This morning the sky is white. Everything else looks gray: the roofs of the houses, the branches above them, the small birds and the big birds and the birds in between. Today it will rain. Tomorrow it will snow. How many grays will that be?
Thursday, March 18
Thursday, March 11
There is a staleness in the air, like sawdust on a market floor. It feels like walking in mudflats. The weight of the year, the dishes in the sink, the unopened mail on the kitchen table.
This morning I ate leftover mac and cheese with green hot sauce. I am not sorry.
Friday, March 5
Wednesday, May 6
Friday, January 24
I am finding places to exist. The end of the hall only computer science students go down, with its bench in front of the heater, the sunlight shining through the dirty window. Yesterday I sat there and ate my lunch. I could see out the window three cops trying to help a driver get his car out of an icy parking spot. I watched them push the car, kick the snow and ice, try to ease it out of its spot. They took turns directing traffic around their double-parked cars, lights flashing. I would have yelled my advice if the window opened. I just watched. After ten minutes one of the cops found a piece of cardboard and slipped it beneath the tire. The car lurched free, then one cop stopped traffic to let the driver out. They stayed there for a couple minutes, arms crossed, kicking the icy spot.
Wednesday, January 2
Tuesday, January 2
|Free-hand embroidery inspired by Haeckel.|