washwords

One of the things I love most about the blogosphere is the strange and wonderful ease with which you can find people and topics of interest, some by design and others by wonderful accident. See my blogroll below, at the bottom of the page, which contains both friends, some of who encouraged me to write (again); and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, the fabulous things I’ve found, some via these friends, some by searching for terms or concepts (poetry!, washington!, pope!) and some by true and beautiful serendipitous accident.

But what happens when these two worlds collide? What if, by complete and seemingly implausible accident, you stumble onto some beautiful writing… but beautiful writing of someone who is not exactly a stranger, but not a friend, exactly either.

I stumbled onto the writing of “C” (not her real name, to protect the very much innocent) this way. C, some Read the rest of this entry »

These quotes and phrases came to me courtesy of the Arlington Library Book Sale book bin. My new favorite spot: the box of “gift books”: quote books, guides, dictionaries, translations. Best of all, they’re all thrown randomly together. From this collection on this trip, I gleaned the following lines, poems all:

“The wind and the cherry blossom can never be good friends.” – Guy A. Zona, Even Withered Trees Give Prosperity to the Mountain and other Proverbs of Japan.

Read the rest of this entry »

Last night I watched you, literally, try to stop the rain with a small plastic bucket.

I hadn’t meant to wake you, tiptoeing through the shadows: moon, water, streetlight. I traced my finger against the edge of the bathroom window – it was too fogged up to see, just hear: water against black tar, my pink toenails against the tile.

Back in your room, I could hear it coming harder now, great gusts carrying leafy twigs, water, earth.

I had to see.

I went to the window and you heard the water, too; but didn’t hear the rhythmic drumming or the pattering poems, just the flooding basement. “Guess, I’ll start digging” you said, sliding on jeans and coat and rubber boots.

I could only watch, meekly ask if I could help, knowing you’d say no. I offered tea, warm blankets, to don boots and buckets with you, but you said no.

So instead I climbed back up the wooden staircase to the bedroom, blue draping your walls and windows and opened the curtains, lifted the window. It was 60 degrees, rain coming straight down and I watched you take that little bucket back and forth and back, shining the yellow light ahead of you then up the window at me.

I waved but didn’t break the plane of quiet, of blue. You didn’t either. I let the curtain go and turned out the bedside lamp, so when you came inside it would be warm instead.