All posts tagged: writing

the starlight motel

silver springs and the starlight motel it’s the strangest state to find yourself in now you’ve got me brought to my knees, here your devotional words are feeling foreign, unfamiliar and what had once felt like home or like grace feels apparitional now, it moves in abstract shapes rising fog, speeding freight trains these are my desert days


i am comfortably coaxing fragments of a past self, into the present. crescent eyelids, closing. a slow exhaling. two hummingbirds hover by the kitchen window, bathed in the rose-gold evening glow of southern california, in late october. coconut dahl simmers on the stove. i am softly falling, i have waited for this.

dust ladders.

touch deep time. this desert night is silver-tinged, and silent. you climb dust ladders into the light and i am early morning freeway speeding, west through the mojave. just a beaming string of refulgent headlights piercing two inky infinities. we are all suspended somewhere in-between.

home is a harbour.

home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water. home is a whistling kettle bubbling, boiling, hissing, home is the kitchen windows steaming. home is a collection of miscellaneous, dishwasher chipped mugs, set haphazardly in crammed cupboards, home is ‘a spoon of sugar for me’, and gifted whittards’ tins, a whole world of tea. home is crimson painted walls, and flaking woodchip, home is barefooted tiptoeing terracotta tiles, and fraying persian carpet. home is the ticking away of a grandfather clock, each hour it will chime, home is the peachy evening gentle glow of fading daylight, dappled through single pane glass, a window from which you will watch the seasons pass. home is hanging crystal prisms catching the sun, casting patterns on the bedroom wall. home is a cluttered desk covered in photographs, potions, powders, notebooks, you’ve neglected some or all. home is cast iron pots and brass pans, the scents of garlic, rosemary, wafting up the stairs. home is wholesome, healing food, soups, stews, broths, and rising loaves of bread. home …

cup of gold

i am a million cups of gold heart of bold fill me up with morning sun, brilliant. though the west wind might move furiously i won’t be, uprooted. i’ll dig my watercolour fingers deeper into the copper clay earth. below me antelope valley, in endless shades of gleam & green is blooming.

the veil

before you go spell your thoughts out in tea lights, each to be placed in moroccan lanterns set on the sill of the single pane window, the one that lets out all the heat, with it’s warped glass and flaking white paint on the third floor of your father’s house. pour yourself a cup of the vanilla tea you brought back from the west coast, use a teapot and turn it into something like a ritual, hang glass crystals from high ceilings and cast spectrums on white walls, stay up all night, disappear into travel documentaries, the ones about high mountain plains, the northern lights, mysterious kingdoms, shamans, temples, incense. before i go i need you to know that this was never about me surrendering it was more like setting off on a wintry walk, taken at the edge of some opalescent, foggy dawn, on a frosty december morning. or, if you’d rather, something like a quiet, long considered, and final understanding. the traveler in me, wrapped in wool coats, scarves and gloves, embarking on …

november 2016

nice things: church bells, wind chimes, stained glass, kaleidoscopes. windows wide open on a breezy night. moonlight, mother of pearl, music boxes. the word ‘incandescent’. peppermint tea, pastel blue, palo santo, postcards. dried flowers. lavender. dusty sunsets. the ocean. frosty mornings. night driving. very dark chocolate.