All posts tagged: texas

Daily Business of Living

 “The life of a poet oscillates between ecstasy and agony, and what mitigates those extremes is the necessary daily business of living.” Louise Glück, from “Internal Taperstries,” by William Giraldi, Poets and Writers (vol. 42, no. 5, September/October 2014)   This is always how it goes,  I write: “I haven’t had time to write.” But there is something I never really realized…. inspiration takes time. It takes hours, days, maybe weeks of meditation to quiet the mind, to actually think thoughts that don’t involve task-oriented motions. Time is something I haven’t had a lot of lately, I feel like a top spinning straight into the ground…. By week, I am in an archaeology intern out in west Texas working on a rather amazing project, and by the weekend, I gather my things (dirt still on my face) and drive back to Austin to make and sell WR & my handmade Pierogi (Polish style dumplings) at the farmers markets here. It’s been quite hectic, but manageable and now I have a week back in Austin. I’ve …

Enchanted Rock

  It’s been difficult to find time to breath lately, so I haven’t had much of an opportunity to write very much at all. It’s been busy to say the least trying to find balance between work, school, etc.. and now Wojciech & I have finally opened our small business (more on this later… yay). I thought I’d be able to handle such a heavy work load, but I’m proving to be less intrepid than I had thought. I’ve been waking up before the sun just to get a full day’s work in (prep, work-work, housework…boring topic, I know.) Though I recognize that I’m lucky to be where I am in life, especially comparatively to others, it’s not without a struggle. But I digress. Spring has really sneaked (snuk?) up on us. The skies are swollen with storm clouds and the rain has helped all sorts of wildflowers pop their heads up along the highways and grassy billows. Mother Nature has certainly had her hands full brightly painting springtime here in Texas. Wojciech & I …

Hiking Into a Happy New Year

The afternoon shuts its doors. The heart tightens it valves, the dragon maple sunk in its bones, The grass asleep in its wheel. The year squeezes to this point, the cold Hung like a lantern against the dark burn of a syllable: I roll it around on my tongue, I warm its edges … Charles Wright, closing lines to “Light Journal,” Zone Journals (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1988)

Summer & a Few Simple Words…

The nights are growing longer and the days hotter. The summer has taken it’s hold of the landscape, the sunflowers and tall grasses are beginning to dry out and collapse into the brittle earth. It was an amazingly wet season for Texas, but now those green valleys are fading into brown, baby birds are growing out of their cottony plumage, and lining up ready for flight, leaving behind empty nests. The cicada’s song is becoming forlorn and dier. My skin is red and damp from the sunlight, even for the shortest jaunts. But that’s alright. It doesn’t bother me a bit. I think I have a soul made for summer. The summer melts away whatever was left of a winter depression, leaving me mended and restful. For the first time in a long time I’m in a place where I’m actively learning, taking everything anew, not just waiting for the days to end in somber reflection. That’s not to say I’m not feeling anxious. Sometimes I feel a thousand years old, sometimes it’s as though I can …

On Things Forgotten

Recoiled skies pass in reckless abandon The wind blows through the windows, Prickly pear and other thorny things sprouting limbs And creeping up the walls of this old sheriff’s office Remain the only living occupants. If walls could talk, they mightn’t choose to speak… We leave things hanging on hall trees, And mounted above mantles Small reminders that there was life inside at Some point. But the bones and blood Of these buildings runs cold, Until there is nothing but the Forlorn faith of somber cries From voices long underground. Ghost towns and old railyards mark the skin of This heartland, Long bleached from the sun and Rusted away from unfair weather. It’s a wonder what this place must’ve been Before time turned executioner, Before people picked up their shadows And blew away like rain-flit flames Struggling for a life that is no longer theirs. Now the frames wilt And weather away in rural decay, Things that once housed, fed, and warmed Now sink back into deformed Earth. Laughes do not echo off the walls, The …