End of summer textures and thoughts

 

It is Fall again. It is darkness seeping into both sides of the day. Rain and scents of things that are slowly turning brown. Clouds that are low in the sky and heavy above the buildings.

I am in between. Waiting to move. Big projects pending on the packing of boxes. It feels yucky to have clean hands. I am itching to be settled and working. 

Things about today

I'm holding Coil XV print

Today was snow flurries moving sideways and upward as much as they fell. It was heavy eyelids, and beneath a grey sky it was a big dome packed full of light. Inside it were legs moving quickly over artificial grass. Today regret held me, it shone its light on the things that are most dear and made them feel incredibly tender and pliable and delicate. Today my hands are dry and the water is frozen and feels like a burden on top of everything. How many cycles of freezing and thawing can a person take? I know, even as I ask, that I will take what needs taking.

An illustrated card / poem / mini comic

I just added a digitally printed illustrated card to the shop. 

Folded the card measures 4.25" X 5.5"

It is an illustrated poem/prose about my mother's rock collection. It folds out from the first page in a unique, way. There is room for writing your own personal message on the back of the card.

The text reads:
My mother and her rocks.
You have always found them...
I imagine each one waiting for you on beaches.
Tides have turned for that one to catch your eye.
Another was delivered from the belly of a whale.
And another started out as the piece of the tallest mountain
at first it was jagged and angular, but it traveled so many miles downhill, 

for thousands of years
and now it fits smoothly in your palm.

You can purchase your own here.

My hands hurt. I have cuts that are healing and drying and cracking back open. Bending my fingers feels like grinding my teeth. I never want to live in Miami again. Time and distance has strengthened my assurance. I have all of these words knocking together inside of me and there is water in the streets of New York City. It crashes against the buildings. How many great storms will it take? Restless. Running makes me feel strong. Pounding, pushing myself back down into my body. Why am I always leaving when it feels so good to be right here in this very moment? Blue and black ink. Lines. Lots of space to fill. Hours and hours and hours. Work. More hand aches. Body aches. The cold gets in between my bones. Hardens my muscles. Piano keys in my ears. Bheetoven... Beethoven... how the hell do you spell his name? Moonlight Sonata grabs these pieces inside of me and pulls on them. That matters more than spelling. More than words and names and order. I am shuffled into place sometimes.

Writing sketches:
When I walk there is a tunnel above me.
It spirals up off of my shoulders.
I cannot pass through it.
I stop and look up,
the day drying out my open mouth.
I wonder at its purpose
beckoning me up, up!