this morning

Decided to put on that new white blouse with kind of medieval sleeves (purely dramatic act, sorry). Cutting the tag off, the scissors sleepily slipped and left a perfect heart shaped hole above the left hip. Heart shaped holes dont fit into my company's dress code so had to find and iron something else and almost missed my bus.

On the bus a big sticker in front of my nose said, in red: en caso de emergencias sigue las instrucciones. Yet instruccuiones were torn off by some bored passenger. So, having forgotten the book and the MP4 at home i spent half an hour inventing those . Quite a waste of time. They are much better like that, torn off.

The Autumn sunrises are the clearest, the air is so transparent and thin (hey:) that all things otherwise unseen are suddenly awake and visible. Like if someone would fix my eyesight.

and you say

Ты говоришь: все что было какой-то ад.
Ты говоришь: нам нужен новый формат.
Ты мне показываешь озеро кишащее змеями
Ты говоришь: ныряем,

здесь будет волшебный сад.

Я говорю: я подумаю.

Ты говоришь: ты подумай.

Я говорю: я подумаю.

Ты говоришь: ты подумай.

Я говорю: я тут посадила
несколько кустиков, тень не ахти какая,
но кислород и зелень и приятно для глаз.
Ты отвечаешь: я вижу что ты не хочешь
думать в сторону нас.

Anya Logvinova

There was a great tenderness to the sadness
when I would go there. She knew how much
I loved my wife and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end. Now I wonder
if we understood how happy those Danish
afternoons were. Most of the time we did not talk.
Often I took care of the baby while she did
housework. Changing him and making him laugh.
I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before
throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with
my mouth against the tiny ear and throw
him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up.
The only way to leave even the smallest trace.
So that all his life her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined
city of steel in America. Each time almost
remembering something maybe important that got lost.

Jack Gilbert

I have always thought a girl with an accordeon is hot beyond words:)

Maybe I should start using my dad's. I cannot play it, I´d just carry it around for hotness purposes:)

:)

Girls, take my advice, marry an animal. A wooly one is most consoling. Find a fur man, born midwinter. Reared in the mountains. Fond of boxing. Make sure he has black rubbery lips, and a sticky sweet mouth. A winter sleeper. Pick one who likes to tussle, who clowns around the kitchen, juggles hot baked potatoes, gnaws playfully on a corner of your apron. Not one mocked by his lumbering instincts, or who’s forever wrestling with himself, tainted with shame, itchy with chagrin, but a good-tempered beast who plunges in greedily, grinning and roaring. His backslapping manner makes him popular with the neighbors, till he digs up and eats their Dutch tulip bulbs. Then you see just how stuffy human beings can be. On Sundays his buddies come over to play watermelon football. When they finally get tired, they collapse on heaps of dried grass and leaves, scratching themselves elaborately, while I hand out big hunks of honeycomb. They’ve no problem swallowing dead bees stuck in the honey.

A bear boy likes to stretch out on the floor and be roughly brushed with a broom. Never tease him about his small tail, which is much like a chipmunk’s. If you do, he’ll withdraw to the hollow of some tree, as my husband has done whenever offended since he first left the broad-leafed woodlands to live in this city, which is so difficult for him. Let him be happy in his own way; filling the bathtub with huckleberries, or packing dark, earthwormy dirt under the sofa. Don’t mention the clawmarks on the refrigerator. (You know he can’t retract them.) Nothing pleases him more than a violent change in climate, especially if it snows while he’s asleep and he wakes to find the landscape blanketed. Then his teeth chatter with delight. He stamps and paws the air for joy. Exuberance is a bear’s inheritance. He likes northern light. Excuse me, please. His bellow summons me.

Let me start again. True, his speech is shaggy music. But by such gruff instruction, I come to know love. It’s difficult to hear the story of his forest years with dry eyes. He always snuffs damply at my hand before kissing it. My fingers tingle at the thought of that sensitive, mobile nose. You’ve no idea how long his tongue is. At night, I get into bed, pajama pockets full of walnuts. He rides me around the garden in the wheelbarrow now that I’m getting heavy with his cubs. I hope our sons will be much like their father, but not suffer so much discomfort wearing shoes.

The Bear-Boy of Lithuania
Amy Gerstler