Pieces of Perfection

Right now, from where I'm sitting, what's my idea of the perfect moment?

You can hardly see the bark or grass for the aging, jewel-crusted leaves. You approach the tree, glance around, sit. Back melding perfectly with the bark, you settle, watch twilight creep up on the world, watch the world whir along. Your hands absorb the warmth of a steaming cuppa Earl Grey, sweet and clouded with milk.

"The night is aging as the sun warms your face," lyrics from Alkaline Trio's "Blue Carolina," wafting through your head.

"And a song in my head that burns so good on my tongue."

I smile.


(more pages from my Splashing the Divide collage journal.)

A Doll in Bute Park

In Chicago, this April is still almost-spring: snow piles still cling to building crevices, crocuses uncoil just to have epic winds and low-30s temps bombard them. Winter has come, and it is not yet ready to go. For whatever reason, this in-between atmosphere is taking me back to one drizzly fall morning in Cardiff, now many years past.

I am walking in Bute Park over damp orange leaves and green, green grass. An early-morning mix of mist and fog jumbles the corners of my sight; only a lonely jogger joins me here. The planted, tamed trees rebel, their roots jutting up through orange and emerald foliage to kiss the wet, lichened stones. It is a gray day, of the almost-white sort, the type of day when restlessness broils up through my veins, itchy.

In a book in my bag, I have a little woman.

Home printed vintage pictures are my bookmarks du jour.

Today, I think, she belongs here, in this park, out of the closed-in world of unread pages: the hooded doll venturing into the drizzle.