whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com
Whistling for Moonbeams: Older and Better: My Kind of Mr. Big
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2014/11/older-and-better-my-kind-of-mr-big.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Sunday, November 9, 2014. Older and Better: My Kind of Mr. Big. Euphoria. noun - a feeling of great (usually exaggerated) elation. Sadly, though, Mr. Big started out for me as Eric Martin and only. So, anyway, there we were, two hours before the concert, loading up on a few beers, trying to contain the excitement that found (paltry) relief only in sudden exclamations of "I'm so excited I could barely contain it! What is wrong with people?
whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com
Whistling for Moonbeams: Notes for a story
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2015/03/scene-from-story.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Monday, March 16, 2015. Notes for a story. In the swell of evening,. All is space and more space. Crickets go darting the night. To alliterate a face. They scree. A name there are only broken. Vowels for, broken words,. Broken music. Absence,. Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta , Burning Houses. In my heart, a foreshadowing. In my heart, a premonition. In my heart, a question, unasked. In my heart, a heart, sinking. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
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Whistling for Moonbeams: Peace Be With You
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2015/04/peace-be-with-you.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Thursday, April 2, 2015. Peace Be With You. I remember the scent of burning candles. One gets so used to it, that the upcoming stillness becomes an assault to the senses. The present quiet disquiets; the mind gets jolted by the lack of sound; the eyes get overwhelmed by the onslaught of space. Our part of the world is once more taking a pause. May peace be with us all. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Follow me on Twitter. To speak, end...
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Whistling for Moonbeams: No more tears
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2015/01/no-more-tears.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Tuesday, January 13, 2015. As I lay next to you in hyperacidity," I sing, in my best imitation of Geoff Tate's unabashedly bass bass, my best imitation being pretty, pretty bad. You snicker, then laugh, and your laughter extends into extended laughter that lasts more than I expect it to. I roll my eyes and giggle. It's 6:19 am, and our day has just begun. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Follow me on Twitter. View my complete profile.
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Whistling for Moonbeams: Lost
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2015/04/lost.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Friday, April 3, 2015. I grieve my inability to turn you into what I want you to be: here. You are always somewhere else: next month, seven steps ahead, a moment away, three hours ago, the past week; a few distances away, framed by a window, an inch apart, walled by glass, wrapped in distance, lost in thought; that indecipherable frown, cryptic vibrations, obscurity. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Follow me on Twitter. There was a door.
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Whistling for Moonbeams: The Story I Found: Foo Fighters and Sonic Highways
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-story-i-found-bit-on-foo-fighters.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Sunday, November 16, 2014. The Story I Found: Foo Fighters and Sonic Highways. There is a river I found- -". From "Something From Nothing". It is a typical enough story, the story of everyman, after all, but the beauty and grandeur of Sonic Highways. The one flaw (and another good thing going for it, if you will) in Sonic Highways. The way that almost nothing of it did with my "Something From Nothing" one-bite experience. There is a secret.
whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com
Whistling for Moonbeams: You, there.
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2014/12/you-there.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Saturday, December 13, 2014. I am throwing a smooth, grey stone your way. It will land near your left foot. You will smile, dear one, right this very instant. As if penned by Pablo Neruda! December 26, 2014 at 3:55 PM. Thank you, thank you, Tin! December 31, 2014 at 8:24 AM. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). Follow me on Twitter. My dad named me Chanson Vanessa. View my complete profile. THE WILD IRIS (by Louise Gluck). There was a door.
whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com
Whistling for Moonbeams: Static
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2014/11/static.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Sunday, November 16, 2014. Let me tell you about my recent preoccupation with stasis, about the question of what one is supposed to do with it, about whether one is supposed to do something about it. But then again, will that not negate the stasis, will that not make it something else? There is comfort in stasis. Will you let me, if I could find it in myself to do it, if I could allow myself to leave the safety of my pause? Follow me on Tw...
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Whistling for Moonbeams: A New Year
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-new-year.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Wednesday, December 31, 2014. My eyes sweep the clutter around me, looking for material, wondering which one goes first, which one goes with what, which one stays where it is- I, who have no gift for organization, whose bed is lined with stray books that have no relation to each other, some odds, some ends, a pencil; who mixes up the days in the calendar; who has no calendar. I laugh a little. They need to go, too, these echoes have no...
whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com
Whistling for Moonbeams: Double Vision
http://whistlingformoonbeams.blogspot.com/2015/01/double-vision.html
A menagerie of scribbled thoughts, memories, and favorite things. Wednesday, January 7, 2015. I am piecing you together, broken, absent one- you are whole because I say you are. Four Minutes, half an hour, an hour. I squint at the page I'm reading- did my heroine really say, "Death is a lie"? My eyes start to strain and I think of eyeglasses, words blurring, a morning, darkening. Slytherin has changed, kiddo. The files are saved in my drive. For RJP. You are missed. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
