scramble

let’s say that you’re a wealthy young lady living in england in the early 1800s. your father is titled, and your brother is his heir. you have a neat dowry, but most of the family fortune is (of course) entailed to your brother. now let’s say that someone wants to murder you. what could their motive be? let’s say that it’s not just money.

a little ditty

a little ditty for a little friday

I gave him years of only “no,”
’til he gave up on chasing me;
I loved him madly last night, when
I saw him dancing with “WHO’S SHE?”

(c) nicole 2003

i will give you a dollar if you can put it to a tune. a tune i like.

untitled

e. e. cummings has a poem
(i carry your heart with me)
and i thought i did, too.
i thought i did, too,
until you left, and i found
myself whole.

i carry your heart,
cummings said. (i carry it in my heart)
and i thought i did, too.
i thought i did, too,
but there were no holes,
no breaks, no
bruising. no shadow(of anotherheart)

instead, i was floating
again, weightless, buoyant,
the earth below aglow, and
fresh stars tangled in my hair.

and i knew:
i carried your heart with me(i carried it until now)
but only in a pocket.

late night

it’s my personal belief that a person (i.e., me) should not hash through big decisions after about 9:30 pm. for some reason, the late hour heightens my already healthy (shall we call it) sense of the dramatic and dire. similarly, i try not to blog late at night – things seem to be a caricature of themselves, something like writing drunk, and it never looks pretty in the morning.

that being said, it’s been a while since i’ve written (or so it feels), and i have this sort of impatient need-to-write feeling. so i’ve decided to do a kind of free-write. 3 minutes of just jotting words that relate to my last few days. either things i’ve done or things i’ve thought of or whatever. here goes:

cupcakes, deadlines, airline tickets, holland, vermeer, bicycle, american idol, craigslist, rhyming, polka dots, phone calls, conference calls, to do lists, sharpies, conditioner, shampoo, avocado, trail mix, carbohydrates, pasta, breakfast, working out, ballet, dvds, england, wireless, wi fi, hi fi, vermont, concord, posters, packing, post office, california, bankrupt, jobs, uncertainty, friends, long-term plans, reading, library books, making lists, free-write, blog, scrabble, chat, facebook, mafia wars, loot, diamonds, white board, illustrations, emails, letters, cards, presents, cookies, brownies, stars, hearts, flowers, pancakes, syrup, eggs, salt, pepper, brain cancer, colon cancer, colonoscopy, hospital, anesthesia, carpools, wellesley, autumn, spring, summer, fall, winter, winter, winter, white, green, striped, the 1930s, harry connick jr, simon cowell, voting, democracy, internet, morality, infants, cognition, educational psychology, phd programs, wisconsin, cold, hot, texas, california, relaxing, tired, bedtime.

if i were a photographer

if i were a photographer,

i would take pictures of every possible thing i could and name them after my favorite poets. flowers growing in teapots, brilliant and wild and everywhere, called “e.e. cummings.” a child tying her red sneakers on her own, fingers stained with ink: “naomi shihab nye.” a periwinkle sky with yawning stars to call “yeats,” candles and cigarettes smoldering in a cracked ashtray (“william shakespeare”), and, of course, a red wheelbarrow for you-know-who.