The Flash Of A Neon Light That Split The Night

(Camilla Åkrans for Numeró)

Have you ever just felt like there was so much rushing around inside of you, and that no amount of shouting or singing or crying or writing could possibly begin to empty it all out? That you could talk for ten years and write a hundred poems and everything you felt would still be trapped in the little corners of your brain and your heart?

I feel that way now. A little stuck.

But anyways, Passover festivities commenced tonight. Relatively (actually, completely) uneventful. Wine makes family gatherings so much more lovely.

This bag is hilarious and perfect. Thoroughly cheeky, wonderfully unexpected from a brand like Longchamp, and basically the thing that has been missing from my wardrobe all my life.

I really, really want a bright pair of Converse for the spring. These are pretty much my favorite footwear ever created. As much as I love to salivate over exquisite heels and delicate flats, and even wear them often enough, Converse end up on my feet most of the time. They're just so wonderfully dependable.

In the car on the way home tonight, I was listening to my iPod and right then and there compiled a very important list.

My Top Ten Favorite Lyricists Of All Time, In No Specific Order
John Lennon
Ben Gibbard
Sufjan Stevens
Conor Oberst
Ben Kweller
Colin Meloy
Paul Simon
James Mercer
Elliott Smith
Billy Joel

In close contest for number eleven: Sam Beam, Andrew Bird, Justin Vernon.

Tell me your favorites! I like to learn about you all.


from ansel olson on flickr

About a year ago, I started writing a lot of poems about nature and how it felt around me. Just looking in my backyard at dusk brought all these ideas gushing out. Here are two I wrote last spring; I think of them like two halves of the same poem.

a kind of renaissance

the enormous forsythia plant is
in bloom again below my window, a
sinuous tangle of yellow tails like
a crisp greek wreath. above it
the slick orange ball of sun glows
against charred trees, a watercolor of
fire and branches about to burst to life.

a monet twilight

by now the sky has paled to mauve
and lavender, traces of celestial lipstick
wiped across the atmosphere. above
the purple melting pot, a sheet
of milky blue bedecks the heavens
like a cool basin turned upside down,
emptying its viscera in a current of
stars and air scented with honeysuckle.

Posting will be spotty for the next week or so, as I'm going away until next Thursday and have no idea what my internet availability will be like. I'll try desperately to post before then!

"Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy."
~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

P.S. Post title from one of the most beautiful songs ever written, "The Sound Of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.