Tranquil storm

The hills that day, to the north of us as we worked, were heart-ache, soul-ecstasy-beautiful. I have never seen anything like them; dark blue clouds misting upon low, smooth crowns, like some moor in an old English novel, like I'd imagined the heath in "The Secret Garden".

I wanted to be in the middle of it. But I suppose it might not have been as pretty, beheld as a tiny human from far away, lent god-sight by proximity and imagination. My favorite way to observe landscape much of the time is from the passenger seat of a car moving rapidly down the road, my eyes acting as fingers and hands feeling the geography. In my mind, feeling the ground and trees with fingers and hands that exist only in my eyes.

I desperately wished I'd had a camera of some sort, or my iphone. But I rarely take technology on jobs, especially that far away, so I have only my memory and whatever I manage to put down in writing.

Utaha two months ahead

Fires rage
as light fades
all with uncertainty

Portrait of a winter walk

A brittle and
colorless leaf
shines brightly
in a stream
of dog's urine.
December sunlight
sparkles, twinkling
across the leaf
as fluffy clouds
carelessly drop
in weightless heaps
over the bowl-edge
of our mountains.

Rain Is Joy

Funny how rain represents joy to me, I've been happier today than I have been in a while.

July of the 31st (But Not Today.)

We celebrated Harry Potter's birthday with home-made poppyseed cake yesterday, he turned 32, I think. And no, I forgot to take a picture of the cake before it was devoured yesterday, I'm terrible at remembering those things, but here's a link to the recipe we -Jeru, Tor and I made it together, I think it went way faster then it would have otherwise- used.
And if one more person asks if it was Daniel Radcliffe's birthday we celebrated, I will cream them. ;)

Who's to say what's impossible?

The clouds are magical. Maybe someday I will be able to paint an draw them in all they infinite glory.

A poem about a photo I saw in the Orion.

Lace covered tables and chairs,
representing the lost of the world,
never to be used again.
Covered in white,
like swiftly fallen, sparse snow.
Delicate as a child's hands,
intricate as a garden spider's web.
Lonely and waiting for company,
wanting for weight,
a solitary tree-stump waiting for it's boy.
The boy will never return to this world.

(And yes, the last two lines are a reference to "The Giving Tree".)

My camera's batteries have officially d-i-e-d.

I would love to post some pics of my latest bookbinding projects, but, alas, my camera's batteries hate me. And---- My sibs won't quit using the camera without asking me. Rats. I shall have to find some batteries for my Arches trip, I refuse to go without a working (Read, has batteries that don't die after three photos) camera. Think of all the photogenic moments (and people ;)! {Wow, that looks really weird, if I do say so myself. BTW, my writing becomes more entertaining when my little sister is spying on me, her cute little 12-year-old chin resting on the comp desk "Awww, Bryn! Gosh!"} MWahahaha >:}