Archive for January, 2012

Wednesdays are the days I most want to hop the train.  My gym exercise is lifting weights (BORING); it is a slow day at work, and there’s nothing on TV in the evening I want to watch.  It seems to be the day nothing ever happens, so…maybe no one will miss me.

I can go to my favorite place in Qville: an open meadow I hike to near the top of a mountain.  There are large rocks to sit on at one edge, warmed by the sun, with a beautiful view. The birds are singing. There are tall flowering weeds: Queen Anne’s lace, cornflowers, and yellow flowers (I don’t know what they are, but they are pretty). If I’m quiet and lucky, I might see a deer at the edge of the woods.

There. .. It was a quick trip, but now I feel better.

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A Poem about Reading

The previous post about reading a good book reminded me of a poem I wrote back in 2003.


The Reader


It’s so easy for me

to be lost in a book,

to pull on a novel character

like a change of clothes,

new and refreshing;

No matter how sad

their life may be,

I’m not me.

When I close

the book

I’m an awakened


I am placed

in my life

like a colorform

or a paperdoll;

as if I am teetering

on the edge of a cliff

and dare not move

until I touch

the harsh reality

of the world around me

and feel sure it can hold

the uncertainty of myself—

Lock me once again

into my own life.

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I just started reading a book I purchased at a yard sale over the summer, a true bargain at two for a quarter. (The other book I picked was “Must Love Dogs”.)  Its title is “The Pull of the Moon” by Elizabeth Berg. It is the story of a 50-year-old woman going through menopause who goes on a trip to “find herself.”  The format is composed of “letters” to the character’s husband alternating with journal entries. The writing is vibrant and introspectively emotional; the images detailed and beautiful. As I read it I feel the bittersweet pang of writing envy, the not-unpleasant feeling of admiring the writing to the point that I wish I had written it: the ultimate compliment.

The book was published 15 years ago, but for me, it is as if its character/author was sitting down and having lunch with me right now, and I feel blessed. I feel as if she is giving me a much-needed hug, reassurance, and laughter; it is a wonderful relief and joy. The author may be 10 years older than me, but for right now, she is the same age. She is telling me that I’m okay and there’s nothing wrong with me. For this moment in time, she is my friend. For someone else picking up the book 10 years from now, she will once again be the perfect age and a perfect friend. I SO love books!!

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I dug these boots out of the back of my closet.  I’m trying to clean things out..the usual New Year’s resolutions.  I’d probably keep them for a Halloween costume or something if they still fit, but they are WAY too tight.  Before discarding them, I took a trip down memory lane and decided I would give them a little “memorial”; a photo and an off-the-cuff poem…


Viva Le 80s

The boots were ripped from a dark back closet corner;

layers of dust had dimmed them some,

decades converted playful to garish.

In their heyday

they were club fodder, party wear, perfect companions

for a young woman’s feet as they danced the night away,

hugging and supporting them,

best friends through twenty-something dramas,

crushes, lost boyfriends, flip-flopping passions.

But maturity and years, life’s weight,

layered on and the boots got tight, were obsolete;

they became jokes, banished ghosts of youth.

Back in the light, they need a new home,

a new friend,

New retro-chic feet.

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Where is Qville you may ask?

Hint: it is not a town on a map; it is not a Facebook App, like Farmville or Cityville. It is the place you go when you are not present in the “real” world. It might be a place you go to feel calm or comforted; a place where you say the things you don’t dare say in the “real” world.  For an artist or writer it may be a completely fictional place, created especially by you and for you with its own characters. It is the where inspiration is born. Thus, it is not one place; it is different for everyone.

As the “real” world grows harder, darker, and more threatening, it can be a place where the sun shines, money doesn’t matter, and everyone accepts you.  No, I’m not crazy…and neither are most people who go there. They just need a break from the constant marketing, competition, and pressure to be perfect.  They need a welcoming place, a quiet place to just BE, an esoteric home (the real one usually has too many undone chores). And best of all: the train to Qville is free; it just takes time, precious time.

My husband knows when I have been there when I blurt out a statement or question that seems “out of the blue.”  He’ll say, “Where did that come from?” But he knows it really originates in Qville.  He’s the one who made up the name for reasons I won’t go into here.  Suffice to say, I’ve become quite attached to it.  Attached enough to create this blog: a place for my inspirational photos, fragments, and poems.

I hope my forays to my Qville will help you find yours.

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