Clara has sought many places to go deeper. More than crystal streams and woven baskets. Wherever she looks lately, she finds an extra thread.
Like everything else, her memory does not seem to be what it once was.
What do you see?
People have different theories about what happens when you die. Lyla was brave enough to test them in a new way.
“Cover my eyes. I’ll hold my breath.”
The attraction of seeking how close you can get. The compulsion to let it go too far.
“What happens then?”
“That depends on how long I can hold it for.”
Clara was still until Lyla’s skin grew cold. Long after her shoulders molded like stone within the small space they used to roll to symbolize life. It was after her deflated diaphragm weighed down the shell she was determined to destroy. Continue reading
She arrives at a cottage surrounded by pine trees that smells like chimney smoke. She does not consider intention’s involvement with this destination. A dusty window reveals a near empty room. There is a stool, a bench, a basket and a bookshelf.
Initially she does not enter.
Clara strolls the perimeter of the small stone structure. There is a rocking chair on the front porch beside a potted plant and bouquet of orange chrysanthemums. She reaches for the flora with a yearning to touch life.
The texture of green stems and soft petals pressed closely to her chest is the best secret she can imagine. This seems to reveal everything.
Clara knows a lot of secrets. Not the sort to share.
The type to keep.
Her squinting focus swears the chair’s rockers roll before her eyes. She assumes if he was there, he would hold her and sway in a similar motion. Swing just slightly enough to offer the breeze a chance to bite the hem of her dress and remind her of being alive.
She enters the cottage through a red doorway.
Clara is balancing on a stained wooden bench looking upward through holes in the roof. The sky is changing. Sheets of charcoal with edges of indigo ribbons. Bursts of violet. Tangerine longing. Continue reading
They say the answer comes naturally if you ask when you sleep. Not before. Not after.
She regains focus with a name on her lips. Wrapped in lace. It is something uncommon. Something she wants to speak without knowing to who.
The viridescent realm of her barefoot travel was scented with young flowers and fresh rain. Continue reading
Jessica Tremp is amongst the finest soon-to-be-discovered artistic talent in all of the land: from New York City to Melbourne. Amongst her array of breathless creative expression is her photography. She also makes a mind-blowing fondue and her shimmying skills sway circles around any other.
This week of posts is a dedication to Jessica’s magnificent work and the ways it makes our world better. Starting tomorrow, every day will feature a different one of her photographs accompanied my humble words. Continue reading
I’ve officially managed to make myself sick. After sleeping through approximately seventeen hours of yesterday, my mind greeted my alarm clock this morning with a firm, “NO!”
I am fortunate to have outstanding physical health. This is the first time I’ve been unwell since I can remember. During my rare instances of sick, I don’t view it as a physical imbalance. I do it to myself when my head isn’t right. And for what it’s worth, I usually appreciate the reminder to redirect my thoughts.
I’m a firm believe that minds are the most wonderful and dangerous feature a creature possesses.
So here I am with a fever and scratchy throat that I will tend to today with warm honey-sweetened herbal tea and a collection of naps. In between, I’m going to have an honest look at the projects I have on. I have some amazing things happening that I have been somewhat ignoring as I dwell in solitude and write letters to life like: Continue reading