edge

it's a process- clearing out the clutter, holding onto what sticks, not going blind in the process. on the docket: tolstoy's karenina, pinsky's the figured wheel (am i in a place than can again fathom prose poetry?), and perhaps a dose or two of faulkner.

i crave the quad-ruled, bound pages of the french, the rambling ways of atwood's narratives and foer's plots, the gentle arpeggios of segovia in concert, a clear path in the carpet for a yoga mat.

i want sara bareilles's album little voice for days that are unbearably, unforgivably hot (and it's only early june...), lavender-mint candles for my soul, and a cool breeze on warm skin. no simultaneity necessary.

soon to be: road trip (ish) out to see micah and some nyc-ish kids, in no uncertain order alex conway, tito, justin wolf, nora krohn, and dave vasold, if he can ever come up for air from rebecca's.

here's to friends: alison melville; alex conway; and the incandescent scribbles of sean.