gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008/08/what-they-see-by-light-of-candles-i-was.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Sunday, August 17, 2008. What they see by the light of candles. I was the old woman. At the ends of driveways. Glancing back to my darkened house. Where I watched them from windows. Onto the world, unseen because you can’t see inside. When the lights are out. They wonder when there is no garbage. Nor on Monday morning when the trucks pass by. They ask if I’m alive in here. Or so I imagine. I’ll be found one day. When someone follows a nose.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: Sons
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008/09/sons.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Friday, September 19, 2008. For my sons, and my grandson, not-yet-born. I wake in the morning. His voice in my body. A language I can’t follow. A crescendo, a leaky instrument. He was a boy with a voice. For an Adam’s apple and words. That hit the window like sleet. He left me remembering. The quiet thrum of rain. The day he was born. The blade that saved him. After a dive to grab his waving arms. In that water and blood. Photo by Sally Mann.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: November 2008
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008_11_01_archive.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Wednesday, November 12, 2008. The ribs are a fragile cage. For her heart’s urgings. Eyes, brow, hands. Tongue, lashings of teeth-. Scarred knuckle, muscle. Control, those abs. Pects, the six-pack. She hears their music. In her ears and heart’s distal. Pulse, your ancient cadence. Back to the cave. Wednesday, November 12, 2008. Links to this post. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). Wood s lot : : "the fitful tracing of a portal". Joy Harjo's Web Log.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008/11/hairline-fracture-ribs-are-fragile-cage.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Wednesday, November 12, 2008. The ribs are a fragile cage. For her heart’s urgings. Eyes, brow, hands. Tongue, lashings of teeth-. Scarred knuckle, muscle. Control, those abs. Pects, the six-pack. She hears their music. In her ears and heart’s distal. Pulse, your ancient cadence. Back to the cave. Wednesday, November 12, 2008. I wish I had words to describe how much I love this. You're not changing it too much, are you? Okay, maybe I won't cry...
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: June 2008
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008_06_01_archive.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Thursday, June 26, 2008. My grandparents, Reg and Ethel Drew, called this place "The Old Country". They spoke of it constantly. It took me a very long time to realize that this meant that they longed for it, always. We drank warm, brown beer at a pub on the undercliff. Played darts a little drunk. Walked your ground; breathed your air. Thursday, June 26, 2008. Links to this post. Labels: Best Grandparents Ever Award. Ethel May Scoble Drew.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: time is a wolf
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2009/02/time-is-wolf.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Monday, February 9, 2009. Time is a wolf. Time is a wolf in a cave. A few beats away. From my heart’s twelve. Where you will be blamed. Because I was not found. You swore it was the last time. And so did I. Time I said it’s forever. And you said it was. But we both knew. It was a wolf. I want to know. Will I move past your body. Or will my own half-cells. When I was a girl. You told me time was forever. And still wolves found me. Time is a wolf.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: September 2008
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Friday, September 19, 2008. For my sons, and my grandson, not-yet-born. I wake in the morning. His voice in my body. A language I can’t follow. A crescendo, a leaky instrument. He was a boy with a voice. For an Adam’s apple and words. That hit the window like sleet. He left me remembering. The quiet thrum of rain. The day he was born. The blade that saved him. After a dive to grab his waving arms. In that water and blood. Photo by Sally Mann.
gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home: August 2008
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008_08_01_archive.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Sunday, August 17, 2008. What they see by the light of candles. I was the old woman. At the ends of driveways. Glancing back to my darkened house. Where I watched them from windows. Onto the world, unseen because you can’t see inside. When the lights are out. They wonder when there is no garbage. Nor on Monday morning when the trucks pass by. They ask if I’m alive in here. Or so I imagine. I’ll be found one day. When someone follows a nose.
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gaslithome.blogspot.com
Too Far from Home
http://gaslithome.blogspot.com/2008/08/late-fragment-and-did-you-get-what-you.html
Too Far from Home. The Life and Times of a Nomadic Solipsist. Thursday, August 14, 2008. And did you get what. You wanted from this life, even so? And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself. Beloved on the earth. Thursday, August 14, 2008. Very interesting and thought provoking blog! The pictures are amazing as well! August 16, 2008 at 12:56 AM. August 17, 2008 at 12:14 AM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Wood s lot : : "the fitful tracing of a portal". ALONE ON A BOREAL STAGE.