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Cerulean interiors, glittering like the empty carapaces of shellfish, curl around one another and get larger.

You can get lost here.

Tea is served each evening in Le Conservatoire Borgia where the djinn steal your coat and leave behind fish and foxgloves, and the concierge does not miss a thing. Don't forget your gloves, hat, and wolfsbane.

Come with your dreams entangled in your hair.

My Valentinr - jewelweed

Welcome to the new digs.

Time to shake out my old journal and open the new. I'm kind of excited about this new beginning, and I am having fun with the design and focus. It all feels very fresh, like cool smooth sheets. There is still so much work to do!

Is anyone here really fabulous with the making of icons? I am trolling for fresh images-- the more surreal the better.

I plan to throw a "House warming" (Journal warming?)  sometime soon, so stay tuned!

I open with this poem by my old teacher Carolyn Forché, from her book The Blue Hour:

Sequestered Writing
by Carolyn Forché

Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.
The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.
White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls.
The way they withdrew from the child's body and spoke as if it were not there.

What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
-- With its no one without its I --
A dwarf ghost? A closet of empty clothes?
Ours was a ghost who stole household goods. Nothing anyone would miss.
Supper plates. Apples. Barbed wire behind the house.

At the end of the hall, it sleepwalks into a mirror wearing mother's robe.
A bedsheet lifts from the bed and hovers. Face with no face. Come here.
The bookcase knows, and also the darkness of books. Long passages into,
Endless histories toward, sleeping pages about. Why else toss gloves into a grave?

A language that once sent ravens through firs. The open world from which it came.
Words holding the scent of an asylum fifty years. It is fifty years, then.
The child hears from within: Come here and know, below
And unbeknownst to us, what these fields had been.


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February 2009

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