hope

this is a pencil. i found it last friday in swonderful. i wanted it. and that day i needed it. happiness for two dollars and fifty cents.

     She made her life one of uncommon worth.

perspective

His father looked from the horizon to explain that trains got smaller and smaller as they moved away, and that to accommodate them the rails did the same. Otherwise there would be derailments.

from The child in time by Ian McEwan

sharing

i would like to share one of my favorite short stories with you. i love short stories. and this one... i've read over and over again. the story is mournful, lonely, and an illustration of overwhelming sadness. and i find it moving, hopeful and beautiful.

This Is How Good the Coffee  by Denise Sammons

It's a grey day, raining and cold, yet I'm sitting, under shelter, outside. Happy. I am loving the  feeling of the clambering stopping. Then a tram full of American tourists pulls up outside the cafe and empties its cargo onto the footpath. A woman dressed in pink is telling another - who looks like a baseball on legs, all round and striped - about her problem. 'Oh,' her friend says, 'there's a product on the market for that.'

     I sit in the noise and feel a kindness, a warmth, maybe even some kind of love for these loud people. This is how good the coffee is.

     I am thinking of the French doors at home and how they will be leaking now (don't tell the real estate agent). Or do tell the real estate agent and maybe our house will never sell. Yes. I am imagining the soft plop, plop of the drops on the inside of the glass. I know you are at home with the open-mouthed boxes that are waiting to swallow our life together. You will be sitting with the cats, reassuring the ones you are taking and saying goodbye to the ones staying with me. In this moment I can almost see how it could all work out for the best. This is how good the coffee is.

     Sparrows ring the table where I am sitting. They skid towards my plate, aiming for the muffin, but then they get frightened and slide back to the edge of the table. They have no staying power. Their claws have no traction. Up close their bland commonness is transformed into beauty. The striking marking on their wings making a pleasing contrast to the soft, downy bodies. I want to hold one in my hand so some of that softness could seep into me, into my heart. I know that's impossible. I think of her. I do not smile. No coffee is that good.

from This Is How Good the Coffee Is by Denise Sammons. i found it a book given to me by my Nana. One hundred New Zealand short short stories, edited by Stephen Stratford, 2000.

oh it's only the best fish burger you'll ever eat

some time ago now a wonderful person shared something he loved with me. and together we enjoyed a burger on a lovely saturday afternoon.

a beautiful fish burger from Bay Takeaway in Island bay. i think you should go. now.

by train

over the christmas holiday i travelled by train to christchurch. and later home again to wellington.

i think there is something beautiful about taking the train. it's quiet and noisey all at once. sometimes i slept as the train rattled along. i read, daydreamed and listened to the rain. i like to be alone and still surrounded by people and the landscape.

He walked across the length of every carriage looking for the most secluded seat. A disruptive minority of humankind regarded journeys, even short ones, as the occasion for pleasant encounters. There were people ready to inflict intimacies on strangers. Such travellers were to be avoided if you belonged to the majority for whom a journey was the occasion for silence, reflection, daydream. The requirements were simple: an unobstructed view of a changing landscape, however dull, and freedom from the breath of other passengers, their body warmth, sandwiches and limbs.


from The child in time by Ian McEwan

quietly

it's been a slow start to the new year. the best kind. very slow.
i've been lounging in the sun. and then reading, sleeping, traveling, camping and collecting. and i'd like to go back there. please. Oh summer, how i adore you. can't we be together a little longer? just you and i.

      the beautiful blue caravan. i'm in love.

coffee with love

i love coffee. and found things make me happy.

I'll love you dear. I'll love you till China and Africa meet.
And the river jumps over the mountain.
And the salmon sings in the street.
I'll love you till the ocean is folded and hung up to dry.
And the seven stars go squawking.
Like geese about the sky.


i found this in TopSupermarket on Willis street.
the text is sweet and amusing. i am in love.

happiness

i think there are many things to be grateful for. so with a lot of inspiration from one of my favorite blogs http://taza-and-husband.blogspot.com/


here are ten things that make me terribly happy...

1. the lovely smell of manderines and the citrus oil on
    my fingers as i peel them
2. trains that toot as they travel by people with waving
    hands
3. unexpected messages that make me smile
4. playing badminton, pool and pingpong all in one
    beautiful sunny day
5. scarecrows in Spotswood that dress up as Santa
6. goodbye hugs
7. looking forward to welcome home hugs
8. rain falling on the pavement on hot days
9. jandals (my new favorite footwear)
10. late night coffee with christmas mince pies

here's to happiness!

in the land of nod

i sleep deeply at night... and in the day. i love the warmth of my bed. i don't dream often and sometimes i feel as though no time has passed.
is it time to wake up now?
all i think of is home. and sleep. all day.

i want rest. and you. all to myself.

humming

They exchanged glances, trying to recognise the emotions of the day before. For a moment each seemed unreal to the other - then the slow warm hum of love began again.

from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

silence with you

remember when we lay down in the road together. holding hands. either side of the centre line with our heads just touching. watching the sky. a slight wind brushing across our faces. and we stayed. quietly. whispering. until we grew cold.

does a blank page scare you?

sometimes i find this blog a bit like opening a new journal. it's perfect. just by itself.

i feel guilty for forgetting to post. what shall i write? i worry. i don't want to ruin it with all my untidy handwriting. and it scares me. a lot.

but maybe that's exactly what it needs. for me to find a blank page somewhere lost in the middle. to scribble. and draw all over it. imperfection.

hundreds of tiny words

you have a pile of books next to your bed. a little shelf all its own. and i love you for it.

salt

No lips, don't make a sound

Don't let him hear the break in your voice

Hand, let go of his with ease and grace

Don't let him bleed under your nails

from Hold Heart by Emiliana Torrini

my dear

i listened to these beautiful words in the morning. then again. and again. and again.

i've been outside. invited in. but I couldn't abide. i wouldn't miss it again. burning every bridge that i cross. to find some beautiful place to get lost.

i had true love. i made it die. i pushed her away. she said please stay. burning every bridge that i cross. to find some beautiful place to get lost.

i don't know where I'll go now. and I don't really care who follows me there. but I'll burn every bridge that I cross. and find some beautiful place to get lost.

from Let's get lost by Elliott Smith

oh summer!

dear sunshine,

i felt you on my skin today. and you left a mark. i have dreamt of you. for sometime now.

i want to feel your burning heat on my shoulders. my sweat. your dry wind. and the too cold salty water against my skin.

out here's too cold and i don't want to walk it alone

when i was lost, you thought me a beautiful find.
sometimes i think of you sleeping, so sleep for awhile.


from Beggar's Prayer by Emiliana Torrini

she was still as still.

This was because she knew few words and believed in none, and in the world she was rather silent, contributing just her share of urbane humor with a precision that approached meagerness. But at the moment when strangers tended to grow uncomfortable in the presence of this economy she would seize the topic and rush off with it, feverishly surprised with herself - then bring it back and relinquish it abruptly, almost timidly, like an obedient retriever, having been adequate and something more.


from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

monday

Abandoned Dome


I leaked.
And my ceilings went on forever. You could lose your head and kite. You could fall in love with distance and grow lonely at the same time.
I could never be divided. I wanted you wholly. I wanted to lick your open spaces, your paranoia, and the damp salt behind each knee.
Come, let me charm you in my whisper gallery where I can hear you breathe from the other side of the moon and when you moan, each window moans too. My sounds once delighted - triangle, pentagon, icosahedron, ding-dong, I miss you.
The front door, so difficult to open, meant please and stay, love insulating our private balloon.


from Fields, Ribbons, Folds: Somatic Landscapes for Zaha Hadid by Hadara bar-Nada

bones

What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.

from And our faces, my heart, brief as photos by John Berger