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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: color

Lillies In The Vase

27 Monday May 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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blood, Buddha, color, flower, life, Lillies, meditation, poem, Saffron

Maroon lips, the blood we cannot talk about
Buddha robes, patient orange sit with me ten minutes straight,
silent
or thinking thinking thinking,
name your thought is it salty or sweet
Saffron savory, orange tang touch it with your tongue you’ll never go away unsatisfied
(are you less thinking thinking thinking?)
Pink pale prim fuchsia blushing from behind happy to share water with you
let us walk, step right. Step left. Step right. 

Morning Was

19 Monday Nov 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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blue, cat, color, life, morning, purple

4am. Cold floor. Warm baja shirt and a little jaunt to see if the raccoon’s tail was still hanging out of the tree. Nope. He’s on his way. I wonder if I’ll see him again?  A neighbor walks past my window and tips his hat hello to me because he knows I’m up at all night. He’s on his way to the Navy base. I watch more Navy people leave their homes and head out and they do not allow the door to the parking lot slam, and I want so much to thank them for not letting the door slam. 
Purple. Blue.
Balcony rail heavy wet with dew.
A container ship passes through the channel, moving like a small city or an island, one wonders how any of them fit through. I can hear its engines, or maybe just the throbbing of, as it obeys the nautical speed limit.
Sky pale purple like a pen running out of ink. 
The maintenance guy’s cat saunters and I pssst she wanders over and I stroke her back, tentative, because she’s not for sale, she is marshmallow white, toasted, burnt, tail flags straight because she wants some and I give her some, and I walk back upstairs while she stands guard over sand sculptures. 
I watered my plants and observe they are overtaking the windows. I will need to move soon because there will be no room left for me. I thought it was funny but my brother doesn’t think much of it at all. 
A person, hooded, walks on the sand as if she is avoiding landmines, careful, careful, step here don’t step there. I wonder contemplate her posture this close to land. 

A Little Grrl’s Palette

13 Friday Oct 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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brown, change, color, evolving, father, neutral, palette

Color me alive.

Once upon a time if I could make everything mine it would all be colored black and silver, the colors of heavy metal, the color of swords and shields, strength and don’t fuck with me.  Then again, if I could make everything mine it would be the black and the red.  And yet, in between all those days, the little girl of me loved Victorian decor (or kitsch, if you are so inclined) pink dangling lampshade beads, floral prints, heavy dark wood, ridiculously ornate, god I was born late, how could this same girl love the Victorian and yet crave the black and the silver?

All I know is that I refuted brown. Brown was against everything I stood for. Brown was a curse word. Brown was a daily something I could not fight against.  Brown. Sepia. Diarrhea.  At least black had magic and silver had fight and red was blood and power, but brown felt useless and undignified.  My father wore brown polyester slacks every day. I don’t know how many pairs he had, same with his socks.  He wore brown velour shirts every day, too. I don’t know if he wore his brown armor under his coveralls working for the electric company, but every time I saw him at home it was brown.  His eyes were brown like the color of our Volare station wagon and the color of my eyes, the color of coffee he let me sneak from a teaspoon.  He once told me a joke when I was young: “Why are your eyes brown? Because you’re full of shit up to here,” and he pointed to his eyebrows.  Har har har.

I’ve spent many a year shunning the color brown, the color of our carpets, the couch, Dad’s recliner, later the color of the roof, the floor, more carpet, and life itself.  I sought color in a world of brown. There has to be more to life than the color of dead grass.

I have an opportunity to create my own world right now in an apartment two stones throw from the bay. The wind is high today; it creates suction and plays with my bathroom door, but I relish the fresh air and the leaves of my plants flapping. The walls are painted dead canary, or, to be more specific, pale urine.  I wanted to make this space a nautical or maritime place, but piece by piece, my world is allowing earth tones to come in.  And you know what earth tones are, don’t you?  Brown.  I hung valances today that are silky ivory, green, burgundy, so I bought a futon cover that matches, and guess what?  The panels range from grey to cranberry to brown.  I bought two chairs from a neighbor and their cushions are patterned in earth tones with brown.  My apartment is changing from rebellious empty with a few pillows with anchors on them to a user-friendly earthy vibe.  I guess it had to change because I learned that sweat and sandy feet and blood stand out on this ivory futon cushion covered in demure Victorian roses, and I am embarrassed to let anyone sit there.  I am acquiescing to earth tones that include brown, and I struggle with the brown.  And I smile sardonically.  Life is too bloody for me to have ivory sheets, it seems, but I am learning that I am not made of shit up to here.  Brown is not the enemy and never was.

Come change with me.  It feels good.

Indigo Vales, redux

10 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

color, life, morning

7:15 has come and gone.  I stood up from the bed and stretched to touch the ceiling.  The sky is turquoise, the leaves are yellow-green. I missed sunrise but that’s okay. I hear rumors there will be another one tomorrow.

I bought myself flowers three days ago because I could not walk past them, leave them behind. I was astounded by their outlandish garb: Someone concocted a liquid for the flowers to drink that turned their petals deepest indigo, their tips neon as if lit from within.  I shared one flower with the new mother down the hall, and the rest are in a glass vase next to my wax plant, Zephyr.  Zephyr showed me what a living thing can do that has nothing to do with man. I’ve been watching the new shoot rise up and stretch and change direction hourly. Proof of life, proof that I don’t need to do a thing but watch it go and grow (with a little water and all the sunlight it could want) twisting like a seahorse anchored to its weed. Zephyr discovered the wand that opens and closes the blinds and twined himself about it, and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to stop at the ceiling, he might want to burst through it, for all the energy he shows.  I am in love with indigo flowers and the wax plant on my windowsill.

There are books stacked on the floor, books I ain’t read yet. There is a beautiful linen file box with my important papers on the floor in the bedroom and a wicker box that holds all my printed writing in the living room.  When I first came here I swore myself to a spartan life, swore to disavow clutter and unnecessary things, but then the books arrived…and kept coming.  I bought a printer and it sits on the floor, ridiculous. Finally I bought bookshelves and a small table that need to be assembled.  The table is rough, unfinished, primitive, something a Viking might appreciate, and the horizontal bookshelves are teal.  Teal? Yes. Because shelves don’t have to be black or white or plastic or steel. Books are not clutter, but those receipts I hadn’t shredded for a week sure were. Where was my head?

Steve rescued a horseshoe crab we found yesterday morning.  Mike told me not to touch the puffer fish that expired on the beach last night, they are poisonous. Karen doesn’t photograph every sunset because they are not equal. I stepped outside a shadow and saw color, life, transition, death, and my hands just can’t stop writing.

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