I'm using an antique, tufted red-velvet headboard as the back-drop to my "desk," and antique sewing table. I haven't had the heart to remove the sewing machine from its cavity yet...I often wonder about the woman whose feet pumped the wrought iron pedal beneath it. Early mornings, late nights, mid afternoons, creating something all the while. The headbord backing makes a wonderful "bulletin board" in a pinch. P.S. That's not merely French lemonade in that glass. Shhh. An offering to the muses of the Inner Sanctum. (:
A Cavallini 2009 Paris calander, a present from The Husband. I see it as kind of a tempting of fate. A Hope. To see Paris in 2009. And a daily reminder not to neglect my self-imposed, self-taught French lessons.
Sweetheart Roses on the littlest of ledges. They help me see things differently. 
The loyal red dog who follows me to the red room. 
Keep calm and carry on, the poster that once adorned British bomb shelters. Someone once told me that for the sake of feng shui, something I don't know much about, I should put something blue on the north side of my red room. A water to balance the fire. Since I'm all about balance, I thought this blue poster would be perfect.
And of course, there's Emily. I never hear the word escape without a quicker blood. I like a look of agony because I know it's true. I taste a liquor never brewed. Hope is the thing with feathers. A narrow fellow in the grass occasionally rides. Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Shall I go on?
've been holding out you. The little details. The good dirt of my stories. The flesh on the bones. I've repeatedly told myself I had to go out into the world, as well as meditate a while in my "inner world," in order to have something to
blog about. But in doing that, somehow I lost my blogging way and what followed has been downright neglect of storytelling.
For instance, I left out of my "Asheville trip" post that I went to see a very reputable psychic who told me all sorts of interesting tidbits, one of which includes the following: that he saw me teaching in the "moist mountains of the Midwest," like Oregon or Washington. Well. And the artist retreat post? I didn't tell you, dear readers, of the night swimming in the moonlight, the dancing to Nicaraguan folk music, or the grave of the young girl (the daughter of a dear friend) on the mountain for whom I brought orange alstromerias to introduce myself. All of these stories ache to be told from my little red room.
I'm using an antique, tufted red-velvet headboard as the back-drop to my "desk," and antique sewing table. I haven't had the heart to remove the sewing machine from its cavity yet...I often wonder about the woman whose feet pumped the wrought iron pedal beneath it. Early mornings, late nights, mid afternoons, creating something all the while. The headbord backing makes a wonderful "bulletin board" in a pinch. P.S. That's not merely French lemonade in that glass. Shhh. An offering to the muses of the Inner Sanctum. (:
A Cavallini 2009 Paris calander, a present from The Husband. I see it as kind of a tempting of fate. A Hope. To see Paris in 2009. And a daily reminder not to neglect my self-imposed, self-taught French lessons.
Sweetheart Roses on the littlest of ledges. They help me see things differently. 
The loyal red dog who follows me to the red room. 
Keep calm and carry on, the poster that once adorned British bomb shelters. Someone once told me that for the sake of feng shui, something I don't know much about, I should put something blue on the north side of my red room. A water to balance the fire. Since I'm all about balance, I thought this blue poster would be perfect.
And of course, there's Emily. I never hear the word escape without a quicker blood. I like a look of agony because I know it's true. I taste a liquor never brewed. Hope is the thing with feathers. A narrow fellow in the grass occasionally rides. Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Shall I go on?
've been holding out you. The little details. The good dirt of my stories. The flesh on the bones. I've repeatedly told myself I had to go out into the world, as well as meditate a while in my "inner world," in order to have something to blog about. But in doing that, somehow I lost my blogging way and what followed has been downright neglect of storytelling. For instance, I left out of my "Asheville trip" post that I went to see a very reputable psychic who told me all sorts of interesting tidbits, one of which includes the following: that he saw me teaching in the "moist mountains of the Midwest," like Oregon or Washington. Well. And the artist retreat post? I didn't tell you, dear readers, of the night swimming in the moonlight, the dancing to Nicaraguan folk music, or the grave of the young girl (the daughter of a dear friend) on the mountain for whom I brought orange alstromerias to introduce myself. All of these stories ache to be told from my little red room.
1 Things not left unsaid:
(Hear the chanting: "Tell, tell, tell, tell ... .)
The rosebuds on the shelf/ledge: great. Photos clipped to the wall hanging: great. The couch? Good grief, the couch! I want this retreat. You can have my jumbled computer room if I can spend two hours in that red atmosphere. You've inspired me to change! Change, change, change - another chant.
Post a Comment