anybody out there

the face, caught in a split neon second between streetcar and night sidewalk, looks like his.
but she can't be sure.
the proud posture, the long legs pushing the pedals: they look like his too.
but she can't be sure.
the only certainty she has these days is sadness and indignation, and a bewilderment that numbs.
she stares inward, clenching. his capacity for inspiring tears should have relented months ago. she is working on recovery. she thinks she'll get there.
but she can't be sure.

feet on ground, heart in hand

she has no idea when it is, but it must be morning: the wall behind her glows with promise.
she has no idea where she is, but she can see, over her shoulder, her yesterdays and her tomorrows soothingly reflected in the curves of hours.
she has no idea who she is – but she knows , blessed as she is with curiosity and compassion and a capacity for delight, that she has a right to be – wherever and whenever - whoever she happens to be.

songs of little lights

today is remembrance day in many parts of the world.
but here in holland, at least in our bit, today is saint maarten's day, commemorating this revered person's hospitality to strangers.
i had no idea that the holiday even existed when, years ago, newly moved north, newly married, newly pregnant, i responded to the doorbell. standing outside was a little group of children, faces shiny and expectant, sporting home-made paper lanterns and plastic bags.
they burst into song.
i had absolutely NO idea what it all meant. when they finished, i thanked them kindly and closed the door.
minutes later, a neighbour scurried over, and explained, to my embarrassment and dismay, that i was supposed to have sweets ready to distribute - lots of sweets: i could expect at least a hundred tiny serenades as the evening progressed.
she kindly presented me with an hours worth of candy. when that was gone, i turned off all the lights and sat in the darkened living room, feeling guilty, listening to the shuffle of small feet and excited snatches of verse in the november night.

a sound swing

the bell rings.
reflecting, setting sorrow aside, she realises that she has done her best.
the game – mere and obscure – has been played. points have been tallied. sides have been taken. the scoreboard is invisible in the shadows.
what has she won, she wonders, or lost:
the jackpot? an eternal place in the wings?
it doesn't matter.
she played to take part, and not to prevail.

when the day is done

should be the whole year round, as far as i'm concerned.

ticket to ride

when you live in one city (like me: alkmaar) and work in another (like me: amsterdam), you spend a sizeable chunk of each day commuting.
and if you're a virgo (again: like me), you spend a good fraction of this travelling time simply waiting*.
i am typical of my star sign: i am punctual to a fault, and i would rather be twenty-nine minutes early than one minute late. i NEVER miss a bus; i NEVER miss a train, because i ALWAYS leave the house earlier than necessary.
i did the same on my very first day at this job. ahem. pardon me? i went a step further: i allowed myself a whole hour's leeway. and then my train ground to a miserable screeching halt in a meadow between alkmaar and heiloo and stood there for an hour and a half.
luckily for me, when i finally tumbled into the office, my new colleagues took one look at my flushed and dismayed face, and realised instinctively that it would probably never happen again.
it hasn't.

rannie turingan's photozine is inspirational: each week a splendid photo and a collection of sources i always wish i'd discovered sooner.

*theme thursday

fare thee well

it's a vague and lazy evening.
this is my wish to you.

clouds between their knees

it is may.
they are friends.
they dance, for the first, for the last time.
the day has been conspiratorial, and they sway and shuffle on a single square meter, sequestered in the evening light.
the day's feathers and finery allow them an almost anonymous intimacy; indulgent affection lifts them above his youthful awkwardness and beyond her impossible expectations.
their distance, their silence, is warm, companiable, compatible:
three minutes and forty-one seconds long.

seems so far

having wings is one thing.
unfolding them, knowing that life may never be more than clouds and distance, is another.

open sesame

it's a saturday night, cold, balanced between - for me - two workdays, and i have (along with wishes for a superior weekend) just these few visual links to share:
*tracey has her new "26 things#2" list up. i can't wait. the themes are supple and irresistible and inspiring. old takes are allowed, i see, which is fine in a pinch, but i think i'll try and start afresh. i have this IDEA, you see....
*gimmy celebrates her first anniversary of words-and-images-shared with a different kind of challenge: compose a poem or a short story to accompany one of her amazing photographs. there is a prize. i, to be honest, can only hope to do her perceptions justice.
*emese's photos of the aftermath of the california fires are absolutely gripping, and melancholy.
*and my three favourite "neighbours to the south": what can i say? they are so GOOD. they produce honest beauty. they make me smile.

do visit. don't miss.