He is probably my favourite.
This makes my fingers and my heart hurt for a piano.
29.6.11
26.5.11
16.5.11
things are changing
Things have been a little stressful and unsettled these days. But God is good, and I'm choosing to believe that this season of my life is one in which I have the chance to learn more about what it means to depend on Him... to trust Him and have faith that He will remain true to His promises.
I want to find beauty and focus on the little things in my life -- the blessings which are right in front of me, that I encounter daily, and never want to let slip through my fingers, unappreciated and unaccounted for.
This is: Lunch with Susie, Potato stamps (Haven't made those since I was in grade 2!!!), Card making...
Finally, (though something seemingly insignificant and not all that exciting) an update after far too long. x
I want to find beauty and focus on the little things in my life -- the blessings which are right in front of me, that I encounter daily, and never want to let slip through my fingers, unappreciated and unaccounted for.
This is: Lunch with Susie, Potato stamps (Haven't made those since I was in grade 2!!!), Card making...
Finally, (though something seemingly insignificant and not all that exciting) an update after far too long. x
1.5.11
"Believe me, it's not easy when I look back." His wrinkled face pulled and slanted toward the white glow of the afternoon light. Whisky in his flask, and on his breath and in the air, He continued, "I've got many things. I've got a room full of photographs. I haven't looked at them in 20 years. I have boxes full of things that were my sons, my daughters, my wife's. I haven't touched them."
The room was small, his chair was dark brown, with an afghan hanging on the back. He never reclined in his chair, though it was a possibility for him to do so. The room was full of little things, covered in dust and completely forgotten. Doilies, his wife's touch, flower pots filled with dead and dying plants, crumbs on the floor, and stacks of books in every possible space.
His thick glasses sat on the end of his large nose. He slowly took them down, rested them on one knee, and rubbed his face, his baggy, sad eyes. He stopped and stared out the window. Dust floated all around him and would never stop.
His mind went to the time he drove his pickup truck to Michigan. He sat and told me about it. He and his brother Ralph, a wooden boat in the back, two rods and some tackle, not a care in the world. They fished there, in the Upper Penninula. The boat had a little leak, so they kept an old margarine container with them to scoop out the water. It would come in slow, and had never been a problem, except once.
The leak grew, and while they were out in the water, the boat filled so fast, it sank, and they had to swim to shore. They bid their old boat farewell, and sat on the bay and drank whisky. They talked about life, as they would while fishing, but they didn't catch any fish this time. Out of the two young men, Ralph caught the bigger fish -- he always did. It was a bit of a mystery. But not today. They forgot about fishing, and lost themselves in laughter and talking nonsense. They stayed there a long while, until they were drunk and sleeping. They woke in the morning, and bathed in the water. They got breakfast in a diner nearby and headed back home.
It was easy to think about these times. Times like these, they were the good times. The rest was painful. It was near impossible to think of, because the fear was so great. The pain, too. The pain was great. He never did tell me of these dark and weighty things. He did away with painful times, and chose to remember fishing instead.
He would sit in the afternoon light, his face aglow with the purity of the sun, and he would drink his whisky. With his many things in his many boxes, with his books he'd read only long ago, with the flowers he'd never watered. Dying, they were all dying, while he sat.
The room was small, his chair was dark brown, with an afghan hanging on the back. He never reclined in his chair, though it was a possibility for him to do so. The room was full of little things, covered in dust and completely forgotten. Doilies, his wife's touch, flower pots filled with dead and dying plants, crumbs on the floor, and stacks of books in every possible space.
His thick glasses sat on the end of his large nose. He slowly took them down, rested them on one knee, and rubbed his face, his baggy, sad eyes. He stopped and stared out the window. Dust floated all around him and would never stop.
His mind went to the time he drove his pickup truck to Michigan. He sat and told me about it. He and his brother Ralph, a wooden boat in the back, two rods and some tackle, not a care in the world. They fished there, in the Upper Penninula. The boat had a little leak, so they kept an old margarine container with them to scoop out the water. It would come in slow, and had never been a problem, except once.
The leak grew, and while they were out in the water, the boat filled so fast, it sank, and they had to swim to shore. They bid their old boat farewell, and sat on the bay and drank whisky. They talked about life, as they would while fishing, but they didn't catch any fish this time. Out of the two young men, Ralph caught the bigger fish -- he always did. It was a bit of a mystery. But not today. They forgot about fishing, and lost themselves in laughter and talking nonsense. They stayed there a long while, until they were drunk and sleeping. They woke in the morning, and bathed in the water. They got breakfast in a diner nearby and headed back home.
It was easy to think about these times. Times like these, they were the good times. The rest was painful. It was near impossible to think of, because the fear was so great. The pain, too. The pain was great. He never did tell me of these dark and weighty things. He did away with painful times, and chose to remember fishing instead.
He would sit in the afternoon light, his face aglow with the purity of the sun, and he would drink his whisky. With his many things in his many boxes, with his books he'd read only long ago, with the flowers he'd never watered. Dying, they were all dying, while he sat.
4.4.11
3.4.11
This is for you.
It's always a funny thing, pondering those most remembered moments, turning the pages of the book of your own life in your own mind. It's as if to read the past as a novel, from a distance, relating to your own character as if it were somebody else's fiction.
The girl remembered many things about him. She remembered his eyes and his hands and the shape of his face, the sound of his voice when he spoke and when he sang. She remembered the look on his face when she would often walk away from him, with what should have been said left unspoken.
She hoped that he remembered her too, and that the place in his heart for her hadn't closed off completely, turned cold and stoney, or died. They hadn't spoken in over a year, and when they had parted ways and bid farewell, it was brief and empty, rather dim and uncomfortable.
She wondered what he felt now. She felt rather distant from him, not that they were ever truly known to each other, as much as they secretly hoped they were.
When they spoke again for the first time, it was simple. It was full of smiles and laughter and stories of where their feet had travelled, how their hearts where broken and breaking still, and how their minds and souls had grown.
They spoke again, but it had slightly changed somehow, to something more endearing and sincere. And over time, as minutes became an hour, and an hour became many, there was something to which both he and she clung to, in memory of what they denied themselves for too long before.
She lived in his world many months ago, and blindly followed and listened to the voices coming to her in from all directions. She listened and obeyed until her mind was lost and the shoes on her feet were worn to the ground. She read the street signs and took directions from strangers, until she found herself very out of place, very confused, in a world she couldn't understand. She stood still on a busy road. The movement around her was quick, too quick, and she wanted to slow down. She reached for helping hands, and forced her legs to climb steps and ladders and trees, but in the midst of all the reaching and stepping and climbing, she found her limbs were twisted in a heap, and she was lost and tangled up in herself.
And the boy she knew, whose world she had stepped into, he was there, watching her from a slight distance, and holding on to the hope that maybe someday soon she would look over and see him. He waited for her to cut out the voices and listen to one--to sort through the gaps and grooves and tangles in her heart and to finally come to understand what she wanted.
But he left her there to become something more on her own. And as time went by, passing with both mercy and pain, complexity and simplicity, he found her again. In a different time and a different place. He noticed her limbs weren't so tangled and that just maybe she wasn't listening to all the voices that she had before.
She saw him. She understood in her heart what she wanted. She stood up, and carried on.
It was simple.
They fit together somehow, after all of their disputes and all the time that had passed. But miles had kept them apart, and would continue to hold them away from the arms of one another, until that single moment would grace them both, with a kiss, or an embrace, or even a warm gesture, tangible and real, but only with much time would it come.
xx
The girl remembered many things about him. She remembered his eyes and his hands and the shape of his face, the sound of his voice when he spoke and when he sang. She remembered the look on his face when she would often walk away from him, with what should have been said left unspoken.
She hoped that he remembered her too, and that the place in his heart for her hadn't closed off completely, turned cold and stoney, or died. They hadn't spoken in over a year, and when they had parted ways and bid farewell, it was brief and empty, rather dim and uncomfortable.
She wondered what he felt now. She felt rather distant from him, not that they were ever truly known to each other, as much as they secretly hoped they were.
When they spoke again for the first time, it was simple. It was full of smiles and laughter and stories of where their feet had travelled, how their hearts where broken and breaking still, and how their minds and souls had grown.
They spoke again, but it had slightly changed somehow, to something more endearing and sincere. And over time, as minutes became an hour, and an hour became many, there was something to which both he and she clung to, in memory of what they denied themselves for too long before.
She lived in his world many months ago, and blindly followed and listened to the voices coming to her in from all directions. She listened and obeyed until her mind was lost and the shoes on her feet were worn to the ground. She read the street signs and took directions from strangers, until she found herself very out of place, very confused, in a world she couldn't understand. She stood still on a busy road. The movement around her was quick, too quick, and she wanted to slow down. She reached for helping hands, and forced her legs to climb steps and ladders and trees, but in the midst of all the reaching and stepping and climbing, she found her limbs were twisted in a heap, and she was lost and tangled up in herself.
And the boy she knew, whose world she had stepped into, he was there, watching her from a slight distance, and holding on to the hope that maybe someday soon she would look over and see him. He waited for her to cut out the voices and listen to one--to sort through the gaps and grooves and tangles in her heart and to finally come to understand what she wanted.
But he left her there to become something more on her own. And as time went by, passing with both mercy and pain, complexity and simplicity, he found her again. In a different time and a different place. He noticed her limbs weren't so tangled and that just maybe she wasn't listening to all the voices that she had before.
She saw him. She understood in her heart what she wanted. She stood up, and carried on.
It was simple.
They fit together somehow, after all of their disputes and all the time that had passed. But miles had kept them apart, and would continue to hold them away from the arms of one another, until that single moment would grace them both, with a kiss, or an embrace, or even a warm gesture, tangible and real, but only with much time would it come.
xx
2.4.11
Fleet Foxes - Sun Giant/Blue Ridge Mountains
This day is passing slowly, yet is equally as fleeting. There are some musicians that perfectly suit a certain kind of day. Today the sun is shining brightly. It's not warm, but it's much warmer than it has been for far too long, and I'm thrilled that Spring is beginning to be itself around here.
I feel like each of these songs by Fleet Foxes adequately sums up my mood today. This post is rather random, and all of them lately have been quite random and patched together. But I feel that it's better to post little things about my day, or about myself, or about something else, than to leave my blog lonely and barren, ya know? So here it is!
Enjoy this sweet, sweet music on this sweet, sweet day.
I feel like each of these songs by Fleet Foxes adequately sums up my mood today. This post is rather random, and all of them lately have been quite random and patched together. But I feel that it's better to post little things about my day, or about myself, or about something else, than to leave my blog lonely and barren, ya know? So here it is!
Enjoy this sweet, sweet music on this sweet, sweet day.
30.3.11
days&weeks&months
Time is both short and tall. A tiny puddle, an endless ocean. If I'm afraid and thinking far too much, It is an angry monster If I am willing and honest and good, It is a song I can sing to, A melody I know. And for now, I am singing.Trying not to fear, Or to shiver or to worry, For the birds have what they need.
And I too.
lovely
These stunning photos, taken by PIERGUIDO GRASSANO or ANGELICA ARDASHEVA are my inspiration for today. via Angy's tea room. Come summer! Please please please.
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