advice

Don't Forget.

Even though this advice was prompted by the familiar battle this time of year,

I would categorize it as advice for life,

every day in the cold months,

with only slightly modified vocabulary

for the warm{er} ones.

Hope everyone had a lovely Halloween.

Favorite costumes?

How about this one:

A polluted river

AKA

what our rivers will look like if we don't stop polluting them.

Poetry for Breakfast or A Breakfast of Champions

Something to keep in mind as graduation looms and dreams get lofty.

Something

To remember

Upon graduation.

If I were to speak at commencement, perhaps I would say these words written by Dallas Clayton: 

 

REVISED YOUR “TO DO” LIST

Be a famous musician.

Be a famous actor.

Be a famous writer.

Be a famous basketball player.

Be famous.

 

There is nothing more nourishing than waking up with words running through the mind, your first gesture toward the carved wood cylinder filled with the lead that will draw the first symbols of the day onto smooth, cream paper between pale blue unsubstantial covers bound by a black fragile spine. 

The fragility kills and enlivens me. The narrow escape from boredom, which is nothing more than mindlessness, a lack of inspiration, a loss of play. The constant wavering on fine line of choice leading to experience, leading to possible moments of catharsis. Not only are our bodies ready to break apart at any given moment—not to mention our psyche—ruptured by loss or love or physical object. The euphoric moments, whether clam silent loud deafening subdued, are perhaps even more delicate than ourselves. They seem to be more easily missed than grasped, breakable as they are and so dependent on context within and without. Like a collage, they are sealed into our souls, sewn into the very fabric of our being. And so, in those moments when we are in need of a quilt to wrap tightly our tired bodies, our precarious minds, we’ve this patchwork mosaic of wool linen cotton hemp {I hope few polyester patches, some leftover from a less sophisticated perspicacity} to reach for.

Tuesday night was one of those serendipitous encounters, a chance of choice, and organic unfolding of and ascending toward happiness—always hoped for but elusive and thus unexpected. One of those evening-turning-toward-nights wherein I think nothing of the approaching early hour of obligatory waking, and if I do can only crack a teeth-bearing smile because I’ve found what makes such a dread obsolete, deaden: Life, simply. When the present moment outweighs and contributes to what follows. The heartening, sustaining, nourishing ways to begin and end a day. Uninhibited play grounded in brilliant talent—plus a dash of wisdom and understanding of course.

And the three who made the sound and the antics contributing to such a state. And now I am literally using the word swoon to describe not only the piano playing... but the piano player. 

Jukebox the Ghost

Plus Jenny Owen Youngs who came before, lovely in her own right and folkloricly comforting. This is not an afterthought.