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Walk it out.

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New picture. So there.

Sometimes I go to New York and hear concerts that make me crazy and see movies that make me cry and my family is feisty and I ramble around. Sometimes I see a girl from high school and a boy from college at a bar on Avenue A, and then I see another girl who made my life a vague sort of misery ten years ago on TV. Buying a wedding gown. On Say Yes to the Dress. 

Sometimes it’s raining and I feel things too much and my feet are cold inside my socks, and by the time Tom picks me up at South Station he says, “How you doing?” and I say, “I am really, really glad to be home.”

This week: Back. Updike’s Rabbit at Rest. Financing some new endeavors. Working out some old demons. 30-Day Shred started yesterday. Martha’s November issue. Taking my vitamins. Eating my fiber. Tom in Missouri. Boston Book Festival. Contemplating quilting. Poking (cautiously) around the edges of some holiday prep. Looking for inspiration everywhere. Outside my window. Inside my guts.

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This is my favorite poem.

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The Earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.

“Fiddler Jones,” by Edgar Lee Masters, part of the Spoon River Anthology.

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Triptych.

Utter bliss: I just came into three (3) giant (like way bigger than science-fair size) pieces of sturdy white foamboard–for free.

Clearly some homemade art is in order–the bedroom in particular has a lot of unused wallspace–but what, is the question.

I’ll probably collage–I always collage–but I’m totally open to suggestions, too.

Please discuss.

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what about aliens/what about you and me

Jennie reminded me tonight about Carbon Leaf, whom we saw with JMraz back in 2005 when we lived in the same building and left notes on each other’s dry erase boards ten. times. a day.

Have a song, is what I am saying. I freaking love this song. And it’s not even hip-hop. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUxp63OTyog]

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School this week.

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Second Quarter. Three stories to send out. Some Geraldine Brooks to start. Finished Oscar Wao, a thunderstorm-quick read which left my head spinning but honestly feeling a little cold. Notebooks to cover. Pictures to hang. Some fancy new software to learn. Concert at Boston House of Blues on Wednesday. Bolting to New York on Thursday. Jackie. Bethany. Sierra. Have scarf. Have sunglasses. Have coffee. Will travel.

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like a postcard of a golden retriever

Jackie and my dad in Brooklyn, February 09

Jackie and my dad in Brooklyn, February 09

My dad comes this weekend! My dad is pretty awesome. He loves baked goods and Alfred Hitchcock and lives in New York City like a fancy guy. His favorite story about me is that one time when I was three I came up to him at a party and kicked him in the shins for no reason. Ask him. He’ll tell you. He also does a great impression of my Nana, who is apparently the originator of our weird familial compulsion to tell each other everything we ate that day.  (Also, completely unrelated but telling: one time I was playing that game with Jackie and I had literally been listing stuff for like ten minutes and finally she was like “Jesus Christ, are you DONE?” and I was like, “Yes. Oh, also a pulled-pork sandwich.”)

Anyway. Tom pointed out that my dad is pretty much the easiest guy in the world to entertain because all he really wants to do on vacation is eat good food and chat and take a nap every day at 3 o’clock. THAT IS A PLAN I CAN GET BEHIND. On the agenda for this weekend: fried mozzarella at Maggianos, a trip to Cider Hill for some apple picking, dinner at my house (I really want to make Rachael’s Florentine Prosciutto-Wrapped Chicken! Is that shameful?), and a trip to see Tom at work for some drinks.

And, clearly, naps.

Back on Monday. Hug your Pops.

PS: Don’t you think the guy who won the Peace Prize today is cool and handsome? I sure do.

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Lit.

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This is the conclusion I have come to: the vast majority of times in life you can get by on the cheapie brand and nobody is going to be the wiser, you included. 

Candle-buying is not one of those times. 

My favorite (and Tom’s, though he’d never admit it): Slatkin & Co’s Vanilla Sandalwood or Creamy Nutmeg. I like their pumpkin scents, too, but that’s where the boyfriend draws the line. Cozy and spicy and strong enough to fill the whole apartment, which I find just doesn’t happen with the three dollar Pier One kind.

What’s your house smelling like these days?

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Fog Inside the Glass

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Ina’s apple crostata

a bitchin’ new cd in the works for my baby sister (“Better Go and Get Your Armor: The October ’09 Mix”)

cozy new cardigan from Madewell

contemplating what warm pumpkin puree with cinnamon would be like on top of vanilla ice cream

clean crunchy air

the Madeline Peyroux Pandora station, with absolutely no alteration at all

chicken with salsa in the crockpot (thanks Kim!)

the monosyllabic cobbler on Harvard Street saving my boots

a plaid flannel blanket from Tom’s mom

Wild Things

trying to figure out what on earth I am going to do with these guys:

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