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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/21/2004 :  20:35:26  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Hang this wreath high. Expect no flash or dazzle. Flame, not sparkle. A story with a common thread. A simple stitch repeating itself. Loves urgent embroidery. He stands on the balcony. Hands in his pockets. Looking down on the narrow courtyard where spiders spin silk through the jasmine. The far-away pointy stars whisper. Striped light on spiny branches. Hard work from November's sunset. She looks in her transparent heart, surprised at the arrow left there. Be glad. Be thankful, he says. But the Apostles are still queuing up in the cafeteria, ransacking their pockets for spare change. Or standing on corners with cardboard signs signs while traffic speeds by and the five o'clock sky fills with wings.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/22/2004 :  20:18:50  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Driving home on the twilit 5 tonight, quiet trains beside us. Almost silent. The seamless rail. No clickity-clacking. At the end of Camp Pendleton is the big rail yard where they wash the AmTrack and the Coaster and the Metro Link. The Coaster is two shades of beautiful blue. The Metro Link is white. A ghost train.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/23/2004 :  21:33:18  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"I am asleep in the upstairs bedroom. Rolled up under a big goosedown coverlet as light as the mornin' air.... The window...cranked...honeysuckle vine...crawling by...leaving the fragrance of a thousand tiny white flowers. The wind dancing with the branch of a young cottonwood tree...too close to the house...no place to grow."

~Mickey Newbury~
October 2001
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/23/2004 :  22:07:41  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Curved gravel road. House in the trees. On rose-bound porches waiting for the last loaves to rise we take turns with tea towels chasing the yeasty perfume. To you... Sleeping under your "goosedown coverlet as light as the mornin' air." Fresh bread baking! We hear your footsteps on the lemon-polished stairs...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/24/2004 :  19:07:15  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Started baking at 7am. Because we are a big family. All day, music tight in my ear. (How many of us cooked with our headphones on?) Calm sea now after a beautiful sunset. Stars sitting on the water. Sage and yellow feathers to bless the fleet tomorrow. On our last trip to farmers market this afternoon...pierced trays of fresh figs and flickering candles. Surfers shining in full wetsuits, and a beautiful lady in a long fur coat and flip-flops flagging a taxi on the PCH. Our oven timer is ticking, and Cameron's cutting hearts and moons out of the paper towel napkins. Before we sit down at the big table tomorrow...Happy Thanksgiving to all and much love to Newburyland!

Edited by - Ailinn on 11/12/2012 18:39:38
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  19:57:27  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...and the place on the desert where you can walk into the turquois sky. Where the old ones still are. The people before the Anasazi. They're not saying what they know. Hot stars. Estrella de caliente. Where God pulls a light show out of His hat every night. Now we need flagged notes that go fast. Kitchen music. For putting this long day away. Cinnamon behind one ear...vanilla behind the other...
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:09:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...es tan corto el amor, y tan large el olvido..."
Pablo Neruda

"Your house sounds like a train at noon:
bees hum, pots sing,
the waterfall catalogues what the soft rain did,
your laugh spills out its trill like a palm tree.

Arriving like a country boy with a singing telegram,
the blue light of the wall talks with the rocks, and there--
climbing the hill, between the two fig trees, with the green
voice--
comes Homer in his quiet sandals.

Only here the city has no voice, no mouth, nothing so
relentless, no sonatas, shouts or car horns: here,
instead, a quiet collocation of waterfalls and lions

and you--who rises, sings, runs, walks, bends,
plants, sews, cooks, hammers, writes, returns--
or have you gone away--?-- (then I'd know the winter had
begun).
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:11:17  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The above is also Pablo Neruda.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/25/2004 :  20:25:52  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...from the north they came...where the lights dance on a crystal sky across the land of the Midnight Shadow. For many generations they traveled with the Northstar to their backs until they reached a Sacred place in these mountains. From the north and south came wisemen with their Sacred writings. From the Northern edge of the World, one group...from the Southern edge the other... They meet. They are referred to by the flatlanders as The Old Ones. Day and night they are watched over by the chosen ones. Do not disturb them... They are known only...to the wild dogs.

~Mickey Newbury
November 23, 2000~
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/26/2004 :  16:45:56  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
He rests with his hands folded on the scrolled iron table. A little sunset smog standing behind him. Doves coo in oval arches. The Mission Church across the courtyard tolls the hour and half hour. There are always bells. And bougainvillea's papery leaves whispering across the terracotta. He turns to a tray of mosaic fruit with its stained glass primary colors. He chooses a warm plum. The east wall glows with western light where the sun descends in angles. Soon the right dark comes down.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/27/2004 :  18:28:08  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
At Swindlers Heart Cove the sea comes in aslant under trestles, and a congregation of feathers wait on the wires overhead. For sunset. Five minutes and five miles away. Liquid light plays over the water. The omni-present tomatoes look forlorn in late November. She's grating cheese in the little house. Popping herbed loaves in and out of the oven. He's pulling the next trick out of his invincible hat. "Be prepared," he says. A star melting in his hand when he lays his heart on the table. Blame the tide bringing the seashells back to shore. Blame the mountains falling down to the sea sometimes tripping in up to their ankles. Blame the palm trees bursting like green umbrellas upon the bluedark sky. Blame the silver moon.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/27/2004 :  18:33:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Doves in the palm trees. Mice in the ivy. Bless these children growing up at the edge of the sea living their wet lives in water. Bless the quiet flowers. Jasmine and gardenia. Bless the fine sand sifting into courtyard corners. Bless the lizards huffing and puffing by the verdigris gate. Bless the aisle of burning stars above us. Bless the vanquished and the cherished. Bless you...most of all.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/28/2004 :  17:39:07  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Night came late and morning early. A racket. Kids sliding down the stairs on cardboard boxes at 7am. Feel the house shake? Me and Stu drink coffee. Three strong cups. We haul them all to water. We follow Stu to the salt marsh grasses at the edge of North America. The sky is half full of sea birds. The sun is deeply shining. Stu walks with his seven foot bamboo pole. The pied piper leading his ragged parade. He needs a haircut. He looks like Poseidon. The lowest tide slides in at 4 o'clock. He says we'll leave work early and hit the Mall mid week when the lots aren't full. Beyond the beach, traffic on the PCH freezes, but the curbside florists do okay. Poinsettias and prickly holly. And the Batiquitos Lagoon rises under I 5. Now a peddler on our street. A knife-sharpening tinker man. He'll also tell your fortune. Ten dollars for the month ahead. The rest of your life for twenty. "The honest-to-God real deal," my neighbor tells me. Cameron brings him a bag with sandwiches and two cans of Coke. "Turkey," the tinker man says. "Ham. We don't have any more turkey," says Cam. After supper Stu and I will hide out in the garage by the washer/dryer going full tilt. Music from the truck. Red and radar-green lights glowing. Nobody will find us. They never think to look here.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/28/2004 :  17:47:24  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
...one other thing. Sad because it might be ending. The dark-brick Boyle Hotel in L.A. built in 1889. A haven for Mariachis. They travel light without suitcases. Just their instruments and a clean shirt. A way station on the way to San Francisco. Chicago, San Diego, New York... "...the womb of..." they say, black hair and white shirts shining. Cummerbunds and side-studded trousers. Soft ties blowing in Santa Ana's dry wind. No, this is not Santa Monica. Here the vihuela players sing Amor Eterno under white doves flying and icy chandeliers. Los Angeles, save the Boyle!
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/29/2004 :  20:19:59  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Late to get home. The children are hungry setting the table quickly making the silverware shiver and jump. We walk this beach in every season. This evening...a man standing alone playing a golden flute. Notes riding on the air up the cliff. And a blind man walking by. Panama hat. Red-tipped cane. Wife beside him and two little kids. Listening to the flute and the water. One hand on his stickstaff. The other...fingertips barely touching the back of his wifes very beautiful neck. They're vacationing here. From Arizona. "Do you always have music on your beaches?" he asks. "Mostly guitars," I say. Farther down, a man from Australia. Rick. Flying hand-made-one-of-a-kind kites. A bug with fringy eyelashes and wings big as rooms. A sea serpent dragon with a 50 foot streamered tongue. He invited me into his camper. Gave me a glass of warm Mango Madness Snapple. "No ice. I don't drink anymore," he says, "now I make these." He showed me dozens of designs. Phantasmagorical. Rick. From Australia. I thought of Karen in her new Post Office. I wish I'd asked him what part. Of Australia.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/29/2004 :  21:01:23  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
Don't trust her with her maps of the world and navigational charts lining the kitchen cabinets. Rules to use when standing on water: Pray the prescribed prayer. Don't look for the Lifeboat. The waves will grow teeth that sink into your heels. Expect that. Keep your eye on the dazzling light at the back of the sirens grotto. It's red right returning. Then...three bells. The Coast Guard will be busy with coffee and donuts when the well-intentioned sea swamps your ship. When the galley lantern swings and suddenly goes out. At the edge of the world it's still all about water. And the tide rising under your bed.
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JeffS
Rocker

USA
420 Posts

Posted - 11/29/2004 :  23:30:47  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
quote:
Originally posted by Ron L.

"Ya know, I think God sent "West Wing" to give us hope."

Mickey Newbury, October 31, 2001



Really? We just discovered "West Wing this year (Thanks to my son) and spend our evenings now watching the DVD sets of the first three seasons.

-J
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Ron L.
Swinger

USA
675 Posts

Posted - 11/30/2004 :  01:10:04  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
A very cold Oregon rain is falling and while this big blue marble spins, I think of all those in another part of the forest. You know, I have been consciously listening to music in one form or another since the mid 40's. And I am still moved and awed by the technical magic that allows these moments of immortality. Video is great and cinema is an art unto itself but great sound generated by great gifted people reaches the soul that is unique to the listener.

Yes, there is Mickey who certainly deserves the love and respect that is the foundation of this Porch. But look at all who can be with us with the flick of a switch. I won't name them for there are too many. Just think of the ones behind us who will get music history with audio clarity. These artists stood in a room or great hall and left us with what they thought might be their best. They never knew where they might be heard. Many thought what they did just might be discarded shellacked vinyl.

Among the discordant, jangling, and jarring chaff of the charts are the gems. We search for them with the passion of great explorers. We wander aisles of "our secret record stores". We make music with search engines. CD's whir with bits of wonder. "Burn, Baby, Burn" is now a positive chant.

From The Carter Family to Robert Johnson to Bobby Darin to Mickey Newbury to whomever YOU love....It's a wonderful thing.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/30/2004 :  20:58:48  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
The radio and the rain. The silhouetted cypresses dark flame. Your steep heart praying. Your bright and dark brilliance. The truth. Every word. The skein rolling across the kitchen floor under the table and empty chairs. A tangled music. The last light goes. Then a fistful of stars. Halos around everything. Finished the wings. Do we fly now? Only mad bees left in my crystal ball.
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Ailinn
Windchimer

1895 Posts

Posted - 11/30/2004 :  21:06:37  Show Profile  Edit Reply  Reply with Quote  View user's IP address  Delete Reply
"...look closely. No mad bees. Only some dust blown up by a passing wind. All is as it should be. Lying here under the stars in this island in space I can see only... Peace. Close your eyes. Let the sky fall softly down. Nothing can harm you... Nothing.

~Mickey Newbury~
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