Yesterday passed with a whimsical array of red, yellow, and orange. For I spent a majority of the twenty-four hours out upon the tundra ground. Carrying a woven wicker basket with a worn handle I walked my way across a small part of the endless Alaskan acres. I searched dilegently, my eyes darting like the quick movements of a nervous animal. Oh, but one like me, in the position I was in, had no nerves on end at all. For I was in search of a small round partical scattered carefully upon the grasses. Typically in patches, they're only ripe for but a week with good weather. So, having that knowledge in the back of my mind, I had to take full advantage while the opportunity presented itself. And although slim this year compared to others, I found what I was looking for. Salmonberries. I worked furiously a large percentage of my awakened hours to gather what I could. A mere basket full is all I could manage. But three quarters of a gallon shall make me four jars of jam.
Chipper The Squirrel
The bread caught his attention to begin. Old yeast unfortunately does not rise. So the thick flat peices of cooked dough I threw onto our porch for the birds. Small cliff swallows, canaries, and finches. In the harsh Alaskan summers few decide to make thier homes here. But I expected them to feed nevertheless. Yet loud clatter and chatter came instead. With his small stature and fluffy tail he inhabited our birdhouse and began to bury away the bread in which he took interest. He stayed for three days and I adored him so very much I had to feed him more. Nuts, raisens, cereal, and such. And so he became my pet squirrel who hysterically resides on my old wooden stairs. His antics entertain the children of the village. The adults don't quite mind his company either. And I, being the lover of all things I am, claimed him as my own. Chipper- his name. And the darling little thing is welcome forever. And forever will be his surely intent with the free feasts he recieves.
Trapper Man and Celtic Child
Love has an odd way of working. And perhaps on such a subject I have a story to tell. Twas not very long ago when I met the moment of fate of fates. As odd as it may seem, but it is in an honest voice true, I was broke, homeless, once again in my gypsy ways, when I proposed I run away. At the time Illinois was my residency. Alaska, merely a hope. But I searched and I found a lonely old man who offered me a place. And so I sold the very last of every bit I owned. Bought a ticket in northward ways and ended my journey shaking a strangers hand. Thirty years my senior and anything but typical for a barely legal child. Neither had the intent for love, but sometimes things happen without any intent at all. So ten months in and a first kiss later, I can tell you love happens unexpectedly. My prince charming was never a frog, but merely a lonesome trapper of a rural Eskimo village. And I a wild-hearted Celtic youth. And yet within our differences we found the common home of one another's hearts. Stereotypical love is boring. Unintended love is the kind that creates the truest fairytale of all.
My Bottom Bookshelf
Old books trace my bottom bookshelf, crookedly aligned with one another. There's three shelves total, but only one is full of books at the present time. Coins are of few with me, in which my ability to collect such treasured items is minimal. But I make investments when ever extra tokens find their way to my bank. Reads on magick, history, plants, and worldly cultures. Childrens classics like Whinnie the Pooh and Anne of Green Gables. The energy they create just by being is unimaginably beautiful. And the wonder they infuse into my mind is mental perfection. The crisp fragil touch of old paper scarred with fingerprints of past owners. The book itself tells a story of readers before me, who all share with me the same exact tale in the same exact words. A fascinating thought. Every interpretation, every emotional pass of each page, how can one not be intrigued by the antique inspiration of faded papers binded in a torn cover?
River Rocks and Driftwood
Along the Yukon River I'll make my presence aware. Playing quietly in a lighthearted cotton skirt immitating the patterns of the waves. Beach rocks will find their way into my hands as an ever growing addition to the collection already fulfilling my kitchen table. Driftwood will be climbed upon, rested on, and admired for it's water ravaged shape. And avoiding boats I'll make my way to the same scenery with simple inklings of a difference. Tracing the path of the riverbend hundreds of years in the making. Old fishing nets haunting the landscape with tales of salmon and pike. The rocks burying into them the same way they do the soles of my boots. And together with the breeze and sun I'll discover small peices of this enormous world. Small peices that are the world to me.
Sunrise Green Glass Mug
The sweetest thought of early morning love is that of awakening to the sips of coffee he's brewed for you. A dash of coacoa and milk poured perfectly into a glass green mug. I escape the covers still asleep in dawn's light, but with the knowledge of his smile and kiss. My feet are heavy, but my heart is light as I drift beyond the hallaway and into the livingroom. The air greets me with the warming smell of roasted coffee beans. He does the same but with nothing more than his appearence. And seeing his eyes seeing my eyes is flawless for a sunrise event. Better things await between us, but this is simple. And sometimes simple, is simply the very best way to be.
Midnight White Lace
With typical barefeet I prance nervously from corner to corner of the wooden walled room. The sun shines all night near the summer solstice of the north. Our dark curtains shade the light creating a candle-like glow forgiving to my flaws. Yet even in the comforting shadows, my palms tremble with my spiratic breathing. I've spent every night beside him for over nine months and yet the butterflies continually renew in strength when I await his appearence. As he walks into the room everything happens habitually. A kiss as my blond hair falls lustfully into the pillows. A soft grasp and release of intertwined fingers. Closed eyes, open arms, and just as every time before; we simply sleep. And tomorrow I will once again in nervous state, pace trembling in white lace lingere that potrays the deepest innocence he sweetly leaves within me.
Yet Another Rainy Day
Cloudy skies seem to so easily dampen the soul. Pouring tears of their own from our eye to the universe. Humid air escapes everyone's lungs as they dash between drops in an attempt to stay dry. I walk slowly in the water filled atmosphere, taking in the small presses of oxygen and hydrogen hitting my skin. Washing my white boots in the muddy puddles of a small village road. No thunder or lightening. No sunlight either. Just the simple light melody of the earth letting the ocean go above us. And for an instant I forget the darkness of the clouds and find mere joy in the absence of the sun.
A Midsummer Beginning
I was but a wondering soul in a world so full of fate. Barefoot and cross eyed looking for nothing less than a hopeless romance. But this spirit I hold is that of an ancient Native American. This life I live is nothing short of a reckless fairytale. So as I wonder through wildflowers and tundra I write my life in simple sentences, awaiting the next wisp of wind that will carry me to yet another home. And these short collections of poorly written words is this. And this, my bohemian beloved, is my diary. The innocently forgotten thoughts of a Lone Alaskan Gypsy.
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