in which i dance with the daffodils

This is what I wore over the weekend to "celebrate" daylight savings. Except mostly I just like it because it reminds me of a daffodil--my favorite springtime flower!

(dress: goodwill; tights: h&m; shoes: seychelles; hat: vintage)

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(William Wordsworth)

in which i sing the song of chevron

This dress is one of my very favorites, but I struggle with styling it up in new and different ways, since the print pretty much speaks for itself.

(dress: h&m via plato's closet; jacket: uo via goodwill; shoes: seychelles)

Tonight is date night! K and I are going to get some Indian food (best ever) and I am excited :) Last night was so crazy and productive (laundry, pie-baking, hand-washing delicates in the sink...), I can't wait to just sit down and be served. This will hopefully include champagne. It is also technically our four year (!!!!) anniversary. We chose October 13 (a fairly good guess, we obviously weren't paying attention to the date when we originally got together--I only pay attention to dates when I have a regular job), but last year K said he didn't like the number 13. So... October 14 it is. :D (Hmmm I like the sound of October 15 better...)

The light in these photos is totally ridiculous. When I got to my spot it was completely overcast (my favorite for photo-taking), but halfway through the "shoot" the sun was shining like a screaming banshee through the clouds. Not ideal. And now, because it's Friday, I'll leave you with a poem that I like (about the best month ever).

October

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

(Robert Frost)

in which i turn it over to tomas

This has been such a hellish week that I'm not even sure my brain is still functioning. I thought it would be appropriate to turn the blog over to Tomas Tranströmer, who was announced yesterday morning as the 2011 Nobel Laureate in Literature.

(I also keep accidentally deleting my 'shoe shots.' Please forgive.)

(sweater: vintage; chambray: walmart; skirt: thrifted; boots: seychelles)

Prelude

Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams

Free of the suffocating turbulence the traveler

sinks toward the green zone of morning.

Things flare up. From the viewpoint of the quivering lark

he is aware of the huge root systems of the trees,

their swaying underground lamps. But aboveground

there's greenery--a tropical flood of it--with

lifted arms, listening

to the beat of an invisible pump. And he

sinks toward summer, is lowered

in its dazzling crater, down

through shafts of green damp ages

trembling under the sun's turbine. Then it's checked,

this straight-down journey through the moment, and the wings spread

to the osprey's repose above rushing waters.

The Bronze Age trumpet's

outlawed note

hovers above the bottomless depths.

In day's first hours consciousness can grasp the world

as the hand grips a sun-warmed stone.

The traveler is standing under the tree. After

the crash through death's turbulence, shall

a great light unfold above his head?

(Tomas Tranströmer, The Great Enigma)

feast

i drank at every vine
the last was like the first.
i came upon no wine
so wonderful as thirst.

i gnawed at every root
i ate of every plant.
i came upon no fruit
so wonderful as want.

feed the grape and bean
to the vintner and the monger;
i will lie down lean
with my thirst and my hunger.

-millay

I'm off!

the moment

(by Margaret Atwood)

The moment when, after many years

of hard work and a long voyage

you stand in the centre of your room,

house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,

knowing at last how you got there,

and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose

their soft arms from around you,

the birds take back their language,

the cliffs fissure and collapse,

the air moves back from you like a wave

and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belonged to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way round.

Recuerdo

WE were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,

And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,

And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

(From "A Few Figs from Thistles," 1922)

My friend C was telling me about her last-minute late-weekend rendez-vous in NYC with her Manhattan-ite boyfriend (she spontaneously hopped a train on Sunday morning and played hooky from work the next day) and it made me all starry-eyed for my long-lost city life. I haven't spent a whole lot of time in NYC (two high school band/chorus trips, though fun & exploratory, don't exactly count) and I am conscious of my tendency to romanticize the dirty (and perhaps overly pretentious) city into a mecca of creativity, excitability & amourous activities. I blame you, Woody Allen.

Still, the truth is, there is something about New York (as a concept?) that really tugs at my heart strings. It seems so... lived in. The old brick buildings with their fading facades seem weathered and worn out like the cracked and crumbling spine of a beloved book. At night, the thousands of little illuminated windows hold steady their lights--a reminder that everybody else exists too, here, in this moment, on this Earth. How can you keep from finding comfort in that? There is something about New York (and any city) that eases the effect of personal alienation. You really can never be alone in a city so massive & full of life.

It's difficult for me to love the quiet country all the time. Dark & deserted silent snowy streets, entire towns shutting down when the clocks strike six, communities disconnected by distances so great they must be driven... it's hard for me to be inspired by silence&separation. Anyway, when I get in a rural-life slump there is only one thing to do--simulate city life! On Saturday morning I got up relatively early and drove the three miles into town for a bagel, a chai latte, and a solitary sidewalk stroll. I now present you with Waterbury's urban landscape:

(leather jacket: ALDO; scarf: gift from mom; shirt: Marshall's; jeans: PacSun; booties: GoJane; chai latte: GMCR cafe)

I hope you all had wonderful, exhilarating weekends! Welcome back to the work week :)

Oh, PS: The Millay poem (Recuerdo, above) is one of my favorites, and always reminds me of all-nighters in the city with good friends (it's been a long time since I've stayed up to watch the sun rise... count yourselves lucky if you don't have full-time jobs, and maybe experience the dawn for me?). I had been getting really into Millay while working at the coffee shop in Portland and a co-barista introduced me to this particular poem... so now I pass it on to you! If you have any interest, I also loved her biography Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford.