This morning, I rolled out of bed with swollen eyes from the night before--things are a little tricky on the home front right now. I had an 8 a.m. date with a friend to scope the local farmer's market. To make the remedy that much more potent, I opened the door and was greeted with bizarre and unseasonal temperatures. I had to grab a sweater before leaving...in AUGUST.

I have been told that if you don't make the market around opening time, the offerings are a little picked over, so my friend picked me up a little after eight. We got coffee first and then walked the block-or-two it takes to get from mid-Franklin St. to the rows of simple, white tents. There was a breeze blowing slightly enough to make the warm cup in my hands enjoyable and to remind me that Autumn is up next.

Fruit was on my mind, but you have to understand how difficult it is to stay focussed once you're faced with the cartons and baskets all color filled and sensually ripe. Naturally, I couldn't help myself from scooping up some purple hull peas, and heirloom tomatoes, and local eggs (in addition to the peaches that I had anticipated taking home).

Unrelated--I'm thinking about leaving this space. So many people that I know and love have been invited here when my life made a lot more sense and while their support is appreciated, I have found that their viewing pleasure causes me to be significantly less candid than I used to be. And now it almost feels like a silent gridlock; I am afraid to open myself. I need a little corner where I can feel comfortable again, so it seems that the Lonely Sound might be coming to a close in order for other possibilities to flourish in its place. Sometimes it's necessary to trim back branches for new growth. It kind of feels like I would be abandoning two years of myself...so I'll keep you posted. No rash decisions today, just thinking.

a place for everything::everything in its place

I can't believe it's already Friday. Another week down is a good thing both in deployment terms and in grad school terms. This semester has been far less magical than last and less inspiring and less motivating. I've dragged through it because I had to, much like the days that he has been gone. The day he left I lived through the coming months in big bites, overwhelming concepts that drew my stomach up into my throat and left an empty chasm where it belonged. I felt like crawling out my skin in the most desperate and panicked way. Looking back, that seems so long ago, but then again, we're already on the other side of all my enormous measurements - seasons, semesters, length of daylight. And for most of the time that I've powered recklessly through British Romance poetry and fallen asleep without his arms around me, I've been surprisingly okay.

I have found little things to occupy my mind and stories that I've gathered to color all the hours. Though one of my biggest fears was learning to live on my own, misery-free, I've come to love most of it. There are times, like yesterday when I really do wish that he was here, but not in the cry-myself-to-sleep way, more in the he-knows-how-to-shoot-big-guns way. Not that I don't...

(me topping the badass scales - Winter '07)

...but he's better.

I pulled out of my driveway en route to the post office and to the vet. I backed out, righted my direction only to see three police cars pulled haphazardly onto the curb of my street, three doors down. Lights were flashing, a few cops were coming around the corner, an obvious exit from the premise, and a stand up gentleman stood cuffed behind the trunk of the closest vehicle. This falls into the "ignorance is bliss" section of life. I felt much more settled not knowing that a criminal lived on my block. I'm making double sure that the doors are locked and that every outdoor sound is over-analzyed and that I sleep with one eye open.

In other news, the garden project continues to prosper. The back-up patio tomato (the one not grown from seeds) and the homegrown zucchini squash, along with my window box of sprouting spinach and romaine lettuce all found homes outside yesterday. They're growing up so fast! My herbs are nestled in a sunny corner of my porch and the poppies continue to explode into thread-thin stems with miniature leaves. Inside my summer squash and sweetie tomato have just this morning shown through the soil, and I'm still giving the sweet pepper and straight eight cucumber a chance to do the same.

It's safe to say that this endeavor has become far more involved than I ever expected. I awoke in the night to a mild thunderstorm and thought briefly of running out in the rain to bring their pots inside. I kept seeing visions of disrupted root systems and disturbed onion seeds, over-watered failure, etc. Luckily, for the sake of preserving some dignity, I stayed curled up in bed and let Mother Nature induct them into Her realm without me. Using a calming mantra I talked myself down from pathetic actions - they are Hers, not mine.

greetings from a dreary Monday

There isn't much to tell and maybe I'm also extending my break from blogging because I can. But again, not much to tell. With things spicing up in the world and a completely screwed up switchboard system, my levels of anxiety are on a steady climb. I've gotten a series of about five calls in close to two weeks that have amounted to a lot of brief words before an automated operator hangs up prematurely. In under 10 minutes, with warnings that your talking time is quickly expiring, there isn't much that you can feasibly say, except to make sure you squeeze in an untimely "I love you," because that's what matters most. Even though we have spoken, we haven't really gotten to talk, no e-mails either. The sparse communication is just now starting to wear on me, and the shift from sunny 70 degree days to sleet and rain and resurfacing Winter coats, and my stuffy nose and general feelings of gross. But before Winter stopped in for one last hoorah, everything was pretty swell.

The weather has been beautiful. I spent a good part of this last weekend with the doors open, completely relaxed, tending new sprouts and day dreaming long evenings that will be spent on the porch with my soldier, sipping wine for me, beer for him. Though those days are still a long way from right now, it's pleasant to think of them, to be able to think of them as that much closer.

I almost went through the transplanting process while the sun was out and the days were ripe for potting plants, but this Blackberry Winter was looming on the horizon so I waited for possibilities of frost to subside before chancing my seedlings' exposure to the elements. Just when I had given up on my tomatoes, a tiny sprig of green showed itself, and I awoke this morning to find that my zucchini was busy pushing up through soil all night long. This from-seed business doesn't sit well with my total lack of patience; however, if all goes well, I'll be a veritable produce stand by June or July. I'm still mulling over chickens, although I picked the breed and have glanced over coop designs. I keep coming back to the anchor they would be. Who the hell am I going to hire on to tend chickens if I travel? Am I really ready to be that tied to home? Questions that still need to be reasoned with before I seal the deal.

28 of 31: grayness

Is this the lamb or still the lion?

"spring" break

I want to cry.

4 of 31: giving (myself a break)

I have never in all my life been so excited about spring break.  

Never.  

I'm pretty sure we all felt the same way in class tonight with the windows open to filter in the optimism of changing weather.  There were a number of laugh-till-we-cried moments, specifically during a sloppy reenactment of Arthur Miller's The Crucible.  

Thursdays nights were marked for gut-busting episodes last Fall and sadly they don't occur nearly as much as of late.  It was refreshing, though, to feel young and loopy and to laugh and laugh without reserve...at jokes that only us English nerds find funny.

It's been a while since I've felt entitled to double over, silly with joy, glad to just be alive.  My skin and my bones are voracious with a craving for sunshine and breezes that don't make your limbs scream with pain before going numb.  

It isn't all in the air.  I'm also glad to feel grateful again for a good man and a community of army wives ready to stand-in for my backbone when I don't have the wherewithal to hold a steady posture.  I feel like this week's low spot, while it was dim, allowed me to get to know a few ladies better.  I'm grateful to be building stronger relationships with The Staff Sergeant's family, as we are all stretched by the sacrifices he has to make for his convictions.  But there is something to be said for the bleak outlook cast by dreary Winter, and the new vision that is brightened by Spring.  

Snow Day

Yesterday the ice came as predicted, though the worst of it was north of here [thankfully].  The skeletal limbs looked sugar-dipped and enchanted, and I can say that because I didn't lose power.  Paducah stole the spotlight on this morning's Today Show.  That's what I mean by "just north of here" - not so far North.  Driving into Nashville was incredible with the glimmering tree lines on either side and the frosted fields and rock walls adorned with icicles as tall as them.  For part of the day I didn't have cable or internet, but that's small in comparison to some others' inconveniences.  A friend of mine spent the night in a hotel after an outage at her home, making a memorable first birthday for her daughter.  

Today the weather softened with snow, weightless wafting snow that fell momentarily so thick that it was hard to see down the block.  It makes me wish that he was here instead of cooking in the desert.  It does this so rarely in Tennessee that even as an adult, it makes me giddy and excited, and I put on boots early in the morning to go out to snap photos and stomp around in the whiteness.  Unfortunately, I can't find the cord to upload my pictures from today, but trust that they look similar to that one up top and less like the ice-encased berries that I stole from a local news website to illustrate yesterday's conditions.  

I'm making snowball cookies to commemorate the snow day he's missing, thus increasing the cheese factor but I care not.  I care package with no shame.

I live in the house of Murphy's Law, the bloody-cold house of Murphy's Law - with frozen kitchen pipes and my feet are numb.  And that's just the latest thing that could go wrong and did.  I hate this house...

But in the house of Murphy's Law cookies are love.  I made a special batch this afternoon with all of my heart and longing thoughts to find him in far off places:

Chocolate Peanut Butter Chip Cookies

2 c. all-purpose flour

3/4 c. cocoa

baking powder

1 tsp. salt

1 c. dark brown sugar

1 c. granulated sugar

1 c. unsalted butter at room temperature

2 tsp. vanilla

2 eggs

6-8 oz. peanut butter chips

Preheat oven to 325 degrees, line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper; sift together flour, cocoa, baking powder and salt in a medium sized bowl

In a large bowl beat butter, brown sugar and granulated sugar until fluffy.  Add vanilla and eggs and beat well.  Stir in the flour-cocoa mix, then fold in peanut butter chips

Drop the cookie dough by the tablespoonful onto the prepared baking sheets.  Bake 8-10 minutes, then let cool on racks.

someone's in the kitchen...

Our sense of seasons in the South is different than in other regions. We only sort of have four of them: 6 months of summer, 4 months of mild-winter, 1 week of spring, 1 week of fall and at least 6 weeks of wild-card weather amid the hinges of definite change. So it was strange and luxurious when Summer tapered off many weeks earlier than expected and spared us August's usual heat advisories and 300% humidity. An eerie cool graced September long before the trees became rusty and the days became notably abbreviated. Only now the mornings and evenings are marked with a reliable chill and I've pulled out my lazy hoodies and I've started craving apples and steamy drinks and comfort food and NYC. Something about Autumn feels like home and it brings about a force that I cannot fight, drawing me to the kitchen, making my fingers ten tireless little chefs.

Tonight I'm paying homage to my roots with black-eyed pea stew and cornbread (and Woodchuck draft cider). I have wild hopes that it will indeed make you wanna slap your grandma!  Cheers to Autumn and southern de-liciousness!

*kudos cookinglight.com

there is a season [turn, turn, turn]

I wish that I could capture that notable autumn chill that suddenly appears after so many days of scalding heat.  It seems cooler now than it will in coming weeks, like the icy shock of pool water following a rolling hot tub boil.  And so it goes that I pulled on a low-cut tank top and left for classes without a cardigan - when every other muggy day it idled in the depths of my purse, crumpled and unused.

Crisp as the air was against my bare arms, I couldn't complain - then or now.  I adore nothing like the first of Fall, walking to my car beneath the orange glow of street lights after hours of class, knowing that some years ago this is when my life began.  Again, there is beginning in the turning of leaves and the slow process of cooling southern earth.  Change hangs just beyond my grasp in this different town, this strange place where the new path pleads to be journeyed.  

And onward I travel.

no matter what I do

Summer, like Recession, settled in before we claimed it and before we expected June's sticky slop-for-air. The pristine mornings already are robbed of fresh infancy by humid fog and blinding brightness.

Creek banks are rotting in the sweet stink of rained berries that I've never noticed in all of three years. How they have hidden for so long is my newest quandary. They bleed between my sandaled toes, turning the pink skin deep purple and refusing to wash away. The grass is littered with them, unavoidable in my a.m. and p.m. promenades. I have quickly grown to hate them and the fruit flies they summon in herds. At night, there is a fortunate breeze that will linger only for a while, until the wavy, squiggled mirages of August's Hell settle. Limbs thick with fringe rustle in air not yet still, above the flaming, flickering bulbs of fireflies.

I've walked among these reoccurring scenes for weeks now as my beginnings and ends have become marked with the reliable biology of my dog's need to empty. Only this night I noticed the trees and the hum of early June and the sad, lonely seduction of myself. The warm change of season brings me here where without reason, I withdraw. Every year, slightly askew from the last in its nature, leading me not quite into the depths of Darkness, but to walk on the hems of her skirts. I could bore us both with years of analysis, but I won't. Instead, I'll only say that it comes uninvited with a restless itch.

I've staved off the temptation to succumb, thus far, with a distracted dialog, an open conversation that I imagine to have with him. I comment on the day's doldrums and anticipate the way he would laugh or tease me. I relive and re-relive the archived moments stowed away and rationed in times like this, so the hours keep steady, not losing any momentum. There is something to look toward in them passing as my life might seem to have otherwise settled in 9-to-5, flat monotony.

On the patio of that coffee bar where earlier I sat to scribble empty lines, deep, throaty Blues wafted from speakers over-head. Maybe it's the heavy heat, the weeks having denied us the luxury of communication, rotting-fruit-stench, or a glitch in my psyche that has caused my low spirit. No matter the root, I am lonesome tonight. I am the aching pluck of guitar strings and the brooding ballads birthed in The Delta.

a baby of the south, I'm twenty years of clean

By Nashville standards, this is a blizzard...4 inches of powdery winter glory! Last night the snow rolled in and fell all through the dark hours. I awoke to a text: We are closed today! Have fun! Interpreted: NO WORK ON ACCOUNT OF SNOW! I GET TO SLEEP IN [AND STILL GET PAID]!

Now having the whole day to seize in whatever capacity I choose, I'll probably sit down and write something that has meaning and weight. Until then, I'm gonna keep sitting here in my favorite hoodie and messy sleep-hair simply because I can.

Tuesday

The day began at 4:26am...with a scratching at my bedroom door. Beyond the stronghold of my lair lingered a canine, fearful of thunder [and lightning]. I tossed and turned and because of his outcries, I also then laid awake bothered by the flicker and rumble of the storm.

Thankfully, sleep befell me once again, and I did not stir until the hour of 8 [90 minutes later than intended]. I awoke with a start, sensing the missed alarm and leaped from my bed to quickly calculate the one hour I had to ready myself for the day.

Shower. [check]

Dogs. [check]

Make-up. [check]

Hair. [check]

I've mentioned the recent trial of parking at school, a true debacle if you will, yet this morning was a circus all it's own. It mirrored the honking and jams of traffic that occur only in a Manhattan rush hour. I yelled and cursed before miraculously, a vacant space appeared [and choirs of angels sang halleluiahs]. I fled the vehicle in a haste spurred by tardiness. Off to class.

Then a college job fair [and more bad traffic] that I might only ever equate to a nightmare of capitalistic proportion. Like Sebold paints the victim's Heaven, my mail order Hell must resemble twenty-somethings herded into clusters of awkward suits and phony grins, and firm handshakes and eye-contact. If given but one wish in this lifetime, I would gamble in every other opportunity to somehow bypass the slimy grip of corporate America.

Yet again, off to class, which preceded a third bought of traffic vexation...[ah, a trend!]

Dinner included a re-indulgence of last night's turkey chili, that like a fine wine only improves with age. I had enough time to eat, check e-mail, and tend to the dogs before embarking on a new adventure: a writing group. We gathered, provided introductions - our purpose and expectations, and mixed the hues of one another's richly colored characters in an hour. It was lovely and motivating and hopeful. It was one more baby-step in the professional direction.

Oh, and I failed to mention the traffic fiasco well underway in the parking lot of our meeting place...when it rains it pours [and it did that all day, too...].

Following the empowerment of writer-speak, I headed directly for Starbucks [which I hear may be incorporating free internet???]. It's where I go to study because it boasts fewer distractions than the zoo of my apartment. I chatted briefly with the Staff Sergeant, then not-so-briefly with Dad. Between phone calls I swallowed excruciating doses of strategic management in preparation for tomorrow's test. I'm praying that the televised meteorologists mean blizzard when they say flurries are in tonight's forecast. I could really use a whole day spent snuggled between the covers, free of obligation...but I won't be holding my breath.

And that, my friends, was Tuesday.

there's no place like home.

Last night CNN got a little caught up in some breaking news, reporting that a tornado was on the ground, moving toward downtown Nashville...or so I hear. It was ugly for about half an hour as the old roommate and I stood on her front porch stoop, poised and awed by the rage of Mother Nature. It rained [a lot], every siren in the city wailed, the lightning was so sharp that it seemed the sky would be divided, and the thunder quickly following might nearly have compromised the earth's position. It was the hail that finally made us nervous, the tell tale signature of a twister...but nothing more than strong, gusty winds accompanied the storm [here]. And we're thankful for that.

Finally

"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending."

- J.R.R. Tolkien

A story as uncharacteristic as the phenomenon itself: Snow falls in Baghdad. Sometimes the good news does manage to fall through the cracks. And so I am once again, but only slightly, challenged to consider the possibility that humanity might not all be destined for disaster. I'm sure tomorrow will act as confirmation that it is, but today, this is good enough.

busy, busy

Again, only a minute...

Yesterday the sky dumped torrential rains on Nashville without relent. I should have stuck with the striped Wellington idea but went with notably absorbent New Balances instead. If I haven't clarified already, my most peeved occurrence in life is wet hems on jeans...they never dry and inevitably find a way to slither, clammy and cold, into your shoes. Strangely, against all meteorological odds, yesterday was wonderful.

I guess no matter how much I dread the blocks of class time spent trying to overcome the distraction of day dreams, to-do lists, etc., there is some solace found in the reliability of knowing that I won't care about the business-talk, the corporate explanations, the inner workings of Ford, Starbucks, Post-it, Amazon, Wal-Mart, to name only a few. In addition to this disappointing realization, I spent the afternoon chatting over subs with a friend from last semester, purchasing a highly overpriced flat-iron that I've convinced myself is vital for existence, marking off a few necessary errands, and finally, an evening with the Staff Sergeant.

Rain as it may, no weather could have dampened a night spent with him. Like a friend of mine recently told me, the time apart makes you appreciate the time together all the more, and our time is temporarily numbered as his short, long departure all too quickly approaches.

"For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice.”

I could write about this day last year. I could tell you how different I am, how much I grew, about the hardships I conquered. But we all grow and we all overcome, and life continues to mold each one us into something different than we once were. It's no secret that 2007 had its less than ideal moments, and though I can only speak from my own experiences, I am certain that I am no isolated case.

Instead of reliving 2007, I'd rather write about the snow that christened January [2008], that spit and spun beneath the low-cast wintry clouds. It only fell and hovered momentarily in undulating waves whipped across the contrast of asphalt before melting. I'd rather note the morning, ablaze in golden sunlight that filtered in through bamboo blinds and fell like fresh sheets unfurled [on us].

I'd rather get lost in this irrepressible bliss.

when it rains, it pours.

The air is suddenly chilled, a product of the eternal rains. Glassy pools spread atop concrete planes awaiting the saturation of dragging hems, one of my most rued peeves. Another day is lost to a new brand of luck I have contracted. I would willingly stand in line, wet pants and all, if I might receive an effective elixir for this shadow of ill will. I long to sit and write of sunshine, both literal and proverbial. I'd love to talk of love. Love in Autumn. We'd sit carelessly beneath a ripe, red tree with leaves so brilliant that only children might replicate them in crayon. He and I would swap sugary glances and kiss while blue birds belted harmonies from the boughs. And then both you and I would cringe at the syrup-laden atrocity that had become my blog.

Moving on...

In seriousness, I wish that I could present something profound and beautiful, but all I am is cold puddles and the clouds that hang low and gray. Perhaps I have filled my plate too full and this is the ungraceful clattering of its spill onto the floor. Soon, maybe soon, I'll come out of this hole with intriguing subject matter [and a smile]. Until then, might you settle for wintry rain and a heart tired from the missing?

All I want to be is the minute that you hold me in

I could write about the 24 hours of rain that has dictated yet another gloomy-mood day.

I could write to tell you how I went to visit [cell phone provider] seeking aid in opening a photo of desert dunes that wouldn't...and how their inadequacies left me sitting in the drowning parking lot adding to the mist.

or about the raging headache that threatens the explosion of sinus cavities as the unpredictable up-and-down weather schemes fluctuate in sinister jests.

...but then if I broke into the incredible review of last night's Matt Nathanson and Ingrid Michaelson concert I attended, it would be an awkward change of pace. It might produce in you some kind of emotional vertigo, and, well, I would hate to have that burden on my shoulders.

::sigh::

Outside it rains and I have sad eyes, or maybe tired. Perhaps it's just a rainy mood inspired by gray clouds. I'm heavy, my eyes are anyway, and the music wafts lazily over and through and below the murmur of the others. I know the voice of this singer but can't retrieve his name from the tip of my tongue. His identity doesn't much matter, and this song fits oddly with the melancholy nature of the late afternoon shower. Peppermint tea rolls steam from its surface before me and dribbles carelessly down one side - syphoned by the the steeping bag.

The aroma of coffee permeates the air. [and peppermint too, of course.]

I have no idea what has gotten beneath my skin, nonetheless this unnamed agitation is bothersome. Maybe it is the rain, and the sad slush of tires through puddles on the asphalt. Maybe it's the Hornby novel I read, likening marriage to the impulse to drink bleach. Maybe it's [this] or [that]...maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe it's the woeful plight of voices around me, those who might actually be planning to toast the Universe with a brimming pour of Clorox.

Could the goal really be unachievable...?