Get Your Frappr GuestMap!
Powered by Platial
Powered by Platial
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
White moths are on the wing.
Roseman Covered Bridge
Built in 1883 by Benton Jones, it is 107 feet in length and sits in its original location. Roseman was renovated in 1992 at a cost of $152,515. In Robert James Waller's novel The Bridges of Madison County and the movie of the same name, Roseman is the bridge Robert Kincaid seeks when he stops at Francesca Johnson's for directions; it is also where Francesca leaves her note inviting him to dinner.
The truck in the rain...
As is not uncommon in life, timing is not a GREAT thing.
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
She starts to cry, she can't tell him why and losing interest quickly he turns up the radio. Pulling into the gas station she is glad of the opportunity to re-group her thoughts and compose herself. Then in pulls the omni-present 'truck in the rain' (please note I am not talking about myself in the third person... just in case ya was thinking I had a lover) -- The truck, driven by someone else might give it an excuse to take her away. Was the whole affair an excuse for her to leave, she must have felt the homesickness all along. Now just leaving tempts her... opening up to a stranger. (OK, she did a lillte bit more than open up) but stolen in the romance of it all is escape.
An evening out is an escape. A vacation... a day at the beach is something anyone can understand. But, can you understand that given the chance to stay at the beach... would you?
The movie that makes me cry.
Now, not sure how deep one should be in a 'blog', but feeling like sharing, so I will.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
The Bridges of Madison County... as movies go it is fair to call it a chick flick, but to me it is hauntingly sad. Her kitchen's emptiness and the dusty road that leads to it are symbolic of a life lived far from home. The road is me at the mercy of who may travel it into my life. The kitchen is my heart. Sometimes filled with children, but like wallpaper and pretty curtains fade, the window can steal your eyes away in an instant, your gaze wandering over lanscapes you've studied for many years, unchanging.
A friend that doesn't know you yet may come down that road, and you search their stories so that you can feel like you were with them. You can picture the moonlight and all the glorious sunrises, but never feel the wind. Never hear the sounds. Never know how it felt.
In solitude there is comfort that you don't have to explain how or why you can be so sad, but yet so happy in your life. The multitude of beatiful blessings that can only be counted in as many moments as there are in a day, remain unmatched by the number of times your heart aches just a little more.
Places that have never been seen by anyone but you are the memories tied to places that only someone with the same memories could understand. These heartstrings suffer in a death that is unendingly mourned.
When it is time for her lover to leave she cries and the anger comes out. That anger is ever present in all things that try to tempt me, tease me into letting it rise. The only emotional dalliance that justifies itself to me is the feeling of that long dusty road stretched out in mile after mile of impossible desperation. Impossible for anyone to find me, impossible for me to tell them how.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Homesickness (the lost blog post) with a Wizard of Oz theme.
I've decided to re-write a post that I lost.
Homesickness is something that you do not want to have sitting at a red traffic light. Your mind wanders like Dorothy's in a tornado of melancholy winds. Often snapped back into reality by some wanker in a Volvo behind you.
But,truth be known...I have actually said the words "I want to go home!" - but, nothing happened, so I can disprove that theory.
(Quit yur judgin... it's not like I expected to see a little man revealed behind a curtain)
Still wouldn't it be amazing if that really did happen? Then I'd see the balloon with a giant Virgin Atlantic sign on it floating away from me. Like all the trips home I have ever wanted to take.
My Uncle Neil litterally knocked on my door a week ago today. He had flown here from London, took a train from NYC and then walked from Milford station. (Yeah, the British will walk a very long way if it seems the most logical mode from A to B) He knocked the door and I casually (I swear to God it was casual) said, "Oh, Neils stopped by!"
It seemed really cool at the time.
Any Ho! He bet me a Pound (British Sterling) that I won't be coming over next May. Of course it's an insentive tactic probably used in Parliament.
"Shine up your money Uncle Neil! (using the most favourable exchange rate possible).
Long past it's prodromal state my homesickness is omni present in everything I do. Taking full advantage of that I've tied it in with saving and weight loss.
If I save every cent/penny myself then I can only blame myself. So completing each day sans Dunkin Donuts will make me feel more in charge of this dream.
We shall see... money saved so far $0. Weight loss so I can look fabulous... 0 Lbs
Homesickness is something that you do not want to have sitting at a red traffic light. Your mind wanders like Dorothy's in a tornado of melancholy winds. Often snapped back into reality by some wanker in a Volvo behind you.
But,truth be known...I have actually said the words "I want to go home!" - but, nothing happened, so I can disprove that theory.
(Quit yur judgin... it's not like I expected to see a little man revealed behind a curtain)
Still wouldn't it be amazing if that really did happen? Then I'd see the balloon with a giant Virgin Atlantic sign on it floating away from me. Like all the trips home I have ever wanted to take.
My Uncle Neil litterally knocked on my door a week ago today. He had flown here from London, took a train from NYC and then walked from Milford station. (Yeah, the British will walk a very long way if it seems the most logical mode from A to B) He knocked the door and I casually (I swear to God it was casual) said, "Oh, Neils stopped by!"
It seemed really cool at the time.
Any Ho! He bet me a Pound (British Sterling) that I won't be coming over next May. Of course it's an insentive tactic probably used in Parliament.
"Shine up your money Uncle Neil! (using the most favourable exchange rate possible).
Long past it's prodromal state my homesickness is omni present in everything I do. Taking full advantage of that I've tied it in with saving and weight loss.
If I save every cent/penny myself then I can only blame myself. So completing each day sans Dunkin Donuts will make me feel more in charge of this dream.
We shall see... money saved so far $0. Weight loss so I can look fabulous... 0 Lbs
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sooooooo tired!
OMG! - It is 4:18 on a Sunday morning and it feels like the whole world is 'sleeping in' except me.
Walking to Dunkin Donuts to try to wake up from sleep I haven't had yet... \~/
Walking to Dunkin Donuts to try to wake up from sleep I haven't had yet... \~/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
