Sie и Io we speak two different Γλώσσες How to talk to you love you hold your hurt like tea in a cup but you are so far a way
Posts
Attic
there’s an attic in my head and it sifts time – the stairs leading there creak like forgotten (and now recalled) ghosts: equivocating apparitions that might mean me well but I’ll never know; I evict them from the attic in my head before their echoes die (I imagine that) each echo like a well-meaning curate goes back to the parsonage to intercede on my behalf and later returns in stealth to occupy its previous station there are mirrors and bird cages and hymnals and wardrobes and painted work horses and drafts and forgotten dreams in the attic in my head I think the ghosts live among these things one day I will speak to the ghosts of these things but not today.
To Autumn
I love Fall. I’ve always loved Fall. A few days ago, a friend said he found Autumn sad because everything dies; summer is over and Winter is coming. Then in Spring, after a long season of steel-blue skies and urban hues of grey, he is happy because there is colour again. I love Fall for the same reason I love earthy, unpretentious, heart-felt folk music – like that of Damien Rice. When you touch something so deep and honest that it hurts your soul, you know you’re alive. That’s how I feel when I walk alone in Fall. Life has given way to rich beautiful tones of yellows, oranges and browns. It’s like the world is trying to get your attention with a short burst of colour as if to demand, on your part, refection: reflection on the passing of time and what you have done with it. It’s also a sober reminder that a long Winter is ahead. Fall is the perfect time for Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my faith. I think it should be mandatory for all churches that don’t have regular comm