READ--LOOK--WRITE! 07

READ

A Radio With Guts

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

--Charles Bukowski




LOOK

I adore Pinterest for the inspiration, both big and small.  A friend of mine keeps a Pinterest board of projects she'd like to try and I've sort of been doing the same.  Here are some of the things I'm inspired to try this week. The Milkstone  Enjoy!








WRITE!


It's been days since I looked over my shoulder 
and saw you were gone.

For weeks its been dry, glinting landscape, 
carrying my kids, thinking of you.

Wondering what the hell 
I thought you were doing; 
carrying sacks of grain, 
or whatever, behind me. Now your gone.

I could go pirouetting, 
off a cliff maybe.  
I could call it love.

But what am I, a dancer? 
I would have done that too maybe, 
had i not been carrying little warm bodies, 
caressing to be fed.

I would have gone crashing, 
hurling myself into walls,  
careening off of precipices, and running into shrapnel blasts,

And you. You would have been the scent I followed. 
You would have been my bliss. 
My 'misfortune of rapture'.

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 06

READ


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things that enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully ,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly ,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody ,not even the rain,has such small hands

--E. E. Cummings



LOOK

Check out the new Milkstone Pinterest page




WRITE!


Stretch out to meet me
in some other time,
and you shall be muse.
you shall be wine.

I swim like a shark
to you, through shit,
down to the sea,
As if for the first time.

Groping way down,
give me your dark things.
When we find
we are all mortar,

And in-between us
the jelly-rolls of space.
And a little further on
We are fissures of light.

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 05

READ

THE LUTE WILL BEG

You need to become a pen

In the Sun's hand.

We need for the earth to sing

Through our pores and eyes.

The body will again become restless

Until your soul paints all its beauty

Upon the sky.

Don't tell me, dear ones,

That what Hafiz says is not true,

For when the heart tastes its glorious destiny

And you awake to our constant need

For your love

God's lute will beg

For your

Hands.

--Hafiz

LOOK

I had wanted to share pictures on these READ--LOOK--WRITE! posts, but I became concerned about copyright issues.  You may have noticed I took down most of the images I had previously posted. So while I'm figuring that out, I invite you to take a look at a special Pinterest page I've created, with the images I've been looking at this week.  I will update it every week and include the link in each week's post.  Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

This week's images 

WRITE!

Your hand smelled like a bear claw

That night,

After you fingered me in the car.  

You washed it clean,

because that night

You were going home to hibernate.

You pried me open

because you were hungry,

And angry.

All I wanted to do

Was curl up inside you,

Conscious, and warm.

In my dreams

I followed you through the Ages.

Your angel.

Your sacrifice.

You turned to me blindly,

Without knowing it,

Again and again.

Land of the kids

Cuteness and mayhem make up my days- At this time of night my mind is pretty much a blank.  I may have had things to blog about, I may not have, I have no idea.  And not being one to prepare much before hand, I'll simply say that today, like most days around here, contained everything.  Or at least that's how it felt.  Now that the kids are in bed, I'm left quite alone to quietly sip some tea, and plan for future days.  I'm left alone for an hour or two with the photos, the messes, the block towers, and my own most private (under-explored at the moment) thoughts and ambitions.  Its been a day.  Its been a crazy day.  Here's to many, many more.

love, Thea

READ--LOOK--WRITE! 04

READ


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Dylan Thomas

LOOK

My Pinterest busking board.  

WRITE!

There it is,
outside my window.
I move like that.

Do you understand?
Like a branch
moved in the wind.

Here I am,
yet I still sway like that,
with you.

As you come roaring in
from the ocean
to some other distant sea.

Weekend kid update

We've been having so much fun at the park, and I finally managed to take some pictures.  The live oaks are magical, and make great climbing trees for toddlers.  

Everyone is so amenable in the morning.  Ahh! it lets Mommy get some things done.  Willie is reading one of my favorite books from my childhood, and Sammy is "goo"-ing.

I was one of those kids who could sit and doodle for hours.  For some reason I expected Willie would be the same.  Not so.  Still, I quite enjoy his five-minute-or-less paintings.

   


 And then there is this little Mister, who put up with a another little photo sesh before nap time.  This boy is so talkative.  His "goo's" and gaa's" are just adorable.