Honey Loves Bea

Honey Loves Bea
One of the original Buttonface dolls

Tuesday, November 4, 2008


Not quite dawn, I am the sleepy no-color of everything. Scrim of fog pierced by rower in silent skiff. Water mimicking sky. Mutable. Inconstant. Blue-gray, gray-green. Trickle and lap of sheen on sand. I am the color of grief and age. Vapor and ashes on the tongue, mildew, arsenic’s sharp tang. Rain-ping on metal roof. Absence. Regret. I am dove’s wing, kitten, violet-lipped shadow. I am the go-between. I am smoke. I am the ragged bellies of clouds. At dusk, all colors seep into me as I spread my cloak for moon kiss, night, my lover. Sun sketches with me. I erase, smudge, obscure. I am circumspect, reflective. The color of contemplation. Sage leaf and soft Lamb’s Ear. I am the memory of green. The price of progress run wild, the blinding glare of commerce and war. Industrial, high-rise, hard. I freeze. I burn. I am stinging sleet and melting ice. I am the viscous core of mountains, the rock ribs of the earth. I am spanner of rivers, skyscraper bone, jet. Listen. I am the keen of flywheels. I am gossip, truck rumble, wet wind, sparrow. Seed, or needle, in your hands. Spade, if you dig with me. Freeway, cobbled street, frostbitten furze on moonlit path, concrete, asphalt, unyielding stone. I am gunmetal-charcoal-pewter-mercury-nickel-platinum-steel. I am goose down. Iron. Fin-flash in quicksilver sea. I am pistol, bullet, corpse, worm. Dark before light, light before dark. I am beautiful. I am the face of death. I am patient. I am what comes after. I am nothing. Call me mirror.

Monday, November 3, 2008


On the hike-and-bike trail this morning--light now at 6:30 since the time change--small golden leaves were spiralling down like coins all around the few of us early Monday souls doing penance for a weekend of sugary indulgence. It seems like such an appropriate currency for these times of economic uncertainty. Her gold reserve untarnished by the excesses and deceptions of Wall Street execs, Mother Nature showers blessings on all of us, regardless of our social standing, ethnic background, or political stripe. I hadn't really thought about it before, but there's a certain Mardi Gras feeling to autumn, with the status-leveling masked revels of All Hallows Eve, the vibrantly-colored leaves and fruits of harvest piled up everywhere like parade floats, and lavish, indulgent feasts to celebrate before winter wipes the slate clean for another year.

With Halloween already fading into the photobooks of memory, we're looking toward our season of thanksgiving, and even in the leanest of times, there is still much to be thankful for in America. While many of us may have less in our purses this year, the countryside is unequivocally and inclusively resplendent. We are rich in beauty, and this morning I feel the pockets of my spirit filled to bursting with nature's golden gifts.