16/365 windows

Today's 10 minute free-write* is on Windows.

In my living room, windows are obstructed by air conditioners, make it hard to see.  At least there is another window to look through.  There I see my sunsets, and I open the screen and shoot them with my camera, invariably capturing the very large tree down a couple of blocks.  Sometimes the sun sets behind her, and she looks all ablaze.

I think of the bedrooms I shared with Steve for so many years, and through so many windows.  Windows looking out on a quiet Bay Ridge street, with lamplight glowing.  Windows that looked over the back of 2-family houses, and the people that would hear my screaming at him as I so often did.  Windows too close for comfort.

Windows so high in Finland that they looked out upon the sky.  There were lower ones, too, but the high ones fascinated me.  There were meant to light the second landing, but were unreachable from there.

When I was a kid, living over my dad's bakery, I remember looking out the kitchen window, and I aw a few men coming to break into the bakery from the back yard.  I tried to scream but it got cauht in y throat.  I tried to fun to my father, but my legs were paralyzed, so frightened this made me.  I finally got to tell him, and I can't remember what happened after that.

~Sapphire looking out the window~



*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

15/365 treasures

Today's 10 minute free-write* is on Treasures.

Locked away in drawers, private memories of life's events, kept safe -- as if one needs to lock away such stuff.  I keep mine exposed and hung on walls, in memory boxes.  These are some of my treasures.
To say the people in my life are treasures would probably be an understatement.  And the cats, of course.  Well, at least Little Guy; Morrison, not so much.
Some of my small treasures--teeny tiny bottles from Jim, where he collected Pacific ocean water for me some 30+ years ago, now all dried up. In the other one is some magic of sorts, I can't quite remember.
A tiny pink glass elephant that my mother had a few of, but only this one survived. 
So many thing -- things I covet.  All amount to memories, it seems.  What treasure doesn't evoke a memory?  The contents of my old power pouch.  Hummingbird wings.  Crystals are my treasures, but do not evoke common memory, but memory of the ages.

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

14/365 Wood

Ten minute free-write*, on Wood.

Wood ages in circles around my eyes.  How does it die, I wonder.  Good wood for chopping up and using for a fire.  The flames licking the air, while smoke trails upward, swirling.
Wood cabins smelling of pine, so rich, you just breathe it in, let it fill your senses, and then admire the rich amber tones of the wood, gleaming on the wall.  This is how it was in the cabins at Rip Van Winkle's motorlodge, in the Catskill mountains.  How many night before bed did I look at the wood and feel a certain wonder.
I hve  a big chunk of cedar on my key chain--it was carved just a little to bring out it's best.  I love the way it feels curving upon my fingerstips.
Being around a sacred fire, where each piece of wood was placed with intention in all the directions, to the East and West, North and South, to Father Sky and Mother Earth.

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long.

Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

13/365 tin foil

Today we did a fast 5-minute free-write*, on, of all things, Tin Foil.

Tin foil--what on earth can I say about this subject?
It's pretty when it comes out of the box and looks all mirror like.  And I like the way it take a sharp crease, or conforms perfectly to line a pan of lasagna.
And then there's the way it crumples up, in a tight ball if you want--shaped any way you want--armature for a doll's head to be covered in clay.
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*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long.
Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

12/365 Hand written letters

Today we did our first 20 minute free-write*, with a subject suggest by Yvonne, over at Ink Spillers Attic. Thank you, Yvonne.

The subject is Hand-written Letters

Wandering through Hallmark's Card shop, I come across an array of stationary that I just must have.  Flowers curving along the edges of the paper, and again on the envelopes.  I found pads of distinct design, and sharp contrast to flowers... more abstract with lines tht lead the eys.  All of this to present myself to a mail box.
When I was young it was letters to friends I'd meet on summer vacation.  In my teen years me and my cousin Ed shared many a tome.  And then came a history of letters--my letters to and from Evie, who lived three thousand miles away for eighteen years.  Truly there wasn't a day that went by without going to the yellow legal pad, and writing a note, or pages even, about what was going on in my life, and responses to what was going on in hers. We kept each other apprised of all our movements--from the raging fights with our partners, to how the tiger lilies were growing so large in the garden.  We'd mail each other envelopes
filled as fat as  they could stand.  It tied our friendship with constant communications, waiting to be reunited some day to continue our friendship in peson, as we do today.  But I miss those long endless pages, filled with the day's events.  Our lives were rich with activity, so unlike today.  We still keep a geat deal of these letters stashed aways in cardboard boxes.
Letters also brought me into the realms of deep friendship, and love.  I wrote to Jim as much as I wrote to Evie, practically, and we had a prolific exchange of words worthy of publication, I think.  He says that I shined my brightest in those letters, and indeed I was a consumate letter writer.
Soon Evie and I will go through some old letter; ones from each other, and others from admired professors we had in college.  We'll be taken back on the wings of lovely stationary, or plain lined paper, and countless yellow legal pads.

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*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

in remembrance



My dad is buried in Calverton National Cemetary. He served in the Army, during WW2, in New Guinea and the Phillipines. I've barely visited his grave in the past 21 years... just twice, in fact. It is far from here, and I wouldn't go without my mother, who has the motorized wheelchair, which is impossible to take apart and put in a car. The one thing I would worry about, if he were not at Calverton, is how much disarray the tombstone is in. Is it over-strewn with twigs and dead leaves? Did someone knock the stone over? These things would bother me. But, I can rest assured that the grounds around my father's grave are beautifully groomed at all times.


Tomorrow, Memorial Day, there is a special ceremony on the grounds of the cemetary. Each and every tombstone has a small flag placed next to it. I imagine it must be very touching. Maybe next year me and my mom will get to see it somehow.

I wish everyone a Happy Memorial Day, and lets not forget the meaning of the day. Hope you wore your poppy proudly.
  (not my pictures)

11/365 Cinnamon

10 minute free-write* on Cinnamon.

"I am the cinnamon baker's(?) wife --  smell me.:"  A line from the series of books, Letters From Iceland."
I find the words inotxicating.

Cinnamon wafts through my home in the winter months -- heated on cookie sheets, placed in the overn. 
Men love this fragrance.  Women do, too.

I like a cinnamon stick in my hot chocolate.  This fine herb delights so many other tastes, from beverages to main courses, to candy, and cereal.

I can't remember what I learned in Chinese Herbology class about cinnamon, and that is too bad.
It must be some type of tonic, I would think.  But I don't remember.

Cinnamon toast--drenched in butter and loaded with a mix of sugar and lots of cinnamon--
ah, a real confort food.

I love cinnamon candies -- the ways they bite the tongue, and linger there after they're gone.

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(photo gotten off the internet, no credit given)

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long.

Visit Evie, whom I freewrite with, at the space between colors.

10/365 moonlight

Today's 10 minute free-write*  is on Moonlight.

The moon lights our path through the wood.  On the lake I can see her reflecting her reflection.
Oh, Mother Moon, Goddess Moon, shine down upon me when I sleep.

I often times wake up in the middle of the night, moonlight shining brightly in my eyes.
She'll wake you up so that you notice her.  She likes to be noticed.

I have the moon tatooed on my chest, the howling wolf and I are the light.

My mind goes back to the campsite -- the light on the path -- the way even
stones speak out to you. 
You save some in your pocket, wondering if they'll always glow so bright.

Moon energy is strong, and nothing to be toyed with.

The moonlight moves in cycles, getting dimmer and dimmer until the dark of the moon.

The ocean responds.
Each woman responds.

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*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop.  There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words.  They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long.

9/365 doors/doorways

These free-writes tend to get quite tedious at times, and what pours out is less than entertaining, to say the least.  But I trudge on with it, having made the commitment.  Today's write is about Doors/doorways.

Can't get through my door, the key gets stuck.

Door are always leading nowhere in dreams.
I remember the doorway to my friend Jim's place in San Diego.
The wood framing, very simple.  The one step.
The Doors of Perception, of course.

Did I mention about not getting into my door so easily?

I have never stepped over the marital threshold.  That doorway
scared me too much.

Doorways open to new vistas -- why can't I see them?
Poor some sunlight on them.

When you open the door to a coffee shop, the fragrance should
seduce you right away, otherwise why bother?

The doorways to church are sacred -- it brings you over to another side,
once you cross it.

8/365 bottles

A 15 minute free-write on Bottles.

Glamorous perfume bottles, swirling curves of glass
surrounding fragrant notes of jasmine and sandlewood,
honeysuckle and lime.
A dab behind each ear, and another on the pulse points--
your neck, your wrists.

Hands holding up glasses in a toast; a bottle of red between
two lovers.

"Bottles of Hope"-- made by so many women for other women
with cancer or some life devastating disease--for women in need of hope.

The proverbial message in a bottle--and the feeling that one is always
secretly awaiting that message.
The romance of a bottle bobbing along in the ocean,
just waiting for you.  What magic.

Bottle-nose dolphins.
Baby bottles.

Bottleneck on the highway. 
How man times have I driven down that road?
Ah, but I have traveled roads with just a bottle of water at my side,
the radio blasting, my hair flying past the car window.