One day. Two people.

Michelle, my belle. 

Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, 

tres bien ensemble.

Nineteen years ago, on my dad's day, he got his belle-Michelle. Like liquid sunshine, the loudest, blondest, best gift he (and I) could have been given. 

Today is both their days, and I hope it was a good one. 

Happy birthday dad and little sis.

 Today, in the land of university library 

I was given the task of erasing pencil marks from the pages of a recently returned book. I was sad to erase them, the student had obviously read every page and her thoughts wouldn’t be passed on to the next reader.

Yes, I am one of those people that likes a book to be underlined, favorite passages starred, and small notes scrawled in the margins. {unless the typeography is too perfect to ruin- then I want it spotless} I like my books marked up for the same reason that I like freckles and scars: stories. That sprinkle of freckles across your nose tells about the summer in Cape Cod where you read The Catcher in the Rye for the first time {and have read it many times since}

I have a scar on my knee that tells two stories in which I fall painfully and dramatically- once in Russia and once in Mexico. Tattoos, though they are often quite unfortunate looking, can be redeemable if they own a good story.

So I was thinking all of this while erasing another student’s story out of the library book. And when I finally finished erasing all 130 pages of underlining, starring, and scrawled notes…I decided to plant a tree for the one cut down. Hence, I’m marking the world wide web with my story and my thoughts.

Maybe that’s what blogging is about today- it’s not simply a sharing of information. It is taking something that’s everyone’s and making your own tiny marks in the margins.

Today's Favorite Things

The everyday mug

A spritz of this lovely scent

Carrying this book everywhere with the hope of finding a free moment to begin reading.

Watering my window friend, Herman

Humming this song to myself. It has practically cemented itself into my brain.

To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful. -Agnes DeMille

I went swing dancing over Christmas break. Until then, I had forgotten how much I love ballroom dance. I miss it. It's a shame that so many guys are not well-versed in this activity.

For of all sad works of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: 

"It might have been!"

-John Greenleaf Whittier

Dear Future

 Just so you know, this is my future man. He and I will be living the ultimate of hipstamatic lives together. In old England. We will meet at approximately age 25 and marry by 27. This is non-negotiable, so a reply will not be necessary.

Regards,

A persnickety and pleasantly piquant planner.

"Beware of artists, for they mix with all classes of society and are therefore most dangerous." 

-Darling Queen Victoria

Classical Favorite

  When I was in London, I spent most of my time independently looking for bits of art that were probably only really important to me. One day, Debussy wandered into my ipod playlist. I remember my first listen. I was walking next to some beautiful white buildings with columns. There were tall trees stretching into a canopy over my head. The street was out of the way and absolutely quiet. 
This song remains one of my favorite classical pieces of all time, listening to it brings me back to that shaded street in London.

Librarian-ing Again

  The World of Marcel Duchamp. It was on the end of a row of books. So available. So obvious. 

And then later, I was shelving a thick, gray, book and I couldn't find its place. I finally checked the title. The Brothers Karamazov. In my hands, not just waiting on the end of a row. Shelving books is such a temptation for me, sometimes I wonder if the library is scheming to get me into trouble. It would love nothing more than to entice me into sitting down in the aisle with a favorite artist or a new story and forget about the 20+ books still sitting on the cart. So many things have changed at this school within my semester of absence, but this is definitely not one of them.

Dusk

  I did a little painting while home, it was slow going. These three are belated Christmas presents for my Mammaw & Pappaw, Grandma, and my darling Susan. 

The awkward time between events has started, like the calm before the storm. 

Tomorrow morning I am leaving early for the beginning of another semester, this time in the states. I can't say that I'm excited for it, only ready.

Jane Austen Stint

Every few months I wrap myself into a cozy Jane Austen and relax. This time it is Emma. I don’t like to admit to this, but I am an Austen fan. Not a lot and not all the time, similar to my feelings concerning Helvetica. If there were a Jane Austen boat and an I Hate Jane Austen boat, I would be a lifeguard actively rescuing members of both boats. Or maybe I would bring a copy of Ulysses on stand and ignore the idiots in my ill-formed metaphors.

Favorite Emma Quote: 

I thrice plucked the petals off of daisies to ascertain his feelings...I don't think we should keep daisies in the garden. They really are a drab little flower.

I Start Every Day With This Song

∆

Sickness, to me, has always been a weakness. Emotional sickness, depression, was the pinnacle of weakness. And maybe I have been right, maybe depression is a kind of weakness. But ignoring my depression for so long has been weaker. Ive been very self focused these past few months, drawn into myself, putting up walls and decorating my secret place with secret thoughts. They tell me to guard my heart. 

Done.

Logic, snobbery, vanity, selfishness, anger, fear. They have been excellent guards.

I need a change of staff. 

I hope I’m ready. 

A Little Speculation

I know that many people find red hair unattractive, but I hope I have a redheaded child. When you look at me it doesn't appear to be in my cards genetically- I have very dark hair and eyes. But my grandfather was a ginger. In a way, I've always thought that redheads know how left handed people feel. We feel that we are in the minority, we notice that many things were made for right dominant people. Most differences don't matter, but some are disappointing. For instance, it is nearly impossible for me to write with a quill pen or do any calligraphy. Most people wouldn't mind so much, but it was sad for me to realize. In the same way, my redheaded friends feel different, special, because of their hair. But not always special in a positive way. 

photo

Hello Herman

The seven-year-old Kate (she went by Katie) learned something important about herself the day she began talking to her dog. The big words Verbal Processor and Introverted weren’t in her vocabulary then, but she knew that when life was hard it was helpful to talk to something that wouldn't blab, interrupt, or give unnecessary advice. In those days her confidant was the beloved Snickers, or the neighbor’s horse.

Today some form of this little introverted verbal processing Katie has survived, and while at college I often prefer that something living be near. A living thing brings peace, no I don't talk to them anymore. Sadly, Swimmy the Fish could not survive my semester of absence in Ireland. But now a new semester has almost arrived, and I need a replacement for the now rotting beta.

Thus enters Herman. And welcome.

Kooser

Alone by a

window or a door,

driving in a car,

sitting in a house

or when conversation

suddenly stops,

I am pulled close to

a fierce, hungry sunset,

I, a wild, lavender

weed of a woman,

push out of cement

cracks, leaves, stems,

sticky blooms radiating

city landscape,

lovely sky.

At Home With My Brother

We Will Call it Word Blot

mush gush go away feelings I feel no more for you come back logic I never knew we drifted apart hold me tight icy grip don’t slip freeze it off moles leave holes scars leave stories sever tear but don’t pretend it wasn’t there where wear leaves lines in lines we wait we live we stand we run in lines swim in lines lines make circles squares hexagons stars stand alone hearts break perfectly in half and make more lines but really just graphite on paper you can rip tear shred burn but you wont you will stand in that line that circle that square no tear no repair don’t complain you know its fair you know you sow thoughts but never movement never change it jingles in your pocket in your car under your step step step click clack smack on sidewalks crunch crunch on gravel crunch crunch cardboard cereal goosh smoosh on mush gush go away feelings

Focus

With every new year, there are resolutions. I have come to see that a sense of unrest within a person can often breed beautiful things- the new year is simply an ideal catalyst. In hindsight I have labeled and organized each year in my life, usually stamping it with a single word or phrase to summarize those 365 days of experiences. This year I have stopped scoffing at the cliche notion of a resolution, I am simply tired of only categorizing everything in retrospect. A plan of action will simply effectuate my resolve (my resolution) to focus. There are many changes of focus that I wish to see. Here are a few hopefuls.

More tea & Less coffee

Grow Roses (and wake up to smell them)

Take Longer Walks

Read (at least 5 more books than in 2010)

Paint Like Mad