Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Few of My Favorite Things

The smell of old books, gold-edged dictionaries, writing at sunrise, woods, mountains, hiking, daydreaming, being barefoot, wearing skirts/sun dresses, sunshine, painting, picnicking, cooking, campfires, cloud-watching, tree-climbing, kite-flying, exploring, good conversation, comfortable silence, swing dancing, road trips, railroad tracks, the month of October.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Live in the Sunshine, Drink the Wild Air

I belong in St. Louis. I love its people, culture, history, accessibility to the arts and opportunity for new experiences. To me, this is home. But, I can only stand cement, brick, steel and glass for so long. I need to retreat to the woods. I need the smell and feel of Missouri clay beneath my feet. I need to feel renewed. I need to be a little wild.

What I love most about this city: The woods are a mere 30 minutes away; the nearest park is only 3.

Monday, November 2, 2009

7:29:53 am

She woke expectantly in the small moment just before the alarm clock radio began its chorus and her arm windmilled toward the impending sound. Maria held up the weight of her sleep-heavy head with her wrists, rubbing her eyes and brows before taking in the first full breath of the day. Tension began in the small muscles of her toes, filling up her body with movement and heat until her spine bridged up to a sitting position, encouraged by a yawn that lifted her upwards and filled her chest with the humming air-conditioned air. She unsheeted herself, exposing the warmth of her legs to the black around her. Her bare feet met the stain-stiff carpet and shuffled across, arms outstretched in inquisition. She grabbed the wall and palmed the stucco, pressing a bit harder to let the small cement ranges scrape her hands with warmth. She placed and thumbed the light switch to ‘ON’ as she squinched her eyes pointlessly and tightly, knuckling them until useful. Regaining her sight, she smirked at her reflection in the vanity: her pillowed face creased in unnatural, now-rigid wrinkles; her hair was a tangle of last night's curls and champagne-inspired copulation. She cast down her eyes and turned on the steady stream, tossing the washcloth into the shell-shaped sink. She rubbed her cheeks and pushed back her tresses, cleaning the creases of her eyes and sniffling over the steam. Fishing the hot cloth out of the basin, Maria unwrapped a thin bar of soap from its logoed envelope and worked them together with slightly stinging hands until sudsy and light.

To be continued...