Those who dream by night in rusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it vanity. Dreamers of the day are dangerous for they may act on their dreams with open eyes.T.E. Lawrence – Seven Pillars of Wisdom
We begin making things up by six or seven. Minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion. Come with me to the eddy of an ever prodding muse to dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.
I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fades with the crowd. The strong scent of sweat and coffee stings my nostrils, clings to my skin. Alien faces are forever etched behind my eyes.
Making my way to the metro I pass the warehouse district. A young addict sleeps against the graffiti covered wall that like her unkempt hair turns golden in the sunset. Her arms are folded around her knees. Awakened from induced euphoria by the nudge of a worn boot she glances upward, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of her threadbare jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Glancing in both directions he tucks it beneath his belt and in exchange hands her a small bag. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold. It reeks of urine here, even the stray dog lifts his feet. I glance her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.
Passing a vacant garden I pluck a flower and playfully slip it behind your ear. From the same garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to press my body against yours in search of that trigger, that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. When you go I can finally empty my mind of the devastation. I know you think it’s crazy but to me it makes sense.
The dreamerswalk among us . . . and so do the dreamed.
Maggie Stiefvater — ” Call Down the Hawks”
We circle the trees by the river where the swallows are darting above the branches. Spotting us they rise like a cloud and swirl on the current like some fantastical beast of air and feathers. Forming a dense echelon they darken the earth below them. At night they seek refuge in the crowns of ancient trees instinctively aware that they are near their destination. At dawn they take to the heavens again, the mission bells are calling them home.
art by Mary Giacomini
Inspired by a collaboration “The Swallows of Capistrano”
From Resa & Holly – House of Heart. It all began with a post displaying some of Frida’s clothing. Gigi dedicated that post to me. Click on the pic below, and visit Frida’s costumes. I told Gigi I was going to draw Frida, and style an outfit for her, in her spirit. This was met […]
I’m awakened by the sound of laughter drifting through the window of my small flat above the Café. From there I can see the cobblestone streets beginning to fill with partiers, snow piling at the curbside. My clock reads ten PM. Sinking slowly into a warm bath, my wet hair has the scent of lavender and smoke, my skin the smell of yesterday’s perfume mingled with the haunting presence of strong cologne and the sweet scent of sweat and rope. At the mirror I brush my hair and pull it back with a silver plated comb, slip into smoky seamed stockings and my clingy black frock. Making my way past the crowded bar I find my usual booth in the dark fringe of a deserted corner, order a glass of red wine and wait.