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Saturday, July 26, 2014
A bit of music, a line of poetry, a simple drawing...and suddenly you want to write. Need to write. You don't necessarily know where you're headed, but you have to follow that flash of inspiration. It starts, I think, by feeling moved. And yet what is there about this little picture that is so moving?
Friday, July 11, 2014
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I have to be honest, I’m not very adventurous when it comes to my fruit and veggies. I make a conscious effort now to eat well and I am more bold than I used to be -- thanks to juicing -- but even so, I’m sort of an apples and watermelon kind of girl. Nothing too squishy or pulpy or stringy, thank you.
But in the summer…all those lovely colors and shapes. The sweet, sharp burst of flavor on your tongue. Juice. Sticky and trickly…memories of childhood distilled in every drop.
So many children’s stories are about picking berries and fresh fruit. I don’t recall picking fruit as a child though. I did pick fresh berries in
White raspberries, I think. Tart and sweet in a sunlit garden.
The Tropics of
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger root
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Sat in the window, bringing memories
of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
Claude McKay, 1889 - 1948