Friday, January 31, 2014

January: the month of disinspiration, if that's a word. The fact of the calendar marching quickly away from January all week has been enough to elevate my spirits.

I didn't go to New York — an unexpected onslaught of wholesale orders required whip-cracking on the homefront, so my boss flew off to Super Bowl Central alone, and I'm entirely fine with all of it.

There's a bouquet of roses on my kitchen table left over from my November birthday. Completely dried, they are the most exquisite "rose" color, a red-going-to-pink, but not quite. An undecided red, a decidedly-not pink.

Ah, color. (It exists for me somewhere on a piece of glass between where the eye meets it and where the light comes through from behind — liminal, nowhere, everywhere, shifting.)


  1. Yours words, at times beyond me, are fascinating and draw images from the page. Thank you for sharing.

  2. I just noticed the photo in your header. It's beautiful. Ireland?

    1. lily cedar, yes, in the Ring of Kerry.
      Thank you!

  3. Hi T (Google just ate my last comment so I'll see if I can remember what I said and say it again). . .
    I love your evocative and multi-layered header photograph; the road on which we are always both coming and going, arriving and leaving, pausing and in motion.
    'Disinspiration' is a fine word - part of the 'incubation bundle' perhaps, and a necessary companion to 'inspiration'?
    I am not surprised to read your last paragraph on colour and light (am making similar observations here!). Have you read Gaston Bachelard's 'The Poetics of Space', 'The Flame of the Candle' or 'The Solitude of the Candle Dreamer'? If not, do!

    1. Hi Claire!
      I'm not familiar with Bachelard, but shall investigate.
      And yes, that forever road.....

  4. Though January gave me rather a slap to my ego and a really huge electric bill, it's February that always got to me when I lived "up North."

    February in the South is often filled with promise and surprise. The daffodils are up a few inches (promise) - as are my irises (surprise). And today it was over 60 degrees. The birds are actin' all whoopee silly. I may join them.