The Journal of Kristina Woodhill|
Seven Years of Christmas here at Pathetic
12/09/2012 05:42 p.m.
Who knew I would be a part of a poetry group for seven years this month! When Mara Meade and Elizabeth Jill pushed me in this direction and to this site I thought they were being gracious friends and optimistic about my writing at best. What I didn't know was what they did know - there are places one can go and become a part of a community of people who love to write, places to play with words, develop styles, reject styles, try to master a form or two, and watch other people do the same.
I've been amazed at some of the poets here and continue to be so, daunted by their abilities to make words dance, twist time, express an elegant idea, crudely address a crude situation, and share their lives, imaginary or real.
This site is truly a gift to self and I will continue to give it as long as it is here.
Thanks to all for comments and kind words over the years. I cherish you all.
Merry Christmas, may your muses kiss you often, caress your needs, express your wants.
Living with Dying
09/09/2012 05:59 p.m.
So once again I have the tight stomach thinking about a friend with terminal cancer. Before 50 I lived merrily along believing death was an OK thing, the natural, sacred end. Now every other year someone bites it close to me or a few steps of people away from me. I don't want this dear friend to die so young, to leave our fun times behind, to leave me behind. Maybe it's just all about wondering if I'm going to be the lone woman, like my grandma at 99, reading headstones, old letters, old poems. Man, if I lose my eyesight, I'll be a mess..... (smile) Charlie Minshall, I must keep your funny words closer to me now. Maureen Glaude - I must visit your beautiful tea garden more often.
I was at the big Art in the Park yesterday, roaming through wonderful artifacts made by actual human hands. Behind in one tent I heard a man talking quietly to someone - "so now we're in this kind of tent and to my left there is this kind of art," followed by great details of everything he was viewing. I turned around to see, of course, a blind woman on his arm. What a dear husband he is to do that. I, on the other hand, having seen many of those booths each year, skim along quickly until I come to a tent with something totally original to my mind's memory.
If I were blind, would I be able to call up those colors and shapes so easily? I can still see my dad's face clearly and even his body language, hear his voice if I tweak my mind just so. I am thankful for that after over 30 years gone.
Maybe it's all in the observation, the sitting still for more than a moment. I must look at my dear friend more closely now to remember all her details.
03/10/2012 07:09 p.m.
This is a much easier way to get there, I think.
i snored naked.com
03/10/2012 07:01 p.m.
So you don't even have to read this, just sit back, turn up your sound and enjoy your mind being messed with. Surely we who play with words could get some inspiration here also.
Hickory, $#%@ory, Dock
02/28/2012 06:48 p.m.
I did not know Hickory, Dickory, Dock was considered a limerick. It is limerick season, any day now, which for me is for the next three weeks!
Update on Afghanistan
02/27/2012 04:01 p.m.
The woman who wrote this was a young child when I lived in Kabul. Her dad was my math teacher at AISK. I'm so proud to see how far she has come and impressed with her understanding of the situation there.
Solitude and Leadership
02/21/2012 05:17 p.m.
I am probably late to the party on reading this, but the author of it was being interviewed yesterday, so I found the text of his speech this morning.
I'm not sure how people in the big cities find solitude to think quietly. We went skiing on BLM land here in Idaho this weekend - ungroomed but used trails, where few people bother to go - an occasional snow machine roars through, but didn't while we were up there. It's not a big snow year, so we were thankful to have a couple of fresh inches and it wasn't too sticky for some nice gliding. We saw where a coyote had wandered through that morning and a flock of robins were chirping in the high Doug firs, never having left for the mild winter. The magic of the snow is that it leaves tracks, sparking imagination with every slide of the ski.
the Good Lovelies
02/15/2012 04:01 p.m.
A shout out to my Canadian friends. We went to the Good Lovelies last night. They were very funny(they call themselves 'sassy') and engaging, sang beautiful harmony, silly songs, sweet songs, folk songs. A good time.
Oddest find while walking
02/13/2012 05:26 p.m.
A full book of Forever stamps lying beside the road, minus one stamp.
02/13/2012 02:06 a.m.
Today my mother turned 91. To see this irrational number on paper creates a desire to beat back at something, but I'm not sure what. This is where the mind begins to finally understand about the past, present, future all being one. This is where my mind jumps back to early childhood and feels that old fear of death thing that never got explained away quite fully, or replaced with some other reality of how things "turn out." I am hopeful that as I spend more time helping her cope with a shrinking, curling over body, I will be able to maintain for us both that place of optimism that is my usual state and that I might be able to help both of us go into that next realm with the same enthusiasm on our lips as Steve Jobs' - "oh, wow!, oh, wow!, oh, wow!"
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