Uncategorized 3:20 pm
Finished How Can I.. turned it into verse and submitted, per advice.
Will continue playing with it for literary…
Listn’ to: Don Buster Show Radio AFRS Vietnam, a cd a friend made from 60’s.
***
Stop the world a minute, God. I’m getting off, catch you on the next spin…
Uncategorized 12:34 pm
I have no idea where I’m going with this wip, but I’m continuing forward–I have it in verse on doc., It may very well become verse… it may very well turn literary, take a hundred years to complete
His eyes are blue, they grow dark from the shadowed hues of overhead slate–-darker from want.
***
Sifted through the bones and ashes of this piece, deleted and edited to submit.
Music listn’ to : DIDO, WhiteFlag – intro of white flag is smooth…
Uncategorized 6:50 pm
a crossing of paths, from long ago in the Vieux Carre’…
wip–titled:
How Can I Love You When You Are A Hundred Years Away
…wisps of steam rise from Vieux Carre’ cobbled streets, a horse’s low whinny breaks the silence. I peer over the encased bougainvillea wrought iron veranda of an old clinker-bricked building… a cold waterlogged white sheet is wrapped around me. My fingers cradle the delicate tea cup. It is cracked but filled with Absinthe, the smell of floral invites another sip, while overhead weathered slate of roof shades me, yet imprisons the heat, holds it eternal. The cool of lisle melds with flesh, I loosen my wrap and look up… His eyes are grey, they grow dark from the shadowed hues of overhead slate–darker from want. They should be brown… Brown eyes… My breathing quickens. I look away, but I’m drawn back, suddenly immersed in pools of still cave waters… He does not know; he does not yet remember… and over a hundred years must pass before he does… My heart shatters. He hands me a rose, it is sunflowers I love, but the rose has such beauty; a red so rich and deep, black, its texture; thick peach-velvet unlike any I’ve touched before. I am in awe… I do not like roses…
…puffs of blue smoke rise from cobbled streets, the rev of a cranky motor from a silver SUV breaks the silence, I peer over the rusted wrought iron veranda of a chalk-dusted building… a silk blouse clings to me. My fingers wrap around tall sweated glass. It is smooth, filled with sweet tea, the smell of lemon invites another sip… The cool of silk molds to skin. An overhead Havana spins slow, stirs stale air, teases. I smooth down fabric and look up… His eyes are brown, wading pools of sun-lit amber. They should be grey… Grey eyes. I look away, remember he is a hundred years away… My heart shatters. He lays a sunflower in my lap, it is roses I love, the sunflower is ugly, its face a dull brown with faded slimed yellow petals… I am repulsed… I do not like sunflowers…
Music: listn’ to Dave Brubeck, “Indian Summer”
Blaring in another room, Rascal Flatt’s “Take Me There”, though not a fan whatsoever, I :heart: this song–it makes me smile…
:happy dances:
critique
Shit kimmi I hate to see this sitting here all alone-it sure is purdy-
…what I love about your writing here is your unique voice-literary maybe-who cares-writing is writing-this is beautiful but important is your voice-make sense? Yah dear I am a bit of a goof-but I read so much and hear so little-your voice is unique as I said-a very rare gift indeed you have me dear-very rare indeed!
Dave-aw
Uncategorized 4:12 pm
Drums fingers, sighs, stares out the window watches the grass burn, turn to straw. Looks at computer. Tea time…
Type, write, write, Po’ete mau dit… po’ete mau dit… my words are as abstract as the cricket’s song now. Cricket legs are everywhere, the heat shriveled them up, they lay like tiny pixie sticks across my drive. Plays with puppies, walks cautiously around the wicked cat, green eyes glued to her gold as I pass, prepared to battle, visits Cath’s blog :sigh: her too.
Answers phone, goes over builder’s design, catches seven mistakes… :brring: ignores phone ringing, cranks up music–phone rings again–crank it up higher…
The past arrives present.
…the world stops, then inhales deeply and releases a blast of hot air which suffocates tropicals:
…sitting on the 2nd story of an encased bougainvillea wrought iron veranda of an old building… a cold waterlogged white sheet is wrapped around me. My delicate tea cup is cracked but filled with Absente, the smell of floral invites another sip. The overhead, weathered gray slate of the roof shades me, yet imprisons the heat, holds it eternal. The cool threaded lisle melds with flesh, I loosen my wrap and look up… He hands me a rose. I do not care for roses, it is sunflowers I love, but the rose has such beauty; a red so rich and deep, it is black, its texture; thick peach-velvet unlike any I’ve touched before. I am in awe… I do not like roses…
but alas, this is now present… I can not sit out on my porch, wrap myself in cold sodden sheets, drink narcotic drink or touch rare roses. …the neighbors and sense and sensibilities, being what they are…
I will not miss my neighbors.
Listening to soundtrack City of Angels.
Contemplating on putting audio book of A Breath of Snow and Ashes.
Uncategorized 4:11 pm
It’s back to initiating 13 Thursdays, a plan I came up with years ago for my family. Basically it’s all about ‘simplifying.’
“Each member of my househould must bring me 13 objects every Wednesday, things such as their ‘toys,’ clothing etc… items which they no longer use, preferably their ‘wants’ not ‘needs’. No whining allowed. It is then separated into two piles, donations and trash, then donated or put out to trash Thursday morning.”
I need this right now as I am building a house, preparing to move.
My house should be completed by next year–a little later depending… and I am now making an effort to become involved in the design, as I have given the builder carte` blanche up to now, but no more. I’ve designed a library and he can build the house around it, as long as I have my library, but it must be my design concisely.
My current read is Left To Tell, a wonderful story of strength written by Immaculee’ Ilibagiza about the Rwandan Holocaust.
Music: listening to soundtrack Sweet November
Manuscript status: 2 fulls out, waiting on replys.
Uncategorized 3:55 pm
..today my dear friend dropped by. Adorable, pinkish-purple tinted hair and all. Ann is an ER doctor, who greets life with a smile and sass. She brought me yellow roses, my fav` color, but it was her words she wrote on the card, that as usual blew me away, “Most people protect their “baggage” through life, as if it is a treasure.”
Listening to soundtrack, Les Miserables
About 7:13 pm
An excerpt from my book.
Sister Charlie died the week I turned seven. Hate killed her, or so I’d heard. Whether it was hers or my own, I wasn’t quite sure.
For three days the nuns herded us into the Chapel to visit her body. And for two hours on each of those days, I knelt before dead Sister Charlie and worried about Hell. Hers and mine.
