jar of words

collected on thin strips of paper,
cursive fireflies, happy to be caught.

in a jar by the window, folded neatly, folded sweetly,
ink and meaning safe from fading, safe from time.

my view from the breakfast table (is looking good)

sunday morning diary

i woke up at 8:30 and for me, that is a sleep in. i can't remember the last time my eyes opened in the morning and the sun had beat me to it. i moved slowly to the kitchen, honouring the drowsy cocoon that'd kept me safe and rejuvenated my cells these last eight (twelve) hours. i tackled not the mountain of dishes, but each individual dish. soaping scrubbing rinsing, paying special attention to the sunshine on the counter and the pleasing (if deceptive) appearance of clean. i listened to the whitehorse album and the emerald isle song on repeat. i thought my headphones to be a nice and respectful touch for the benefit of my sleeping husband but remembered that my singing is out loud. i concluded it must be nice to wake up to your wife singing in the sunday sun and tried especially hard to make it sound beautiful. that's a mistake though, things are always way more beautiful when they're unintentional.

around here

living on the daytime side of mercury

did you know that one half of the planet mercury is perpetually day and the other perpetually night? how poetic. someone should write a book about two people who fall in love, one from the day side and the other from the night and they meet in the middle where it's always the afternoon.

i like to yell out the window to the stray cats that walk by. they stop and look my way as though they're listening. they continue on unmoved.

i know it's nuts and it's just february but it's starting to feel like spring. or like the time that comes just before spring. the spring pre-show. the air smells different and the daylight's stretching longer and i can't stop daydreaming of thawed, rich dirt.

i'm reading norwegian wood. it's beautiful and heartbreaking and simple and complex, like everything i've read by murakami so far.

do you know the saying "for every language that is learned, you gain another soul" - that's the best marketing for linguistics i've ever heard. i want five souls! and i want one of them to be russian!

although completely arbitrary and without any of its own meaning but that which we ascribe it, saturday is my all time favourite day of the week.

i do my loving all year round

valentine's day seems to me, a silly occasion. what are we doing to celebrate february 14th that we aren't doing all the other days? professing our love a little louder? purchasing heart shaped confections as proof of our emotions?

maybe the point of a tradition is the tradition itself. we engage in things knowing we're part of a community that's doing the same. we feel connected through our giving and receiving of sentiments and flowers. we are human beings and we are in love! and we are showing each other by buying things!

yeah i just don't get it. i plan to show jeremy how much i love him and i plan to spend zero dollars doing it. after all, the very best gifts are free and come from the heart. they also come from the inside of a bottle of champagne and we have a gift certificate.

happy loving.


saturday morning (on snow)

i seem to have developed a writing pattern. saturday morning, no matter what time we crawled into bed the night before, i get up with the sun and make myself a pot of coffee. i say i'll make the whole pot for us to share but i know that if i let him, he'll sleep in long after its gone cold.

i slip on the couch and under the quilt, i look out the window and think of the things i want to say. they're never far off and are much more likely to show themselves in these quiet mornings of solitude. i am absolutely a morning person.

we went to a friends for dinner last night, good food and good company and the lovely kind of reflection that follows on the long way home when you miss the last bus and have to walk, hand in hand, to your doorstep. i like to be the first footprints on freshly fallen snow.

it's interesting to get a glimpse into the lives of others. the books they've read the art they've chosen the placement of artifacts, some here some there, that tell a story of a life being lived. that give clues of every day choices. i look around at our clues and wonder what they say that we can't see. objectivity is impossible.

the wind makes the snow appear more intense, we see the swirls and squalls and are confused into thinking it's a blizzard. i'll go outside to meet it and deduce it's nothing more than single flakes meeting and parting, meeting and parting, looking frantically for one other snowflake that's just the same.

the unbearable weight of unknowing

sometimes i think of the seeming infinity of possible knowledge, (war, art, philosophy, politics, environment, poetry, religion, the intricacies of our human relationships), and it feels impossible for a lifetime.

it seems insurmountable that someone so small and mortal could get anywhere beyond the surface.