This House.

(via Letters from Maud)

My Life

(Photo via The Land Between The Mountains)

Under Water

With you, I feel nine years old again.

Its July in the suburbs and I've swum down

to the bottom of the pool

to lay my cheek to the scratch of the cement

and open my eyes

bloodshot, to the chlorine.

At the bottom, it is beautiful.

Unparalleled in peace and the elegance of limbs

underwater

become

unusually graceful.

Yet the pressure hurts my eardrums

and looking up I see the heat

make a bed of the water

and jump.

I want that sunlight so desperately

now that I am far from it

and as my lungs fill and overflow

the panic becomes palpable.

I slip and kick and claw at the water

and worry all the way up

that I'll never break

that barrier

to burst forth

into the heated air

to scrape my knees on the sides

climbing out of the water

into the day.

(All this to say,

I think I'm in too deep with you).

10:45 Summer

I worshipped the wind

sucking my songs

eating my voice

making love to the melody

of words

learned in a moment

and lisped out

last minute

to a new song

in Michael's front seat

on the highway

in July.

( photo via TheLandBetweenTheMountains)

To Be This Beautiful...

"Walt, at about eleven, had a routine of looking at Seymour's wrists and telling him to take off his sweater. "Take off your sweater, hey, Seymour. Go ahead, hey. It's warm in here." S. would beam back at him, shine back at him. He loved that kind of horseplay from any of the kids. I did, too, but only off and on. He did invariably. He thrived, too, waxed strong, on all tactless or underconsidered remarks directed at him by family minors. In 1959, in fact, when on occasion I hear rather nettling news of the doings of my youngest brother and sister, I think on the quantities of joy they brought S. I remember Franny, at about four, sitting on his lap, facing him, and saying, with immense admiration, "Seymour, your teeth are so nice and yellow!" He literally staggered over to me to ask if I'd heard what she said."

-J.D. Salinger "Seymour, An Introduction"

Apple Cores

I wish that I had kissed you

in that magic moment

after

the summer night

had gone

and

before

the morning birds

had woken up

and nothing

thus everything

was sacred.

I didn't realize it then,

but now

instead,

on this Sunday afternoon

with a jar of peanut butter

and a Pink Lady

and Tender is the Night

and the thought

of you.

Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall

I will never love any band more than I love these chaps.

Beaming; through the whole song.