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i thought once how theocritus had sung

of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

who each one in a gracious hand appears

to bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

and, as i mused it in his antique tongue,

i saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

the sweet, sad years, the melancholy years.

those of my own life, who by turns had flung

a shadow across me. straightway i was 'ware,

so weeping, how a mystic shape did move

behind me, and drew backward by the hair;

and a voice said in mastery, while i strove,-

"guess now who holds thee?" - "death," i said. but there,

the silver answer rang,- "not death, but love."

-elizabeth barrett browning, sonnets from the portugese

o holy night

i spent my christmas eve sitting in the back of a tiny cathedral in midtown sacramento, with large boughs of fragrant fir draping themselves along the pillars of the brick and stained glass building on either side of the rows of wooden pews. altar boys lit candles as a handbell choir performed quietly in the minutes leading up to the service, and at the close, the room went dark, save for those few candles while silent night was sung and the clock struck midnight. liturgy always brings me back to my childhood when we used to go to mass faithfully. there is a sense of awe and magic in the reverence and tradition of these services. i feel connected to it. i feel peaceful. i feel human. i feel thankful being able to look at a diverse congregation and take communion from a shared cup. i feel at home here.

you know how to whistle dontcha steve

lately, i've been incredibly inspired by these women.

lauren bacall

rita hayworth

marlene dietrich

katharine hepburn

ingrid bergman

and tallulah bankhead, who took shit from no one.

speak plainly diana

currently listening to:

joe pug, nation of heat

bob dylan, the freewheelin'

first aid kit, ghost town ep &

i am the reindeer xmas mixtape, by shawn morones. get it here.

writer's block

*two buck merlot

*joe pug

*czeslaw milosz

*gold chair

*mother's little helper

*oregon

*braceleted

*writer's block

alys, columbus circle

the ballerina project

new york

at the chateaux

regards

in everything i have, i am grateful.

in everything i don't, i give it no thought.

olive street

hallelujah songs about love

the storm has passed and now the sky is clear

and the starry sky on the dark drive home from

yuba city might be one of my favorite things about

living here. the calm and the quiet. i can feel my

flushed cheeks from the car heater and hallelujah

songs i sing to. i wonder what your move to LA

will look like, kristina says and me too. i like not

knowing, i say. i keep slips of paper with book

titles on them and letters from friends on my

bedside table and i wake up very groggy every

day wondering what time is it, where's my phone,

who has tried to reach me in the night, and often

its no one but now and again werner sends me jokes,

punchlines with puns and bad words or people saying

when will i see you again? i really don't know but

i'll be oregon bound on the twenty-ninth and noah

was in my dream last night he worked at a bank

and wore ripped jeans and i've been thinking about

lambrusco and auld lang syne and a boy's arm around

my shoulder and singing my hallelujah songs about

love.

the timber of my heart

found things

welcome to the blog world, allie zee.

things upon things. (click)

cruzcampo

in spain

glad for

i am not unhappy.

i feel blank,

nothing,

numb.

i feel thankful.

i am thankful.

i rejoice in solitude.

comfort in aloneness.

count my blessings.

glad for time and

glad for space and

glad for the things

of the future.

that now can happen

because of my present

aloneness.

i have hope.

my red balloon of hope.

string attached.

brooklyn

or BK4Lyf

i have this brooklyner friend & he's been using a 35mm since his digital camera broke. (he should keep taking photos, yes? let's encourage this)

i asked him to take some pictures of brooklyn that evoked the true feeling of the place since i've never been there. i personally love how they turned out.

the first time i came to brooklyn, i stayed in a very industrial part (the part where i now live) and factories and lofts are what define my surroundings and initial memories here.

my friends and i are always arguing about if BK is better than manhattan. i was trying to find something that showed this divide. BK4Lyf.

my friend kim's apartment in kensington is amazing. this is her kitchen.

this is how i feel every time i think about my life in new york in general. everything will be ok... maybe.

people are always blatantly ignoring parking signs that aren't put there by the city. the clothesline adds to the charm.

photo cred: jonathan smith

and

"love suffer and work you dumb old bourgeois bag"

-jack kerouac

litany

you are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
you are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
you are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

however, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
and you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
there is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

it is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

and a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

it might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that i am the sound of rain on the roof.

i also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

i am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
but don't worry, i'm not the bread and the knife.
you are still the bread and the knife.
you will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

-litany, by billy collins

i swear i can be better.