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filagree street

When I walked out the door this morning there was snow on the ground. Which on a typical day in March I would find deeply depressing. But I stopped long enough to look to the north and see the arm of mountains that stretched around the valley and the sleepy orange window light and the black etched filigree of street trees. I was in J Alfred Prufrock and Emily Dickinson's view out the bedroom window and just beneath the surface of ice blue acrylic gel medium. Trapped for future generations. And I remembered this is where Id wanted to be. The places Id sit in dusty lunchtime hallways and imagine a wood floored apartment in the city and a garden and the way the air would smell crisp and a bohemian scarf and an antique necklace. And black disheveled hair. For a moment I felt grateful. And then it occurred to me how much moments of warmth bring me down. Like the way she used to make me laugh while I was trying to cry. And there is a shuffling of the feet and a clearing of the throat. And I move on back into comfortable complaint.

~aya kato

decidedly the best title and chorus line for a song was "a nervous tic motion of the head to the left". find Andrew Bird's "the mysterious production of eggs" it makes me happy.

9:12 a.m. - 2005-03-24
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