snowy morning.
Woke sprawled and warm to white streaming in the window. The roof beside me suddenly plush and downy. The green leaves leaning anxiously, crumpled; barely hanging, with the weight of the white.
Steaming black currant tea. Laced my boots. I'm out into the snow, down the long slope of Broadway to the Farmer's Market, to see what's left. Potatoes, I'd guess. I'll buy jars of other people's homemade sauce; my tomatoes molded this year before I could properly get to them. And empanadas. Lately there's been nothing so good as sticking those flaky pastries in the oven- grabbing them up with towels to eat as I head out the door. I devoured the last one reclined in bed last night, reading "Olive Kitteridge"--this year's Pulitzer Prize.
It beat Erdrich's new book, Plague of Doves. It better be good.
I left the bookstore yesterday with an armful. No one is calling me back and everyone is cancelling. For days now I've had nothing to do. So: books. Days are spent curled in quilts. I am freshly in love with fiction, not touching an ounce of non. And music, too-- drove to see Gregory Alan Isakov in Lyons last night, in a giant barn with temporary walls hung up and giant heat lamps humming. Sat crying in my hard folding chair as he played back to me the most wonderful spring of my life-- the one where I was living alone in the most wonderful cabin, in the armpit of the Wyoming Range, in love with someone who could not love me. I was tiny and packed full of vibrance for the world-- trust regained. I was swallowing his CD in gulps back then.
Last night I was not tiny, not vibrant. I have not wanted to be alive again of late.
Each note filled my blood with life.
The curves of his new songs, pouring in and out of this broken, stifled heart, were an electricity. I pray my thanks without pausing a moment.
"Those brokenhearted lovers got nothin' on me..."
Steaming black currant tea. Laced my boots. I'm out into the snow, down the long slope of Broadway to the Farmer's Market, to see what's left. Potatoes, I'd guess. I'll buy jars of other people's homemade sauce; my tomatoes molded this year before I could properly get to them. And empanadas. Lately there's been nothing so good as sticking those flaky pastries in the oven- grabbing them up with towels to eat as I head out the door. I devoured the last one reclined in bed last night, reading "Olive Kitteridge"--this year's Pulitzer Prize.
It beat Erdrich's new book, Plague of Doves. It better be good.
I left the bookstore yesterday with an armful. No one is calling me back and everyone is cancelling. For days now I've had nothing to do. So: books. Days are spent curled in quilts. I am freshly in love with fiction, not touching an ounce of non. And music, too-- drove to see Gregory Alan Isakov in Lyons last night, in a giant barn with temporary walls hung up and giant heat lamps humming. Sat crying in my hard folding chair as he played back to me the most wonderful spring of my life-- the one where I was living alone in the most wonderful cabin, in the armpit of the Wyoming Range, in love with someone who could not love me. I was tiny and packed full of vibrance for the world-- trust regained. I was swallowing his CD in gulps back then.
Last night I was not tiny, not vibrant. I have not wanted to be alive again of late.
Each note filled my blood with life.
The curves of his new songs, pouring in and out of this broken, stifled heart, were an electricity. I pray my thanks without pausing a moment.
"Those brokenhearted lovers got nothin' on me..."