dear world,

"The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my departure."

(Henry David Thoreau, "Baker Farm," Walden)

I'm having a really hard time writing at all right now in my life. My once computer musings have introverted themselves into pages of a journal I keep by my bed. Last night I turned all the lights out and laid down to sleep, but my hot-wired brain kept going so I switched on my lamp and wrote and wrote until I ran out of lines on the page and then could finally sleep. I always intend to type those pre-snooze thoughts the next morning, clean them up for general consumption, share them here maybe, but then the selfish devil inside me says, "No, those are for the paper only" and I have to relent.

I wonder what kinds of things are nurtured when you bottle thoughts like jams and jellies and store them to open later. I'll tell you one thing that happens: shelves and shelves of journals. "And I could write a song a hundred miles long."

I will say this: I am content beyond belief right now. I am happy with who I am. I am happy with the direction my life is taking. I am happy with the decisions I am making day-to-day and the decisions I've made year-to-year, especially the ones I didn't understand in the moment but that have somehow grown important and kind things inside my heart. I am happy with my relationships. I am happy with how I spend my time.

I am happy that today two people talked to me about doing their wedding photography.

:)

And tomorrow is another clean white page, and I get to punch holes in it and turn it into lace. And this hope for the morning brings me cozy thoughts when right now I nestle in my bed with Henry David and a cup of water and ponder the night away.

Seredipitously yours.

a love letter for the bon iver concert

In the vast sea that is mainstream music, some albums are just a drop in the bucket, made to make a quick couple of bucks.  I'm thinking of anything Owl City did post-Fireflies, most Justin Beiber songs, and kinda any song by Adele (sorry Grammy committee.  But I mean..."I'll set fire to the rain"?  What does that even mean?!).  And then there are albums that actually try to change how we listen to music--albums that are the moon changing the tide and carbon emissions melting icebergs and raising sea levels.  "For Emma, Forever Ago" is that kind of album.

First, there's the lyricism in the title: "For Emma, Forever Ago"--the parallel between "For Emma" and "Forever" as if they're synonymous, the breakdown and loss when the parellel turns into "Ago," the hopeful promise when you stick that "ago" with "forever"...  This alone should win anyone over to at least a good-hearted listen.

And what do you find then?  Melodies that cascade over each other and choruses that echo and timber and rush.  

Please listen to it from start to finish.  

Please turn the lights out and lay spread eagle on the floor.  

Please open a window and let the moonlight or the streetlight fall through the blinds and make stripes on the carpet.  

And of this week, when Bon Iver came to town, I can say only that the audience was a lightshow gallery of iPhone screens and camera LCDs, that the Red Butte breeze pushed the seaweed-curtains and his Bon Iver hair like he was sailing headlong into a storm, crying, "Who will love you?", which he answered again and again: "Thank you. I love you all."

He played the nighttime into "Michicant", and by the time the song was over, the stars were out.

memorial day

I wanted to share something beautiful on Memorial Day. I am grateful for those who are courageous, for those too young to have a family before they left this world, for those who stood for integrity, for bravery, for a right and a good and a God, and for those who still stand for those things today. I wonder quite often if I would be courageous enough to leave home and love and comfort to defend the idea of freedom I've been raised under, the idea of freedom I don't fully understand and undoubtedly take for granted too often. I hope I would be courageous.

Below is a letter from Sullivan Ballou, a Major in the Civil War, to his wife.  These are some of the most beautiful words written in American literature.  Enjoy, be grateful, have courage, and hold fast to things bigger than yourself.

July the 14th, 1861

Washington DC

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure - and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows - when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children - is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

on being stabbed in the back {an ides of march post}

today's the ides of march, the day on which brutus stabbed julius ("et tu brute?!")

and in the last seven days, i've had several run-ins with friends--run-ins that have reminded me just what kind of friends i have--the kind i do not deserve...

the kind who want to walk in the sunshine with me, 

the kind who will only move somewhere far away if we can do it together,

the kind who quit a job and spend thousands of dollars to have summer adventures together,

the kind who come over just to spend a few hours reading on the lawn with me, 

the kind who listen and validate me when i talk to them about my problems, 

the kind who run across the street in oncoming traffic to be with me, 

the kind who call randomly after months of not talking just to check in, just to tell me they love me,

the kind who will put on crazy art shows with me,

the kind who call from chicago because they want to see how i am doing, 

the kind who ask question after question about my life as if it's the most important thing to them, 

the kind who send me feel-good songs, 

the kind who email when i miss class to tell me they missed me, 

the kind who hug me and give words of encouragement even when i was kind of a jerk, 

the kind who forgive and forgive and forgive.

to all my friends who would never stab me in the back (which really just means to all my friends): i don't deserve you.  you are wonderful people and wonderful to me.  you make me feel like this:

dear justin vernon,

you should know that next to hugging my parents and summer evenings with my sisters, you are what i am most excited to come home to.

pure, unadulterated love,
carolyn

dear grocers of london,

dear grocers of london,

why don't you refrigerate your eggs?

puzzled,
...
andslightlyworriedaboutgettingsalmonilla, ecoli, or another bad-egg disease,
carolyn

a love letter

dear men of london,

you have stolen my heart,

what with the parts in your hair
your burberry scarves, polished shoes,
and the way that your dark complexions make your green eyes

surprises,

and most
of all that you stand on street corners
so unassumingly handsome.

and so handsomely unassuming.

be mine,
carolyn

the shining city of london

dear royal borough of kensington,

first, thanks for being royal.
second, thanks for being the place where i get to call home for the next two months!  i love your quiet streets.  i love your pigeons bobbing along the sidewalks.  i love that your marbled windows reflect a marbly sun.

i love your cheese and bagels, and that the flatmates before me left black velvet pumps and a monet-blue scarf and a gray peacoat that's softsoftsoft, all because they couldn't fit them in their suitcases home.  we new flatmates felt the heavens were smiling upon us with such nice things.  not to mention when the nice man at the tube station gave me his daypass tube card because he'd finished using it for the day.

in short, dear kensington, i am in love with you.

sincerely,
one jet-lagged though very starry-eyed girl

see the grey peacoat and monet-blue scarf?  i feel very british in them.  (while retaining my america-lovin heart: see rainbow slippers on feet.)

a little late night letter

dear boy,

i am six years old when it comes to you. i giggle nonstop, i say things trying to sound smart but just end up sounding like i'm trying to sound smart, i flirt in the most bashful, obvious, six-year old ways. it really is a sight.

i'll try to think up something clever to say to you tomorrow, but judging by my track record, i'll stumble all over my words, stumble all over the sidewalk, and otherwise look like a complete fool trying to catch your attention.

silly me,

carolyn