Pen and Ink.

Lovers,

I have not stopped writing in my month's absence from this blog, I promise. My notebooks are all beginning to swell happily with musings, like small, fat pregnant women, glowing with the presence of new life growing within them.

I have, however, returned from my blogger neglect and am determined to continue forward into summer with a stronger resolution not to fall out of touch with this platform of expression.

I have with me at this internet cafe a few notebook ramblings I meant to post as blogs but never followed through until now.  I have more back at the house, alas I forgot to bring them with me.

Here are a few to make up for lost time.

MAY 2012

Edith Piaf is possibly the most overwhelming, all-encompassing, emotionally baring experience one can put themselves through, audibly.

I am tempted to burst into tears. I'm not sad.  I don't even know what she's saying, but I don't have to.

Sometimes beauty is the only thing to be trusted.

When the world is topsy-turvy and you don't know where to turn, you can always trust in the beauty of a French lovesong. It will always envelop you, and soothe you, and amaze you with it's awe-inspiring beauty.

This music transports me somewhere otherworldly- a place bound in security.  A place full of wonder and twinklelights, late summer air, and the peace that comes with the knowledge that I'll never have to be alone again.

Someday that distant planet will be my own home of starry-eyed whimsy.

Until then I wander this town after dark, playing roulette with the night sky and my daring game of evading waves in the pitch black.

Until then I sit in the courtyard under the dogwood trees, sparkling with lights, and cry my loneliness out to God.

So is the plight of all women.

Until then, we waste our time falling in love with so many of the wrong boys-  we let them change us and shape us and woo us and every heartbreaking time we let them leave us, and we say nothing.

This is the business that we're in- it is solitary and heart and soul and misery and discontent and extreme curiosity all at once.

Which is why Edith is wonderful- because she captures the essence of women in a way that transcends the barrier of language.  She sings with the language of the heart, with a depth of emotion that inflects the very words all our female hearts carry.

One sister to another.  Beauty.

5.22.12


There's a moth throwing himself repeatedly against my window, trying desperately to reach the lights in my kitchen.

The storm will probably kill him.

So would the lights.

Go figure.

Well write about it!  She said.

No need I said.  Just an observation on life.

I am aware of my solitude.  An orange skittle in a bowl of green MnMs.

I always get into the most dangerous moods when I write.

I want to light the world on fire.


6.6.12.


Piping hot cup of orange spice tea and I feel happier than a clam singing at the bottom of the sea inside it's shell.

Skinny love on shuffle and a batch of oatcakes in the oven.

Stormclouds crying and wheezing rain and wind periodically outside my window.  I am more comfortable than ever in my harem pants and mismatched wool socks.

Bible opened to Psalm 45 and I think about the words in front of me.

"Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves have gone over me."

Strong, pertinent words when the Pacific Ocean is your backyard playground.

I have fallen in love with this psalm and the clarity of the hope and assurance of trust in the words.

I love how in times of misery, David remembers his moments of worship in praise to lift his thoughts upwards again.

I miss  my Ocean.   I work down by the shore so many hours during the week, but I never spend enough downtime out there anymore.

I think this calls for a nice, long walk to North Beach.  To sit.  To marvel.  To pray.  To restore.

*also on 6.6.12*


There is an unrivalled beauty along the coastline on a stormy late spring day.

One half of the beach, to the south, is shrouded in a black cloud threatening rain and mist, and it mirrors its angry depth on the surface of a slate grey ocean.

And yet, tot he north, the sun beams through broken cumulous clouds of hope and color.

Far out at sea, its rays gleam shining and bright over the water, turning everything in view into a cream-colored white light of purity.

Mildly grey and green waves pound against shoreline and shrouded monoliths rise up like jagged dinosaurs out of the swells.

The rainclouds sit heavy and low.  The wind dies down and I feel a humid warmth creep over me.

I am very close to being caught in an impending heavy rainstorm, but I cannot pull myself away.

The colors, the sound, the sight, the smell, I want to stay here forever.

I feel so much peace and restoration.

I'm closest to the love I love the most when I come to the water's edge.

I can feel that heartbeat surging at the same rate as mine, in step with the swinging rhythm of the waves.

Nobody else shares my symmetry with it.

At times I feel so connected that I could just jump in and grow fins and gills and swim down, down, deep, far away from surface and sky and sound.

It is from the ocean I am sure that I have come, and it is the ocean where I desire to return.

Home.

My heart is here.

In the soft sand building up between rocks.

In the ebb and flow of the moon-guided tides.

In the song of the barnacles.

In the depth of the green-grey ocean.

Home.