(no subject)
The laundry never ends. Ever.
Three weeks till sweet sweet freedom.
All I want to do this summer is read, run, and lay in the grass with a huge glass of tea and my raybans on.
Warm summer sunshine.
Goals for the summer-
spend less money
learn stick
steal dads VW bus
drive to some place sunny and arid
wear sun dresses every day
read kerouac every day
take my fisheye with me everywhere
stock up on polaroid film, then use it all
freckles
tattoo
nose piercing
spontaneous roadtrip
backpack
lose another dress size
go to the mountains
take my puppies to the dog park
pull a thoreau, and go to edith's cabin in monteagle by myself
write something i can be proud of
Realistically, I'm aware the possibility of most, if any, of this happening is slim to none, but it's nice to daydream. Idealistic summer thoughts are always a beautiful thing to have.
I'm thinking about entering something I wrote in high school (and have been tinkering with lately) into the mtsu literary journal. Nervous, but willing to try.
“The smoke that doth so high ascend
Shows that our lives must have an end
The vapor's gone
Man's life is done
Think on this when you smoke tobacco”
-Tobacco is an Indian Weed, James VI
The seasons passed in my childhood just as they would in any other. Spring brought rain and soft blowing buds on the pear trees in my neighbor’s yard. Winter meant a short relief from school burdens and sleeping mysteries hidden in the morning frost. Summer ushered in recognition of the passage of time and the onslaught of unavoidable maturity, but fall…fall meant twilight.
My father’s office has always (regardless of location) been a cave of books and papers. I grew up with the crooked face of Andrew Jackson staring solemnly down at me from his off-kilter position on the wall. The prints that adorned his office were paintings done by an old friend. My father had often posed for him. In these pictures I saw the imposing brow and rounded nose of my father, but he was magically dressed as John Smith, or he was a singular militiaman gazing placidly down across a smooth river at a small herd of drinking deer. He was a time traveler.
His floors were barely distinguishable amongst the stacks of books scattered around the room. Obviously read, their edges were bent and smudged with the oils off his commanding finger. The bookshelf behind his desk was of medium height and was covered with books and relics of his past. Studying the items placed on the painted wood was like gaining access to an archaeological dig of his subconscious. A small model airplane, a crudely crafted clay skull, a picture of a young boy in a Scout’s uniform with the same brow and nose, just a softer eye and countenance. My brother. A picture of my father with long hair, his face engulfed by a pair of glasses congruent with the style of the time, and his arms around a small blonde girl with an open face and a self-conscious smile. My mother. Several small vials of ink sat quietly awaiting their use. A picture of a raven-haired toddler in a cherry red jacket struggling to mount a bale of hay. A fall noon many years ago. She tumbled and grinned, forever smiling with her baby face turned up to the autumn leaves. This baby now taking care of a baby all her own, one who owns an almost mirror likeness. My sister. A model VW bug, a few boxes of buckshot, a small day calendar that had been forgotten. These objects adorned the shelves of my father’s office. Time frozen.
It was on his desk, however, where the crux of the room was stored. Amid the papers covered with the long scrolling script of his hand and the odd assortment of pens, pencils, and business cards sat a deep, round, cherry wood container. My father’s pipe carousel. The embodiment of fall. Around the edges there were vertically drilled holes, specially made slots for his collection of pipes. He had many, all different colors and sizes. Some ornately decorated, others crudely whittled by a dull blade. In the center was a smaller container, half filled with the mystery stuff. The material that, on crisp fall evenings, my father would pack into his choice pipe. I would sit and watch in silence as he reclined and enjoyed this special providence. The blue smoke left his mustached lip and curled into the twilight, mixing with the orange and red glowing embers that bejeweled the poplar tree in our front yard. The evening fell into the trees, and the stars appeared, turning the smoke into a purple ribbon, and I would watch it dance into the twilight. The stars dripping onto the sliver in the sky. With my father it was a slow process.
The stars commandeered the horizon and the moon become the compass rose for the sky map in his mind. Do you see Orion Nik? Yes sir. And you see the Great Bear, and Orion’s Dog? Yes sir. You know what he’s doing. He’s still chasing the seven sisters, the Pleidas. He became so ardent for them that Zeus, their daddy, feared for them. He turned them all into twinkling doves and placed them in the night sky. Orion still chases them. That’s love.
Then he sent me off to bed, where I would lay and let it seep into my pores. The stars, the lore, the smoke. Those evenings as I lay in bed, my mind would refract all I had seen and heard. I could feel my brain buzzing and glowing within my skull, smoke swirling and twisting between the folds. I would close my eyes and grow woozy from the scent of the tobacco tingling in my nose. I would fall swiftly to the dream cavity. Here I could dance and leap from star to star, talking with the sister’s as they shivered brightly in their celestial prison. I too felt the fear and love Zeus the father felt surging through his skin. I looked back and saw Orion climb on. Always remaining a certain distance, never gaining, never losing. And, if I looked hard enough, I could see my own father, sitting on the front stoop. Time frozen, staring through the fading trees at the night sky, the smell of tobacco in his hair.
A lot of the emphasis is lost without the italics.
You get the gist though.
I'm tired. I want to sleep till May.
Maybe I will...
Three weeks till sweet sweet freedom.
All I want to do this summer is read, run, and lay in the grass with a huge glass of tea and my raybans on.
Warm summer sunshine.
Goals for the summer-
spend less money
learn stick
steal dads VW bus
drive to some place sunny and arid
wear sun dresses every day
read kerouac every day
take my fisheye with me everywhere
stock up on polaroid film, then use it all
freckles
tattoo
nose piercing
spontaneous roadtrip
backpack
lose another dress size
go to the mountains
take my puppies to the dog park
pull a thoreau, and go to edith's cabin in monteagle by myself
write something i can be proud of
Realistically, I'm aware the possibility of most, if any, of this happening is slim to none, but it's nice to daydream. Idealistic summer thoughts are always a beautiful thing to have.
I'm thinking about entering something I wrote in high school (and have been tinkering with lately) into the mtsu literary journal. Nervous, but willing to try.
“The smoke that doth so high ascend
Shows that our lives must have an end
The vapor's gone
Man's life is done
Think on this when you smoke tobacco”
-Tobacco is an Indian Weed, James VI
The seasons passed in my childhood just as they would in any other. Spring brought rain and soft blowing buds on the pear trees in my neighbor’s yard. Winter meant a short relief from school burdens and sleeping mysteries hidden in the morning frost. Summer ushered in recognition of the passage of time and the onslaught of unavoidable maturity, but fall…fall meant twilight.
My father’s office has always (regardless of location) been a cave of books and papers. I grew up with the crooked face of Andrew Jackson staring solemnly down at me from his off-kilter position on the wall. The prints that adorned his office were paintings done by an old friend. My father had often posed for him. In these pictures I saw the imposing brow and rounded nose of my father, but he was magically dressed as John Smith, or he was a singular militiaman gazing placidly down across a smooth river at a small herd of drinking deer. He was a time traveler.
His floors were barely distinguishable amongst the stacks of books scattered around the room. Obviously read, their edges were bent and smudged with the oils off his commanding finger. The bookshelf behind his desk was of medium height and was covered with books and relics of his past. Studying the items placed on the painted wood was like gaining access to an archaeological dig of his subconscious. A small model airplane, a crudely crafted clay skull, a picture of a young boy in a Scout’s uniform with the same brow and nose, just a softer eye and countenance. My brother. A picture of my father with long hair, his face engulfed by a pair of glasses congruent with the style of the time, and his arms around a small blonde girl with an open face and a self-conscious smile. My mother. Several small vials of ink sat quietly awaiting their use. A picture of a raven-haired toddler in a cherry red jacket struggling to mount a bale of hay. A fall noon many years ago. She tumbled and grinned, forever smiling with her baby face turned up to the autumn leaves. This baby now taking care of a baby all her own, one who owns an almost mirror likeness. My sister. A model VW bug, a few boxes of buckshot, a small day calendar that had been forgotten. These objects adorned the shelves of my father’s office. Time frozen.
It was on his desk, however, where the crux of the room was stored. Amid the papers covered with the long scrolling script of his hand and the odd assortment of pens, pencils, and business cards sat a deep, round, cherry wood container. My father’s pipe carousel. The embodiment of fall. Around the edges there were vertically drilled holes, specially made slots for his collection of pipes. He had many, all different colors and sizes. Some ornately decorated, others crudely whittled by a dull blade. In the center was a smaller container, half filled with the mystery stuff. The material that, on crisp fall evenings, my father would pack into his choice pipe. I would sit and watch in silence as he reclined and enjoyed this special providence. The blue smoke left his mustached lip and curled into the twilight, mixing with the orange and red glowing embers that bejeweled the poplar tree in our front yard. The evening fell into the trees, and the stars appeared, turning the smoke into a purple ribbon, and I would watch it dance into the twilight. The stars dripping onto the sliver in the sky. With my father it was a slow process.
The stars commandeered the horizon and the moon become the compass rose for the sky map in his mind. Do you see Orion Nik? Yes sir. And you see the Great Bear, and Orion’s Dog? Yes sir. You know what he’s doing. He’s still chasing the seven sisters, the Pleidas. He became so ardent for them that Zeus, their daddy, feared for them. He turned them all into twinkling doves and placed them in the night sky. Orion still chases them. That’s love.
Then he sent me off to bed, where I would lay and let it seep into my pores. The stars, the lore, the smoke. Those evenings as I lay in bed, my mind would refract all I had seen and heard. I could feel my brain buzzing and glowing within my skull, smoke swirling and twisting between the folds. I would close my eyes and grow woozy from the scent of the tobacco tingling in my nose. I would fall swiftly to the dream cavity. Here I could dance and leap from star to star, talking with the sister’s as they shivered brightly in their celestial prison. I too felt the fear and love Zeus the father felt surging through his skin. I looked back and saw Orion climb on. Always remaining a certain distance, never gaining, never losing. And, if I looked hard enough, I could see my own father, sitting on the front stoop. Time frozen, staring through the fading trees at the night sky, the smell of tobacco in his hair.
A lot of the emphasis is lost without the italics.
You get the gist though.
I'm tired. I want to sleep till May.
Maybe I will...