Listening to: The Late Great Townes Van Zandt
Talking to: My husband
Writing in: My writer’s notebook
Drinking: Apple juice (cut with water) (very hardcore)
Petting: The cat
Shooing: The cat
Health Status: Tired and coughing
Album to listen to: Live at the Old Quarter (Townes Van Zandt)
Sitting in bed, February afternoon, sunny, and the wind blows the trees, bends their trunks, sways their branches — bright blue winter sky — and white sunlight filters into the bedroom, and for some reason I feel like a young kid, maybe eight or ten, and the wind and the trees and sky make me think of library books, and that the world is full of wonder, and that a quest is out there waiting for me, and I get this feeling that perhaps it’s possible to believe in magic, in giant eagles and mountains that move and stallions that speak and all the things in tales and old songs.
All this, just from trees blowing in the wind.
Could I stare at something unmoving (i.e.: a picture, painting, work of art, product on a shelf) for 10 whole minutes?
I’m not sure I could. What does that say about me?
(this thought came from reading The Art of Noticing by Rob Walker)
sea of clouds, gray, swirling above the earth
neon white/chemical white, lined paper sitting atop snow, blue lines & pink,
folded/creased, then unfolded,
partially crumpled but not, uncrumpled,
resting within a crevice of snow
My daughter climbed mounds of snow at school today.
From The Imitation of Christ:
He who best knows how to suffer enjoys the greatest peace, and such a man is victor over himself, master of the world, friend of Christ, and heir of heaven.”
(from the section called “The Man Who Loves Peace”)
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