– emily. why are you up so late?
– may i speak with you, father?
– of course.
– as you may know, i like to write. letters, mostly… but sometimes poetry.
– yes.
– may i have your permission to write during the night, for quiet’s sake? i shall not disrupt the rest of the household, i promise.
– yes, you may. it was very considerate of you to ask.
– it is your house, father.
– but it is our home, emily.
i’m boggled at how much it echoes with me and because of that i haven’t watched it fully yet. it’s way beyond poetry, even though the poetry covers all the emotions and all kinds of states. and i can not fail to mention the secret forest plant i discovered just few years ago, pale forest creature, neither a flower nor the mushroom, the ghost pipe. it’s very dear to me.
during the walks i usually do have weird rhymes in my head all the time, but since recently there’s plenty more, and now, sometimes, i dare to save them on paper.. am i saying this correctly? with the words of my second non-native language? returning to the nature and plants, here is a little observation.. i found a leaf of coltsfoot and to my surprise the other side, white one – stepmother’s side was as tender and silky by touch as the green, mother’s.
there is a hope…
fascinated by cynthia nixon’s emotional performance. enormously loud quietness. thank you.
*
after watching few scenes and a long absence in the white room, these earrings were created, accompanied by a tiny poem about them. yes, they were intended to her! and you. for those, whose lives go vividly, restless, deep inside.
