not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

scenes of a life


when all of the thinking was done
hugh grimthorpe went home

12 comments:

  1. ...semplice ma efficace!!!
    ..mi piace!

    Ciao
    CSJ

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  2. Is he all spent, anticipating a cold beer and time in front of the tube,ready for some plain fare and blessed rituals, like the sight of that dog waiting for him at the end of the driveway?

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    1. who could guess, rosaria? we could spend our lifetimes guessing about this one man. isn't that something? there is just this much variation. how astounding!

      xo
      erin

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  3. It's so strange seeing winter everywhere, this year we were forgotten by that season and my garlic is already 4" high.

    But enough about me. Good dog. Makes me miss my sweet girl.

    Xo

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    1. ya, aimee, i think the dog wanted us to transform into who he was truly waiting for. we were a bit of a disappointment rolling by.

      i'm so glad for winter. it wipes clean a slate and holds the joy of warmth off. it teaches me patience. heh. i need a lot of practice.

      however, a garden already producing like this! that is a joy too.

      xo
      erin

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  4. Erin, after reading this, and mulling it over, I had to write something. You're my muse!

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  5. the broad hardwhite road . . . i want to leave it and spend time on each of its sides . . .

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    1. steven, yes! in a way don't you want to be hugh grimthorpe? or/and every person? isn't it so difficult to have to choose only one path?

      xo
      erin

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  6. dear Erin, I was searching for a email adress of you but i don't fint it.
    I just wanted to say to you personally that i decided to close my blog, and i sinceraly want to thank you for all in this time

    thank you Erin, love to you

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    1. laura, i will miss you. your presence has been...important, your voice, your joy, your sadness))))

      my best, laura, with your art, with all that you touch and with all that touches you))))

      xo
      erin

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"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))