My boys, those rascals, know I am up before the sun. The house is dark and quiet as I come down the stairs to get the coffee started, the dog walked, the writing, written. This morning, or rather late last night, they left plastic cups strewn on the bottom of the steps of the stairs, which I, of course, stepped right on and kicked right over, creating a noisy plastic racket that even startled the dog. Scared the bejesus out of me. April Fools. April friggin' Fools. #smallstories
@dogtrax We are just hyphae in the rhizosphere, our filamentous selves trembling in the fungal quiet ion cascades that roll over us like tides in the dirt.
I couldn't shake lines of his poem from my head. Funny how that happens. There were reverberations, too. Echoes. His poem reminded me of a poem I too had written, many years ago. So, words swirled, tumbled. Quiet moments, to the outside world - me, sitting, seeming to be doing nothing, staring -- were not at all quiet in my mind. Words danced. I locked myself away, with guitar, and did the best I could do to capture the story, this song, these words, this poem, these lives. #smallstories
In the glamor of the pre-dawn I hear the phoebes sing just as they did nearly 29 years ago when my daughter was born upstairs in our home. We named her Phoebe because they sang her name all night long and well into the morning and then proclaimed her after she was born. Now, every spring, as they sing and then nest, I am reminded of my youngest daughter. https://goo.gl/2HcSek5#smallstories
Tonight we made pizza and music. Three dear friends came over - two brought instruments. They joined me, and my eldest two children and we played and sang together - whatever came to mind.
Guitar, hammered dulcimer, two cellos, harp, and voices.
I am watching the nasty weather outside: 40 degrees F, old rain, gusting wind. I have to feed the sheep and I dinna wanna do it.
My memory spins to the summer: climbing atop a noisome diesel tractor I mow the field's margins stirring up ground nests of yellow jackets. As I duck low branches I feel a "watchdog" of ticks fall on me and assassin bugs and blister beetles all aflutter on my clothes and skin.
I am watching the nasty weather outside: 40 degrees F, old rain, gusting wind. I have to feed the shee[ and I dinna wanna do it.My memory spins to the summer: clamboring atop a noisome diesel tractor I mow the field's margins stirring up ground nests of yellow jackets. As I duck low branches I feel a "watchdog" of ticks fall on me and assassin bugs and blister beetles all aflutter on my clothes and skin. The nastiness becomes a happier form of struggle.A happy obstacle. https://youtu.be/nUwctZnrLGQ
@tellio This is what a poem feels like, falling to the ground with just a brief gust of wind, disappearing on contact but for the memory of what once there had been: snowflakes melting on our lips.
I'm listening to her singing, and thinking, how lucky are we that she needed a band right when we needed a singer, and we found each other? There are moments like last night when she is deep into a song -- eyes closed, head bent, full in -- and we're all in sync (even as we still auditon bass players), and its her voice that carries us all forward. We float under and above her. Meanwhile, her song selection is expanding all of us, musically. When musicians click, it's pure magic. #smallstories
@dogtrax And the dice we toss are increasingly 'loaded' toward extremis because of human 'dominion'. Loading the climate dice...and that game is finite.
@dogtrax Turn your spring into strings. Recycle your strings? Hang some lengths of pipe from them and make a windchime. It would be cool if the the tone of the chime was the same as the string. That way they would always be blowin' in the wind: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBDdLgBO0Nw