Things to be thankful for: green kitchens, chalkboards, pirate sticks and joyful hearts

David and Liz: intrigued?

David writing a pirate poem

by the pond with swans and ducks

For the holidays, David and I headed back East to drop in to my sister's Saturday Night Fever and brave Penn Station at the very same time that Manhattan let out early for the holidays. Bags fully packed with stuffing, no free hands, we had much to give, and much to be thankful for. At the end of the road (track) was East Hampton, and the house we were to spend Thankgiving with Liz and all in the family. It was a rustic colonial just a few miles from town-Walbaum's, Breezin' Up, Scoop, JCrew by the Sea, and a ton of other quaint retail stores I know and love that did not call my name. I was too busy having fun--either laughing and gasping for air, or doing the thousand yard stare. Both were acceptable, nothing was expected. I was grateful, touched, and so very happy to spend the holidays exactly where we were meant to be.

There were moments where I watched two co-survivors bond over our situations, and how it affected them both. There were moments where all I wanted to do was collect leaves and take photographs. There were late nights and brisk early mornings warmed by the sounds of the cutest angel pirate artist soccer girl on this planet. There was no internet, no phone calls--we put our obligations aside and did what every family should do more of--not just on holidays, but ordinary days--we spent time with each other. We talked, laughed, ate, drank, played in the leaves, never needing to think, "What do we do next?"

I guess I don't really have words for this time. I've always called the trial the fifth season. So in celebration of all that is joyous--like warm boots, sweaters, holga cameras, red wine, washable magic markers, pirate sticks and golden leaves --- I'll just say that this year, the season to be merry began when I was giving thanks for all the love and support from David, and Liz and co. for the longest list of things for me to be thankful for.

defying the cochran

audrey on white, 2007

maybe later?

I give the places I have lived in far more press coverage than they deserve. Waverly Place has become my construction site, rebuilding the underbelly of that wicked and beautiful neighborhood, to my last home I shared with David. The place was completely falling apart. If I were to press my hand against the bathroom wall, I could conceivably push through to the kitchen. Water damage. Pipes bursting. 8 year old grey carpets. 12+ old institutional white walls the management never painted (and we were not allowed to paint). An airplane sized sink in the kitchen. Zero counter space. We had water, most of the time, but I don't even want to know what awfulness was in that beige liquid.
When we moved to a fresh space and I was buying furniture and painting, I noticed a very obvious trend: everything I bought was off-white. It was if I had decided that I was going to stick a vamp painted nail in the air to a place that could never wear white. So now we wear white in the fall, on through the winter, and it's quite liberating.
The point being, in some very grasping at straws way, is that when we own something that we call home, we can make peace with that past, or at least laugh at it. Because you can wear white in any season. And so now, my home will be clean, healthy and full of brightness. I'll eventually add color because I do adore a 64 color box of crayons. But for now, I'm wearing white after Labor Day and loving it.

what my hands would say

Oh, to have two web sites, an icky blog that became too personal to be public, and way too many social networking profiles (research, people!). Well, you just dust that computer keyboard and start over again.

I just moved into a new home so right now my head is in design blogs and magazines. The place is actually clean enough so that I may write again. So there's really no excuse, really. Right?

These days I'm thinking a lot about hands. Mine are unpainted and ragged from moving, cleaning, and the usual wear and tear. Does anyone actually still wear rubber gloves to wash dishes? I was thinking about hands that are all about trust, and commitment which always makes me think of the other hands. The ones that should never touch someone else's skin.

So here's what's in my lint collector today:
-chipped china dishes
-unanswered phone calls
-a pillow top mattress
-painfully short broken finger nails
-fi the apple


and here's what came out:

What My Hands Would Say
my fingers are chipped
like a cracked hairline china dish
split between now and you know when
i stopped seeing stars
fancy dinner patterns gone to waste

the sky is falling and I just might
the sky is crying that's just about right
i'll roll with you-- the thunder and the ache
i'll sing you to sleep even when you are not awake

hammer it out some -- peforate
spread the words out and hear them reverberate
not quite what you said
not like what your heart sounds like

we're twelve times removed
in and out of black and white