Dare I dissect the lyrics of a song whose consonants fall gently across my back like the dotted hand drawn streams of a watering can? I know this process can sometimes break down what is best left alone. . .but I can’t help it. . .whatever was the bearded Sam Beam dreaming of when he wrote this poem? Here goes. . .
“Passing Afternoon” by Iron & Wine
There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon (life slips by, be present)
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon (the beginning is always warm and easy, but short-lived)
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her (she made mistakes she can’t take back)
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms (they all play together in her 
own personal symphony, pleated enough for a family picture)
There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days (there it goes again)
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made (change, as quietly as the seasons, interrupts our happiness)
And she’s chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings (she believes in God, perhaps the lessons her mother taught her)
Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves (she goes to church like a good girl should, she’s following the rules!)
Continue reading ‘Iron & Wine’
So I’ve been hearing about Blogs and “memes” lately. Apparently they’re meant to be together. Like Peace Corps and Chacos. Pauly Shore and meaningless movies. Peanut butter and lettuce. (Just ask my childhood friend, Andrea Ashdown).
The short definition, courtesy of Quixtar Blog, is:
“A unit of cultural information, such as a cultural practice or idea, that is transmitted verbally or by repeated action from one mind to another. . .” and as that relates to the Internet, something that. . . .”occurs when something relatively unknown becomes increasingly popular, often quite suddenly, through the mass propagation of media content made feasible by the Internet” technology.
And of course, now you think it’s all profound, but it’s really not much more important than the stuff left at the bottom of your purse after a night out. It’s like those email forwards where you talk about if eat the broccolli stems and which way you face in the shower and if you’re more of a Pepsi or Coke person.
Ali of Mozambique posted her meme and then offered to “pass on” the meme. (Susan, I am getting to yours, I promise!) I responded. She asked me a bunch of questions based on my blog. Here they are, along with my answers:
Continue reading ‘MEME: Blog Interview’
On Wednesday, we were couchsurfing virgins. Now we are daring to dance the tides of this refreshing concept, where as part of the monitored, worldwide network, we open the brown plaid surf of our own kitchen hide-a-bed to vagabonders who are tooteling through Sofia. We’ve heard good things: Toni couched with a cute rocker in Tuscany. Bobi stayed with a sweet and generous baba in Budapest.
So Remy (above) and Clement descended on our apartment. . . .a fish-seller and gardener from Montpelier, on twenty-day holiday in Bulgaria. They were delightful and full of positive energy. We drank wine–it seemed so appropriate. . .they told us about horrible Parisiennes, why they didn’t vote for Sarkozy and then tried to convince us that Lance Armstrong is full of steroids. Ah, the French.
Fabio, a Slovenian flaneur living in Italy, arrives tomorrow. Should make for a good story.
Seconds between stops,
shuffling, coughing, wheezing
dependable as a postman
with the indignant, retro charm of a mesh cap.
I’ll be home soon.
Orange like a powerflower on the outside
Green velvet pulp inside
Hot, liquidy, but livable, like a womb
Fifty cents for the ride.
Photo ops are free.
Public transportation at the cutting edge of mediocrity,
ironing garbage along it’s sticky path.
It will take me home.
Calm and so still
An office small and suffocating like a confessional
Fishbowl walls instead of woodgrain
A 70s science fiction film dashboard of buttons, levers and little plastic hula dancers
Tarzan rope from behind
Soft smoke that’s too tired to drift away.
Two liter bottle of off-white water to soak down the cigarette.
A full size towel, the Hitchhikers advice.
He will deliver me.
***********************************
I sit, helping Bulgarian grandmothers up the steps.
Just a few more blocks.
