where art lives

today I was sitting under the few full-grown trees on the downtown pedestrian mall while Annie worked from her laptop. The book I had brought to read was less enticing than the dense, summer activity around me.
so I sat and watched
and I began to notice
the art in everything

An old man set himself on the ground against a building, leaving his guitar case open at his feet. He strummed his guitar gently...almost inaudibly, then began to sing with a voice that started as a yell and sweltered into the soulful ring of pure southern gospel.
art

Then, a moment after his rich song had begun, a young man with a traveler's backpack weighing slightly down on his youthful stride and a camera hanging around his neck, knelt down at the old man's side and began to take pictures. He squinted through his lens as the old man sang on. I could only imagine what he saw.
It was the art of observation.

At some point, a white-haired tourist with high socks and white shoes summoned the young man to his feet and I watched as she talked with him. From my little observation dock a few feet away I tried to read their gestures. The young man explained his pack and his camera, and, I imagined to myself, the the jar of peanut -butter in the side pocket of his pack as well. The woman listened eagerly, her curiosity indulged.
It was the art of inquisition: of curiosity and conversation.

I watched for awhile longer: the tourist, the photographer, the singer. I had to smile when the old man sang "Lord, I can sing and I can sing on my own. When I sing, I can sing alone," and in a moment of subtle irony a man watching on the side-lines noticed an empty chair and brought it over to the old man for him to sit in. The man who sings alone accepted the chair graciously and I wondered how many others noticed what a team of contributors had made themselves a part of the moment: the song: whether from one side of it or the other.

perhaps no one really sings alone.

And this was my reflection
my art

carrie

i am
very clearly

my father's eager daughter, following closely in his footsteps where e'er his adventurous spirit takes us

my mother's strong-willed daughter; letting my words build and break walls; writing spirited conversations in poetry, letters and journals: shared and unshared just like she did

my sister's head-in-the-clouds little sister; just as oblivious of the judgers and down-lookers of the world one moment as i am accutely aware of them a moment after. Reaching for some level of maturity, but in the end, dedicated to my youth.

my twin sister's loyal twin sister; reveling in a companionship that started before birth; always looking for a way to share; always looking for a way to support, to cooperate, to join.

and aside from those who make me who i am

who am i?
what will i bring with me from my roots when i take flight?


if nothing else i am theirs
here or there

i am theirs

wonder twins!

"wonder twins powers activate!"

I never knew about the "Wonder Twins" from "Superfriends."
Now that I have discovered them, I would just like to say that the "wondertwins" show is an intensely awesome and extremely accurate representation of the behind-the-scenes, day to day, inner workings of twin-hood.
Annie and my twin-ship is EXACTLY like Zan and Jayna's relationship.
I can turn into animals and Annie can turn into water or ice objects.
It's bizarre how similar we are to Zan and Jayna. Maybe we should sue.
and Gleek...um...there's a little of Gleek in both of us.
or maybe our dog hershey is the real-life equivalent of Gleek.

I would also like to add that annie and my capers are much more successful. we would never carry out a failure like the "moal-moat mission."
just sayin
anyway. watch the clip.

Beauty

Beauty you are a broken glass hiding in the still-clear dish-water.
You are the smell of banana bread at two in the morning and the quiet breathing of a house that sleeps.
You are the hypnotic movement of a choral song that needs no singing along.
You are curls uncombed and covers unkempt; and the cold snap of entereing a room whose windows have been open all day.
You are my beloved sister sleeping soundly away.
You are the quiet margin of wake at the end.
Beauty, it's you who keeps me up tonight, softly rejoicing Your Hands upon my day.

tuesday should be grounded

if weekdays were cliche saturday morning cartoon personalities,
Tuesday would be the annoying bully who kicks me in the corner of the playground at recess and steals my lunch money.
In the end, my dignity is a little worse for the wear and my clothes are covered in mulch, but there's no real damage that can't be healed by big brother Wednesday or especially favorite cousin Friday.
So, in your hypothetical face Tuesday.
I've got the rest of the weekdays on my side.

thoughts after hearing John Perkins speak

revenge is something we can understand.
it makes sense in this world.
an eye for an eye and all of that.

but
forgiveness is like a beautiful stranger in a crowd of cynics who have little to remember about hope, and even less control of the reflex to turn their heads and watch it re-enter the world.
Our heads turn and our paces stutter as we let hardened gazes fixate.
on this new and awkwardly misplaced guest

and even when you've left,
you leave us glancing the room to find you; looking distractedly over our shoulders and at the door.

but you are terrifying to approach and your gaze is hard to meet.

such as it is

don't let our furrowed brows chase you out

i for one
welcome you
to return as often as i chase you out
7X77
and pray your persistance exceeds mine

Runkerry road

Ireland is everywhere this evening.
It's in my Starbucks Raspberry mocha,
it's in the dampness of my pant-legs as the rain soaks up through the bits that drag on the ground.
it's in this green/yellow sweater
and it's in the pause at the door as i search for the house key.

Ireland is always somewhere in the far reaches of my thoughts

but some moments throb with it in a strange mixture of yearning and accomplishment.

but off i ran
and here i am