tagging features. (Inconsistent internet came up in a recent discussion of paperless medical offices, but that's a different issue.) It would be easier for me to give up access-anywhere (and commit to backing up my harddrive) if there was an elegant way to tag files in OS X 10.4. (I realize it's redundant to say X 10, but X.4 doesn't properly convey the situation.) Maybe I should ask for an upgrade to the latest version of my OS for Christmas.

My paper journal is getting distractingly full. The handbound scrap-paper book with a burlap cover and zombie-bandage tie has become so integral to my days and thoughts that it will be difficult to replace. I don't know what I'll do when I'm out of space. Obviously hold onto it and read the full thing once, and bits and pieces from time to time, but I no longer have an epic stash of novelty, scratch, and found papers to build a new journal from. I think I'll do shorter (3 signature) cloth-bound books with interesting fabrics for the (less ghetto) covers until I can collect enough found papers to do another tome.

Thank you for listening, blog.

A poem I wrestled with today. It's another new one. I wrote it long-hand, and the page is a delightful mess of stricken words. The first draft rhymed, then I tried to make it not-rhyme, but couldn't find the rhythm in that version.

From Too Far

Do you see my whole devotion,
long-suffering, and patient care
or do you sense a latent crazy
with desperate and wild stare?

Are you reading it a danger
when I profess my loyalty?
Do you think I paint delusion
over empty, harsh reality?

I thought I found a stable bond
within my constant adoration;
I'm sending you this love, again,
open to interpretation.

I'm excited about tomorrow's poem. I cross my fingers that the enthusiasm will hold out.

Drawing that was wrestled with yesterday:

... Tuesday Morning

Wow, that took a lot longer than I expected. And I only did half. The new half!

I fail and half no title. If I got the whole image done, I wouldn't feel the need to have a title, but... I didn't. Give this a Tom Waits a la Black Rider vibe. ;)

come into the theater
try out our dream machine
we open the doors
to hobos and whores
even you will be more than you seem



the rest of the text, in case you can't read my handwriting:

gamblers on the mezzanine,
dancers in the pit
spin the wheel
wishes made real
black-dog-dare the devil's wit

I'm not amazingly pleased with the art, but I'm glad I gave the idea a shot. Learning! Learning! Rah! Rah! Rah!

I really need to go to bed.

Monday Overnight, for example

Pre-post shout-out to Katie Cook. It's her birthday! Besides being an amazing artist, she's a wonderfully sweet and nerdy gal.

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After an early morning scare of "can he go tomorrow?"*, I spent the day blissfully escaping into tv, drawing, and Bradbury's quirky prose.

(*the answer was "no, there are still obligations to be concluded)

Yes, I'm 24, a fan of sci-fi and literature, and I've never read Fahrenheit 451 before. If it's any defense, I have read Something Wicked This Way Comes.

As I was taking care of some chores downstairs I was bemoaning (to myself) the fact that I don't have as much time to devote to poetry as I would like. After reading a few of the entries in the Daily Routines blog, I fussed about being keen to master both writing and art, but whenever I devote hours to the former, the back of my mind tells me I could be spending them on the latter. I was specifically thinking about poetry, and how it's been quite a while since I've been inspired enough to have a new poem flow out of me.

Then I made sandwiches, tidied up the kitchen, then came upstairs and fluidly wrote a couple dozen lines. Oh, the gifts of irony.

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Obligatory paragraph pondering my social relationships. Today is one of the days I feel like an alien when thinking about my friends.

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For some odd reason I really like the idea of titling poems with days of the week, months of the year, and times of day. Maybe it ties into my tendency to use poetry as a form of diary, but with mood, emotion, events, and details, I like placing them in a chronological context, even if it doesn't tie into an ongoing timeline.

I think it might be similar to this phenomenon: Recently I read or heard someone talking about going to visit a foreign country. (It kills me that I can't remember the source of this anecdote.) Upon their return, friends asked "What is Country X like?" and the traveler would reply "I don't know", as he could only speak to his own experiences in the country, which could not offer a reliable picture of what Country X is like.

The connection is that by titling a poem "Early November" when nothing in the poem explicitly implies early November, I'm casting the contents of the poem in an early-November sort of light. I'm not saying what "early November" is, just my experiences there. Then.

Even though I don't have a deeply personal relationship with seasons, or week-patterns, or even day-patterns, I like using those markers. Mentally, I'm perhaps one step and one leap from developing a concise plan and description for a (chapbook?) project using only hours, days, and months for tiles.

---

I am enamored with the lines inside my tea mug. While they do indicate that it's time for my ceramic chalice to be washed, they're also clues to my drinking habits: evenly spaced rings marking the resting water level between each round of sips. The stains are darker near the top; more heat and resting time when the tea-level is high. When I'm down to the last third, sometimes the tea isn't even lukewarm, and I lose interest.

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Dammit. Long post. I guess I'm back to normal? Unfortunately the net is not being normal. *is afraid to attempt posting*

Daily poem and art to come in a separate post so I can close firefox to play with digital paints.

Why-oh-why are cop shows so pun-intensive?

I'm not feeling like myself, but instead of the normal formula of not feeling like myself (which, I suppose, is more like the part-time version of feeling like myself), it's an off-brand concoction, unfamiliar. Compressed and oppressed in so many cliche ways. Time ripples through my days in an illusory way; I have no sense of chrono-depth perception, and can't tell how fast I travel.

C'est la vie.

I feel like I got something done today, but for the life of me can't tell you what. Three hours were spent at an acquaintance's home playing board games. That was fun, but not what I'm thinking of.

Rare Moment Alone

carpet grinds into elbows
teeth grind each other flat
sweaty palms hold
heavy head

drip, the faucet
chirp, the black-headed grosbeak
drone of trucks
matching drone of fans

cramped and bloodless legs
hunched, unsanctioned lotus
an unexpected
meditation

Cheetalope:



Cribbed off photos more than usual.

I prefer the (mental) image of deer antlers, but it doesn't especially fit the setting. And they're harder to draw. :X

Determiation

I am not posting anything (interesting) tonight.

Because I don't want to.

Racy, edgy, extreme, late night edition.

DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT DRAFT.

Newlywed

i.
So deeply wanting
this moment
--captured--
to go perfectly
on and on.

Take hold of this memory,
cast it into columns
and save it for
decades to come.


ii.
Home from the grocery store we begin working,
sharing the stove and the sink.
I hand you an open bottle of Guinness.
We pause twice--in tandem--to drink.

I at my chopping block, you at your oven,
ready our meals for the next week.
Between drying the spinach and baking potatoes,
sniffs and spoons of the dishes, we sneak.

Past midnight in the kitchen, tangling hands
as we stand hip to hip to stir the curry.
Soon we'll seal the food and scrub clean the counters
but I, for one, am in no hurry.

May I repeat "first draft"?

I'm still not sure what's going on within part 2. Or part one, for that matter. Mismatched shoes. I am childishly fond of having a meta section and a concrete details section. Drrrrrraaaafft!

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Earlier today I got super lucky and accidentally bought The Muppets: A Green and Red Christmas album on mp3 for $0.99. I think the offer expired soon after that. I'm not usually one for Christmas music, but it's the MUPPETS.

I said I bought it "accidentally"... When Amazon says "Buy this with 1-Click!(r)", they are not kidding about the "one click" part. Learning experience!

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Deciding the Next Decider: The 2008 Presidential Race in Rhyme. Need I say more?

Calvin Trillin (author) on The Daily Show and NPR.

--

Reagan and I hit a budget goal today, so we promptly went out and spent a bunch of money so we can hit that goal again next paycheck.

. . .

That amuses me. (And isn't really true.)

Observing the people in a grocery store after 10pm in the suburbs is fun, especially the couples. A lady and her man-friend who walked in behind us were joking around about one of them being a hooker and what different pay rates entitles the buyer to. "Seventy dollars for special requests" is a phrase that sticks out in my memory.

After coming home, Reagan and I talked for a while before even getting out of the car, then brought our bounty inside and spent a couple hours in the kitchen together, something that doesn't happen often enough. The poem is pretty accurate. I wrote bits and pieces in my head while washing the rice, then other bits and pieces while cleaning up the rice cooker. Sharing the kitchen--any kitchen--with him is the kind of memory most precious to me. I want to affix as many as I can as many ways as I can. Poetry is just one I hadn't gotten around to yet.

When it's really late and R and I are out of our room, it almost feels like we have the house to ourselves.

Twofer

Today started alright, if a bit late. I had the best intentions of making up for yesterday's epic headache with an early post, some writing, a good bout of drawing, and other productive things.

I ended up spending most of the day chasing my tail. But did do token amounts of writing and drawing.

Here's somethings for yesterday:

Tasteless

Living in a half-baked world
built of gingerbread,
a person only ever finds
an oven for a bed.

Hospitals are bakeries,
they have drives for dough;
when you loose your cookie head,
that is where to go.

Sugar, spice, molasses
make both girls and boys,
frosting is their clothing,
candies are their toys.

We're having Gramps for supper,
'cause Grandma was for tea,
and if you are not tasteful,
that's immortality!

Gingerbread is my traditional holiday treat, passed down from my mother. When I was a kid she had these parties where she would make a gingerbread house for each kid in the neighborhood. All the kids would come over to our house with bags of candy and we'd make a day of decorating them. Now she makes a gingerbread house for each student in her class, and in the good years I mail boxes of cookies to friends. I wrote a storytelling game about gingerbread men, too.



For today, I offer poetry and image combined into one. Pushed some digital paint around with my beloved Kojak for company.

Up out of habit

It's been a long day. It started early with a nice breakfast of eggs, toast, and tea with my husband, even though he's not feeling amazing.

Session four of talking to kids about drawing went pretty well. The mass of the class has been weeded down to six or so girls. While I'm sad that I failed to engage the ones who aren't showing up any more, short sessions mean that I have to give a targeted lesson, which has a narrow scope of interest. If you're not interested in learning anatomy, there's not much I can do.

Hm. Focus on the good things. To go along with the torso references I had printed in the handouts that I whipped up last night, I projected a few on the whiteboard and had a few of them step up and practice locating the skull, ribcage, and shoulder line of the references by tracing them on the whiteboard. There was also a cool moment of teaching how the collarbone indicates what someone's shoulders are doing.

The biggest struggle is getting them to find the sweet spot of sketching fast to achieve line control and drawing slow to achieve line accuracy.

I always feel like I'm drawing poorly around them. My demo drawings are usually done while I'm talking and also working fast because time is so limited. But I feel like they're awful and don't properly illustrate what I'm trying to convey. BLEH.

Got home, tried to restart my day by doing some reading that I hoped would turn into a nap. It didn't, but I found the passage of past continuous that I've been waiting for.

Waiting is the wrong word. It implies that I needed or expected it to happen, neither of which are true. Even if the whole book had passed without something like this particular scene occurring, I wouldn't count it as a waste of time. Shabtai's style is, without a doubt, an acquired taste. I'm glad I've acquired it, but even without me adapting to his rambling style, I would have seen the scene of Israel and his roommate's lady friend throwing a knife at the wooden board as beautiful. It is at risk of falling into my own personal trope of "every emotion leads to sex", and also does nothing to buck the trend of nobody in the book being both happy and faithful, but I still enjoyed it. After reading the passage once, I immediately thought "this needs to be a poem" and wrote down the concept and the page number on a sticky note.

Maybe I should have taken a stab at it then. I'm sure not in the mood now. But I give this rhyme some effort and time...

what moves?


Outside my window
small ones dwell
between the leaves
and in the well.

Sometimes they dance
while I do sleep;
more oft in dreams
I hear them weep.

They curse the caging
garden wall
each time winds bring
the wild's call.

I mourn with them:
I have roots, too,
but I can hide
from freedom's view.

There, I found the energy to double the size! And I avoided referring to the sky as blue! Twice the victory.

Between reading my book and reaching this point of stretching my brain, I discovered another season of CSI:NY on Netflix, sorted a couple thousand files, and eked out some pages of drawing in my sketchbook, including prelim doodles for one of those opportunities I've been considering.

This is not those doodles (but the bird in the upper right is one of my favorite things right now):



Oh, that reminds me to share this mind-blowing-ly bizarre music video.

Eeeek!

Today was very stressful. Except for that part where I was running errands alone for a few hours. That was only slightly stressful. (The errand-running wasn't stressful, my overall level of anxiety was just lower.)

I have zero confidence in the classroom. But I'm going back anyways, at least tomorrow. =\

In a strange way, if I had made up my mind on what to teach three hours earlier, or six hours earlier, or one hour earlier than I did, it would not have lowered my stress level. The only reason I'll be able to sleep is because I ran out of seconds to second guess.

Now look at photographs (scans) of the good old days...




And listen to music of the good old times...

Not exactly feel-good poetry today, but the music it was written to [youtube] makes me feel good, in a cathartic, melancholy kind of way. Don't watch the video. It's really creepy (huge eyes on real people) and is not at all what I imagine listening to the song.

The Longest Night

I think of the date we never took,
the time we never went to France.
The day was hot
but night came quickly;
the sun spied us sitting together
and could not set fast enough.
He pulled the warmth down into the sea.

You saw my sweater,
offered to hold it.
I wanted to be so immodest.
I wanted my shivers to draw you closer,
my sweater forgotten.
But I wrapped myself to stay warm.

It was the longest night.

I remember the cafe we dined in
and the story I told you there
Both were tinged with longing for the Old World.

The walls were painted with nostalgia
and I saw the matron
standing by the door
Lost in thought, lost in memories
lost memories.
Her hair looked like and exhausted sunrise,
the sunrise in my story.

I spun a tale about a place I'd never been
but we both longed for.
Your eyes, your smile
took us to the castles, courtyards, queens.
The danger, the intrigue,
the gardens with tame swans.

I said words
you gave them light.
Our soup grew cold.

It was the longest night.

*marks it as "revisit more"*