February-June 2009: in photos

kestrel mornings / air conditioned nights

:june morning:

along the edge of sleek, branch-less trunks,
kestrels cower together while their mother watches from above
three babies crowding the nest so much that
they resemble a feathered barnacle against the bark

their early attempts at flying earlier in the week
resembled slow, perilous falling
with panicked explosions of flapping at irregular intervals
but as they gained practice, the falling began to resemble infantile gliding

still, they retired to their nest at night to sleep
perhaps to dream about feathered flights
and in the morning, in the bright summer sunlight
I saw two of the three chicks flying across the lawn

it seemed odd that I could see their faces so well
until I realized that their bodies were facing mine
and in the early daylight, the image of the wheat field
was perfectly reflected from my vertical office windows

the first kestrel collided with the glass
with a thud and a geometric splay of feathers so frightening
that the second reeled in mid air to veer off to the right
and flew off in a jagged line toward the irrigation ditches

With a dry mouth and a pounding heart
I walked to the window, which showed no sign of impact
nothing-- stillness-- for a minute, maybe two
and then, finally, a brown head peering up at me from beneath the bushes

he took two small hops to the sidewalk, and waited
and my heart waited with him
cautiously, he extended one wing, and then the next,
standing vulnerably in the path with an arc of feathers around him

I felt an ache building in my chest
certain that one or more small bones were broken
knowing that a baby falcon wouldn't last long with territorial
redwing blackbirds and starlings overhead

the moment lasted forever-- he, standing with his wings outstretched,
me, running my fingertips over the latch on the window
and the drawstring on the blinds

and then, in three clumsy flaps, his wings arched and fell
and he was gone
I couldn't see his silhouette against
the bright yellow light that streamed in between the branches of the trees
but I knew that it was there


:june night:

air conditioners whir and creak and grunt
from the unit attached to my neighbor's building
inside, their floppy-eared golden retriever puppy
sleeps outstretched in his crate
dreaming about gnawing on Tom's hands with his shark teeth
and lying in a patch of sun
chewing
on rawhides
scented with bacon
while the old dog watches from inside

new regina spektor album

I think the thing that I love about art the most is its ability to express things for me that I feel so strongly, but haven't ever found a way to adequately express.

On the flip side, there are times when art reaches out and says something so eerily close to what you've thought that it frightens you.
Especially when your inner monologue adopted a certain stanza or two of poetry that wasn't likely to ever be repeated or illustrated or-- worse yet-- explained better... by someone else.

Tonight my heart froze when I realized what Regina Spektor was singing about in "The Sword & The Pen" from her new album "Far". I felt sick for a second when I got halfway through the lyrics and realized that the chilling similarities in her song weren't a coincidental line or two-- it felt like lines and lines of lyrics that have been milling around in my subconscious for years. Lines that I don't want to think about or admit to myself that I think.

And then, overwhelmingly, I felt confused-- how could a phrase like "well then it's death from above, and death from above is still a death" seem so close to what I've often thought that it feels like it came from my insides, and here it was in an album? In Regina's words, which are so much more blunt and beautiful and scary than my words ever are?

This is like a secret, secret page from a diary I could've written before... years and years before.
But more beautiful and perverse and courageous than I'd be able to say it.

A song that feels like it's part of me; a song that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I don't want to admit feeling a deep connection to it, but I do.

don't let me out of this kiss
don't let me say what I say
the things that scare us today
what if they happen someday?

don't let me out of your arms
for now

what if the sword kills the pen?
what if the god kills the man?
and if he does it with love
well, then it's death from above...
and death from above is still a death

I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without
you

for those who still can recall
the desperate colors of fall
the sweet caresses of May
only on poems remain
no one recites them these days
for the shame

so what if nothing is safe
so what if no one is saved
no matter how sweet
no matter how brave
what if each to his own lonely grave

I don't want to live without you
I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without you
I don't want to live I don't want to live
without
you


I think if I'd heard this at a different time, I would've been surprised, but kind of shrugged it off. It's probably too easy to get thrown off-kilter by sad songs when it's been an uncomfortable 9-5:30 work day...a 5:30-7:30 music rehearsal that made my throat raw and my fingers ache, leaving rosin and inky black oil from the fingerboard all over my fingers and my dress... a crashing halt to the day when the guitarist left, and I realized that it was just me and my toaster and some turkey and tomato and sourdough and a completely silent apartment complex...

A guaranteed combination to end up tired and melancholy on the couch, needing conversation or stimulation, but instead getting mustard on my post-its while I wrote long to-do lists that included way too many responsible and nerve-wrackingly adult things that I'm not good at.

I tried a phone call, but the words spilled out of my mouth faster than I could formulate them, and they created a traffic jam on an otherwise poor connection.

I tried reminding myself that life is not always on my terms, but it just reinforced the feeling that when you want to be swept into arms and laughter and sunshine and discussions about super novas while the sun sets over the tea factory, it stings a little when everyone else wants to be in a shell doing the things that need to be done, being responsible and appropriate.

Outside, the sprinkler heads are whining like tea kettles, and my apartment's orientation to the parking lot masks the scent of cranberry zinger and cool air wafting in from the foothills to the west, and hides the view of coyotes lurking around the fields looking for prairie dog meals.

These are not Regina Spektor moments.
These are New Argentinian Guitarist that I Just Imported Into iTunes moments.

I'm still learning.

...but in having new eyes

"The voyage of true discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes," reads the exquisitely small font on my enormous Proust ring.

And I keep getting closer to tasting the peaceful promise of that line.

The work week has been terrible, and it's only Tuesday night. The only word I can think to describe it is a slow, dense claustrophobia that has consumed me by 11am both days... I felt the knots building in my abdomen this morning before I'd even left the apartment.
Hopefully this wave will break and crest into the more euphoric, productive high that I felt at the end of last week after a few similarly unpleasant days. I don't understand why something that should "just" be work can get me so emotionally involved, but I'd love to sit this one out for a while.

Yesterday was the most classic case of the Mondays imaginable-- I spilled an entire mug of coffee into my lap and all over my keyboard, a co-worker asked me if I was pregnant (as a joke, which I didn't realize until after the initial wave of horror that she was making a comment about my physical appearance), another co-worker later commented with a shocked expression that "I...have...larger...breasts!!!" than she thought (yechh), my project is so far from what I consider to be ethical and educational that my jaw was clenched in frustration for two solid hours before I realized what I was doing and got up to take a break.

My lunch turned out to be a comical marketing sham from the grocery store... the lucky lady curse hit so swiftly that I felt like I'd been punched in the back... I realized halfway through the day that my skivvies were on inside-out, and for no reason at all, that made me mutter "shitballs!" under my breath while someone walked by me.
When I went to the gym, it was completely empty, but halfway through my run a teenage boy hopped on the treadmill right next to mine and started reading my People magazine blatantly over my shoulder. I got a cramp near the ankle that I rolled over last weekend but still ran half a mile more than I was comfortable with in case he wanted to know if John and Kate plus 8 were going to stay together or if they were getting a divorce.

All in all, it was a frustrating but hilariously bad Monday.
And despite the mostly Jane-esque clumsiness that got me into most of those messes, I think what really is at the root of the jaw-clenching angst in my week is that I'm really, really worried about some of the bigger, less laughable things, and subconsciously I'm upset enough that it's making my mugs slip through my fingers, and my clothes are being pulled on in the dark without me wanting them to be seen at all.

Six months ago, I'd come home from a Monday and a Tuesday like these feeling really lost. I'd go to a coffee shop or retreat to my room with a book in hopes of pretending that I was just feeling normal.

Instead, I came home with huge coffee blotches down the legs of my pants and fiery aches radiating down my back... I slid into the couch to work on my CD books, and although I could still feel the pinch of worry in my temples and the knots from the work day in my belly, I also felt myself sinking into the delicious softness of my new couch cushions... the sanctuary of my newly spruced-up home... I felt myself taking deep breaths and letting go of the pins and needles that I was able to do without.

I didn't retreat as I usually do-- I just let my mind get a little mellow and reminded my lungs to keep breathing so I could let go of the rest.

The difference is that I've got a better a way to open my heart these days. And to be myself without berating myself. I've found something I've always wanted, and I'm so grateful to have found it that I feel as giddy as I feel totally peaceful. It's making my worry taste less acidic; my cereal taste more nutritions; my workouts feel less manic and my sleep is less interrupted by dark bat wings.

Life may always have complicated pretzel twists... but feeling really happy and very much in my own skin is all I ask for to take on the big stuff. I'm so grateful for Tom and it keeps coming out in blurted out, sappy-ass babble that I'm sure is probably getting annoying. I'm powerless to the sap. There aren't words to express how meaningful this has been to me, and I keep having to use a stream of small, almost meaningless clichéd words to get out what I feel so strongly.

I should go to bed...
with fingers covered in ink from glue sticks and old books
and my favorite t-shirt from hawaii to fall asleep in
curled up next to a big denim pillow shaped like the protective walls of a moat

with dreams of grandeur and a less stressful wednesday,
and the persuit of more meaningful celebrations of love and happiness

.jane kathryn.