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Journal : Orion
Aug. 26th, 2017 02:02 amBut when I lifted up my head
From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
Burn steadily as long ago.
That bit there fill me with a certain kind of homesickness. I found that poem among my temp bookmarks. Orion heralds the coming winter, the changing of season. standing at the end of the end of the driveway, looking up, when the scant midnight traffic lulls, the stars are almost overwhelming. the waves beat heavily, the dock lights shimmer. The weather has turned to cool air, a heavy wind blows. The pressing heat of summer just a memory, and the edge of green is going off the leaves as they begin to turn. For years my mom insisted it was just a single sick tree, though that conflicted with all the evidence I had. That sort of low-key denial/gaslighting has been a staple of my entire life. Is it any wonder I struggle with having confidence in my own knowledge?
Orion is special to me. August rains hid the transition from light to darkness, until they cleared in September's brisk winds and the stars returned. Orion being the first, most obvious constellation, dominating the western sky outside my bedroom window. My last sight as I'd drift asleep, framed by tattered trees and deepening blue. That's a piece of home, from back when I didn't need my glasses to see it. Tied up with folk songs, and the sharp smell of currants and gooseberries. The gunpowder, cinnamon sugar, and barn smell of the fair. I miss the fair, undivorcably tied to rainy August days as it is in my blood.
Orion is special to me. August rains hid the transition from light to darkness, until they cleared in September's brisk winds and the stars returned. Orion being the first, most obvious constellation, dominating the western sky outside my bedroom window. My last sight as I'd drift asleep, framed by tattered trees and deepening blue. That's a piece of home, from back when I didn't need my glasses to see it. Tied up with folk songs, and the sharp smell of currants and gooseberries. The gunpowder, cinnamon sugar, and barn smell of the fair. I miss the fair, undivorcably tied to rainy August days as it is in my blood.
i regret not keeping up with journaling the last few years, of not having a record of what's happened and how i feel. though in its way the lack of record is the record - it's defined by its absence.
A good article that really hits a lot of what I miss - In Celebration of Old-School LiveJournal
This comment is also super relevant.A good article that really hits a lot of what I miss - In Celebration of Old-School LiveJournal
8tracks playlist of the week - You intolerable lunatic
