we touch each other.
how?
with wings that beat…
— Rainer Maria Rilke, in an inscription to Marina Tsvetaeva, from Letters Summer 1926: Pasternak, Tsvetaeva, Rilke
Photo: DK. Gull. 6:56 am, February 14, 2021. 28° F, feels like 20° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
283 days. Consecutive. Cove Island Park morning walk.
14° F, feels like 5° F temp. What fresh hell is this? (Dorothy Parker)
I’m near the end of my loop. Boots swish through the crusty snow. I’m making my way to Cove Island Point.
And there it was.
It pierced through my tuk…
and through the hoodie pulled over my tuk…
and somehow she pierced through the noise cancelling earbuds that were pumping Taylor Swift’s Evermore… And I was catching my breath / Barefoot in the wildest winter.
I snap a picture, that one above. And pause to watch.
The rustling of this single, dry leaf, clinging to the branch by its ever-so-thin stem, and shivering. How delicate. How fragile. How barefoot in the wildest winter.
The north wind gusts, she shudders, and I shudder along with her.
Toko-pa Turner: What is wild in us are the ways in which we meet something freshly and not by habit. Wild is to be full-body alive in response to the conversation life is having with us; the caress of the wind which cools your skin after the sun has penetrated it with warmth. The shadow cast by a soaring bird above. The unmediated glance, surprised by beauty.
The unmediated glance surprised by beauty.
And for that moment…full-body alive.
Notes:
You can never have too much sky.
You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad.
—Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street
Notes:
Notes:
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound…
— Dante Gabriel Rossetti, from “Sudden Light” in “The Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti”
Notes:
— Mary Oliver, from “Consequences”, Dream Work
Notes:
All gods are homemade,
and it is we who pull their strings,
and so,
give them the power to pull ours.
Notes: Quote Source. Photo: DK, Feb 5, 7:25 a.m. Cove Island Park.
277 consecutive mornings. My daybreak walk at Cove Island Park.
Ted tells Sylvia’s mother: “I try to keep her writing and drawing—the more she does, the more she can do, and the better she feels.”
—the more she does, the more she can do, and the better she feels.
Yes. Ted. Yes.
It’s a passage 463 pages into Heather Clark’s “Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath.” I’m not sure why Kiki, but I persist. I keep turning the pages. Soot, and all.
Hughes continues…
And the sky
Was vast gulfs of blue, and the air
Lifted us like alcohol
Not blue today Ted. Not blue.
But vast gulfs of sherbets, pinks, mauves, oranges, and everything but, Blue.
And lift it did…
Notes:
I looked at the photograph he had shown me, the shadowy ridged declivity in the blasted planetary surface…I felt change far beneath me, moving deep beneath the surface of things, like the plates of the earth blindly moving in their black traces.
— Rachel Cusk, Transit (Picador; December 19, 2017)
Notes:
