out of the woods
This place is like a retreat center.
I'm housesitting again. Out in the woods, deep in Easton, in the valley, under the peak and shade of Kinsman Ridge. Easton is a wild place. There is a wind that rips through this funneled valley, and it screams against the mountains. It's called the Bungay Jar. I've only ever heard it once and I could have sworn God was coming. Scared the skin off me. But kind of in a good way. Do you know what I mean?
Jeannie has done gorgeous things to this house. Huge gardens, stone benches hidden in little tree-nooks, big deck with huge plush chairs. I tend to hide when I come out here. I read a lot. I eat copious amounts of apples right off her tree when I'm here in the Fall. I scratch the dog behind the ears and we walk out in the woods. Feels like a getaway.
I found something I wrote almost exactly a year ago when I was out here...
when i housesit here, as i do nearly every other month, i get so far into my own head and lose all sang-froid. at night, the banshee screams of fisher cats, and the haunted howls and yips of coyotes gathering in the back acreage twinge my spine and raise the hair on my neck. it's primal. a primitive response to all that is predatory in the darkness around this house.
and to all that is predatory inside of me too.
when i'm out in the woods like this the trees breathe all their oxygen exhalations on me--the perfume of the forest.
all green things and rot.
it drives into my skin.
i wrote a poem about the man i loved once, a year ago or so [i've written a hundred poems to the men i've loved]. i charged him to go out to the garden and overturn a dead thing. to sink his fingers in where the roots held on for dear life. to find me there.
i don't know if he ever did. i wouldn't guess he did.
he started every sentence with I.
all the humidity these days... i'm beginning to rust. but last night i slept right next to the window and the night air in easton valley was so cold that i woke up at 4am shivering. pulled a comforter out from jeannie's closet and huddled under it that my body-quakes might produce enough heat to thaw this thing--this early february i'm carrying around right in the center of me. there's something grey and vaguely willowtree about it--a sadness that is at once hushed and nearly dove-like in its placidity. i'm not even really sure what i'm talking about. just meaningless thoughts pixelized and presented in brown and white.
i heard neil young tell he wanted to live his life with a cinnamon girl. i wonder if there's such a thing as a cinnamon man. or maybe nutmeg. they're compatible, you know. cardamon perhaps. or star anise. earthy texture and warm on the palate. tastes good with beaujolais, bolsters the blood.
and bears the winter gracefully.
I'm so happy not to be in that grey place.
This summer is clean and bright. Something shining on a shelf.
I'm having a dinner party tonight. Jeannie gave me free rein to her wine collection, and she has olive oil from Tuscany in a ceramic decanter. Do you want to come over? ;)
I'm housesitting again. Out in the woods, deep in Easton, in the valley, under the peak and shade of Kinsman Ridge. Easton is a wild place. There is a wind that rips through this funneled valley, and it screams against the mountains. It's called the Bungay Jar. I've only ever heard it once and I could have sworn God was coming. Scared the skin off me. But kind of in a good way. Do you know what I mean?
Jeannie has done gorgeous things to this house. Huge gardens, stone benches hidden in little tree-nooks, big deck with huge plush chairs. I tend to hide when I come out here. I read a lot. I eat copious amounts of apples right off her tree when I'm here in the Fall. I scratch the dog behind the ears and we walk out in the woods. Feels like a getaway.
I found something I wrote almost exactly a year ago when I was out here...
when i housesit here, as i do nearly every other month, i get so far into my own head and lose all sang-froid. at night, the banshee screams of fisher cats, and the haunted howls and yips of coyotes gathering in the back acreage twinge my spine and raise the hair on my neck. it's primal. a primitive response to all that is predatory in the darkness around this house.
and to all that is predatory inside of me too.
when i'm out in the woods like this the trees breathe all their oxygen exhalations on me--the perfume of the forest.
all green things and rot.
it drives into my skin.
i wrote a poem about the man i loved once, a year ago or so [i've written a hundred poems to the men i've loved]. i charged him to go out to the garden and overturn a dead thing. to sink his fingers in where the roots held on for dear life. to find me there.
i don't know if he ever did. i wouldn't guess he did.
he started every sentence with I.
all the humidity these days... i'm beginning to rust. but last night i slept right next to the window and the night air in easton valley was so cold that i woke up at 4am shivering. pulled a comforter out from jeannie's closet and huddled under it that my body-quakes might produce enough heat to thaw this thing--this early february i'm carrying around right in the center of me. there's something grey and vaguely willowtree about it--a sadness that is at once hushed and nearly dove-like in its placidity. i'm not even really sure what i'm talking about. just meaningless thoughts pixelized and presented in brown and white.
i heard neil young tell he wanted to live his life with a cinnamon girl. i wonder if there's such a thing as a cinnamon man. or maybe nutmeg. they're compatible, you know. cardamon perhaps. or star anise. earthy texture and warm on the palate. tastes good with beaujolais, bolsters the blood.
and bears the winter gracefully.
I'm so happy not to be in that grey place.
This summer is clean and bright. Something shining on a shelf.
I'm having a dinner party tonight. Jeannie gave me free rein to her wine collection, and she has olive oil from Tuscany in a ceramic decanter. Do you want to come over? ;)