Sunday, November 3, 2013

just another pea picklin’ week, but i’m calling it an international photojournal with drops of water

Late Thursday afternoon Elliott and I walked to the river and down along its near stretch. It was drizzling, as it had been all day, though perhaps misting is a better word. At times there was an honest-to-goodness, no-nonsense rain, at other times nothing, but most often just this little bit of something and a steady fog. A heady aroma of cedar and spruce steeped in the moisture, and drops of water hung from bare branches and old berries.

Drops of water #1.

These drops caught my eye, I suppose, because they did not drop, after all, but rather hung there in suspense, not moving a whit. They must have dropped eventually, but I did not see it.

Drops of water #2.

Elliott had spent most of the day in his nest of coats, the fleece coats that used to belong to Buster. This nest, which includes a few other things, such as a pair of my socks neatly rolled and tucked, developed a while back, shortly after Buster died. I piled his things in the middle of the floor intending to get rid of them, but then couldn’t, so shoved the pile in a corner. Elliott did the rest, and for quite a while this past spring it is where he slept. But Elliott likes to move around a bit, a bit like Goldilocks, only not so quick to judge, and after favoring one nest for a month or so he moves on to another, say the laundry basket or the corner of the sofa. But now he’s back in Buster’s old coats, and that makes me happy.

Wednesday night I heard wolves howling. I was snuggled under my covers and the wolves were somewhere out there in the woods, maybe along the river, and at first I thought coyotes, as usual, but the howling stayed pure, no yipping, no barking, no vast array of vocalization and jocularity as there always seems to be with those coyotes. Wednesday night it was just a howl starting low and deep and rising up hollow-like but full, too, spreading out all the way to the moon and stars, whatever little sliver of moon there was beyond the beads of fog. The door was open a crack to let in the air, and in came the howl, too. Then another, and another. The next night and the night after it was just those crazy coyotes bouncing their jokes around, hamming it up.

Earlier in the week, an early morning of about 15 degrees. The dew was caught off guard. It froze solid to dead flowers and grass. Though if the flower heads hold seeds, how can they be dead? And if their roots are alive, well.

Drops of water #3.

And much earlier in the week a flurry of photos came in from America’s Great Southwest and from Italy. The photos seemed to arrive all at once, like a cascade. Many were of signs, like this one.

Photo by L.P. Gallucci

Many were of dogs, like this little guy.

Photo by J. Williams

And some were of graffiti.

“The beautiful things in my life are not things.”
Photo by P.T. Allen

Receiving all these photos made me feel as if something was happening, as if maybe I too was elsewhere. All these other elsewheres with blue skies and rattlesnakes and funny dogs and leaning towers and buildings with blank walls that people scribble upon. But clearly that was not the case. Clearly I was just here and it was just another ordinary week of candlemaking, of walking with Elliott to the river, of noticing lingering raindrops, and of thinking hey, maybe I’ll write about this.

Photo by P.T. Allen