August 30, 2003

wish you were here

take two. i just wrote a long, thoughtful (well at least i thought it was) entry, and then the internet crashed. crashed like irony. grr. i will try to do this again. ahem.


you should see my sky tonight. it is grey like my words and over the tennessee hills, slate clouds hang upon slate clouds--they're brooding like the spirit on the waters in the beginning. let there be light every once in awhile, as the shadows of slow-striking lightning sit on my eyes when i blink. thunder is rumbling from on high, far away, muted. and the leaves are all bearing their bellies to the evening, vulnerable like a purring cat at its feet.

i worry too much about the august kind of lethargy that overtakes me. i worry about how the ends will meet, yet i'm too tired to pull them together. but here comes september in two days and sweater weather. this is the stuff my soul knows best: autumn and cider and slower days with earlier nights. it's these storms that bring relief, you know. they usher in the transition.

transition i understand. i can bear my belly to it if it promises an easier yoke than this. the cicadas are singing a hopeful tune outside the window now. they're singing a finale. i applaud.

some clear joy is coming on some slowest train. i whistle these words in the dark every night anymore. tonight too. but tonight is different, because someone is whistling back. i heard it the other night as julie miller sang "broken things" with shawn colvin. i sat in the second row, flanked by rachel and julie and i was smiling. i heard it in my sister's and mother's and best friend's voices when a trip to erie came together for this coming friday [God bless the saints who lend you money for the things you need].

i'm listening.
i'm listening.

and i am rewriting as i go.

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August 26, 2003


august started off with such potential. i blogged more than once. i was doing so well. but now, it is 5:47 am on the 26th, and as i embark on the last two months of being 24, i realise that i haven't written in awhile.

i'm not going to be a whiny blogger (i've tried never to stoop to that, right?) but i really have been sick. still. for a long time. cold turned bronchitis turned sinus infection, with a whirlwind trip to austin thrown in for good, good measure. but. i've got drugs now, thanks to the belmont health center, and all will be well with my nasal passages and energy levels soon, i hope.

[you wanted to know this.]

august has also taken jude away, back to england. ohmysoul. has it really been a week since i've seen her?

in other news, i am sitting in my barista clothing and the sky is turning grey from blue from black. i drove to starbucks at 5 to open, only to realize that i had looked at the schedule wrong and i am supposed to close this evening. i bid the opening staff adieu in a confident, i-just-stopped-by-to-make-sure-y'all-are-ok kind of way, clucked my tongue at myself and drove home.

i get to go back to bed now.
starbucks + sleep = annie's august.

but school starts tomorrow and julie comes home tomorrow and shawn colvin plays tomorrow. so. tomorrow is a new season, i believe. i am going to take my bright yellow decongestant horse pill and hold on tight for it.

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August 13, 2003


no time for many words at the moment, as i am overdue deadlines girl with bronchitis, but i at least wanted to prove that i can meet deadlines, and have been something like productive lately. (can you tell i'm a bit sensitive at the moment?)

i wrote an essay last week for an unlikely publication: not so much the place one would naturally put my words, but they asked me if i was interested in talking about my own life, and i thought, hey why not. blogworld proved to be inspiration, too. so. i am grateful all around. and how did they know my obsession with trains? i never breathed a word of it.

click me to actually read the little essay

and now back to the overdue deadlines, already in progress.

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August 8, 2003

coffee provided by starbucks.

friday morning in the red room. jude is home and sitting next to me; we are women with our laptops sitting at a big wooden table (it's a little unstable).

hope, she starts changing everything, our sarah sings. and sometimes we all step back to see.

it's a stepping back to see kind of morning.

after dragging ourselves out of our respective beds this morning, we drove with messy hair under hats to the nearest starbucks, where i picked up my weekly free pound of coffee. came home and put on a fresh pot. jude made the cinnamon rolls and we happily ate the whole pan to the soundtrack of over the rhine's new hello ohio. unexpected tears fell from my cheeks as karin sang hello ohio i know you like the back of my hand. because i, too, know ohio. i know my grandmother and college and hidden corners of stifled tears for two years. ohio is where my childhood ended and adulthood began. sometimes i remember. like this morning. jude hugged me. i poured more coffee.

sitting out on the porch a moment ago, watching the neighbors paint their house yellow with their radio blasting the chi-lites, i realized that now is about all things new. because sparrow is painting her daughter's bedroom and reading etty. nichole is cradling her baby boy. marlei is about setting out to sea tomorrow with her family on a cruise. julie is on a tourbus today, singing her dreams come true with alison krauss.

i'm watching from the red room, drinking my third cup of coffee.

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August 3, 2003

a chest full of contradictions.

sunday night in a red room. i'm housesitting. i've got lavender candles sitting in babyfood jars burning bright on my right. incense too. the be good tanyas are quiet companions reminding me that i am not alone in an empty house. kitty is outside looking in.

i need to put the kettle on, drink some more lemon echinacea throat coat tea, because i am sick. it's this cold that has never quite materialized, but makes its presence known in a latenight fever and achy insides. at least i can smell the lavender. work and espanol for the past few days are hazy. have i done anything, really?

i am a chest full of contradictions, honestly. i ache with some sort of viral pressure, but crave cigarettes that only aggravate the situation. i buy ibuprofen and camels. i say i want to be a writer, but i push push push deadlines like a girl with extenuating circumstances. i know that my life is beautiful and i am very much alive. i am lucky. i am loved. i love. yet i can't push past the haze of fear and i hide out a few days in a house with a red room and lots of plants in need of constant care. something in me is afraid that i am constantly on the verge of losing everything precious. and i remember the last words from my father, who would have turned 75 yesterday, to my mother: you're blessed. a benediction offered hours before his heart gave out. a kiss goodbye as he dropped her off at the mall. i am encouraged. and i am saddened. because i am tired. tired of the ghosts of memory being all i get to cling to anymore. give me a body and beating heart. give me flesh and bone and arms around me. tell me i am blessed in my ear so that i can feel it. living breath in my ear. the coming kingdom.

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