Sunday, June 27, 2010

baby deer

there is this rolling. right under the surface. imperceptible most of the time. except for when the two thirds of my body that is composed of water connects with the grumble of the earth's stomach and i read that there is a 99 percent chance that there will be yet another catastrophic earthquake in southern california and i wonder where i will be standing when that happens and where will the pieces of my heart that i have given to others end up?
finn put her shoes on by herself this morning. i was curled on the couch, early, trying to convince her that sunday morning cartoons wrapped in pajamas and morning teeth was the way to go.
no, mommy. we go outside. 
her little hands, such tiny fingers, grasping mine.
come on, mommy. it is music, her voice. the lilt of learned inflections and new sounds jumbled like river rocks, washed and polished and mottled. it is music and i cannot ever be sure you hear the slight bass behind the drumming. but i hear it.

a leaf fell into wet concrete. some time before i lived in this neighborhood. it was here. and its memory, nature's handprint, stops me in my tracks and i think of falling buildings and cracked foundations and the idea that perhaps one day this photo will be all that remains.
finn breaks up a leaf as i'm taking pictures and places the pieces down with intent, my coffee sweating on the ground, the rogue band of filmmakers across the way quickly shooting scenes as people walk their dogs around them, into the street.
dinosaur prints, she says.
i look at her.
look, mommy, dinosaur prints.
then she starts singing 'it's a small world.'
she saw dinosaurs at disneyland. last weekend. the lead actor across the street is dressed in an ostentatiously cliched orange pimp suit, faux fur purple hat and wielding a cane. the "homeless man" with the unfortunate wig and bad makeup is drinking starbucks and smoking a cigarette. he forgot to take off his fancy watch. i wonder if the director noticed the watch or if maybe it was intentional.
i look back at the leaf print in the concrete and think that never again will this band of people, this 30 something woman with tattoos and a slightly ridiculous addiction to baked goods with her dangerously observant toddler and these people shooting what is (most likely) a short film that will never see more eyeballs than six degrees of separation will allow....this band of 'we, the people' will never, ever, stand in the same place again.
and i will remember today.
i will remember burbank in june.
sunday morning.
earthquakes and dinosaurs and pimps. the slight bass behind the drumming. and baby deer.


  1. you have such a tender heart. and that two thirds of your body made up of water further suggests how soft you are. (i do believe too many people lack quite this much and are a little too hard.) you think well. you feel better. i think of the iceberg. it seems you feel two thirds more than most. it makes you beautiful.


  2. Oh, your beautiful soul, Krista... Your words which flow over each other like precious gems, released.

    I think of it too, this moment in time when my babies are young. I want to take the memory of each single day with me.

  3. I just want to tell you I love reading your words - you've always had this gift - I remember when you were in high school and had to turn in a short story, you would stop by my work so you could use the computer to type it - and the words you had etched on parchment the night before went into the "filed" container and you sat there and typed a completely new story - and always aced them. I wonder at this wonderfully gifted child that I brought home from the hospital that day so many years ago - and I already see bit and pieces of you coming out in My Muffinn - she has the combination of your and Bryan's artistic mind and eye - I am in awe already of things to come. I worry about the earth and its moving and shaking too - but will take every "today" I can and store them in my heart. I love you muchly Krista. Mom

  4. krista, you really ought to submit this one, to share it with more than your blog readers. This is gorgeous. Print it up and mail it off to The Sun.

    your voice is so moving. I love the line about finn's sounds and words jumbled like river rocks. it was such an evocative image.

    i love reading your stories.

  5. You write in such a gorgeous way - I can taste and smell and feel everything you write because it's so true. And it's you, amplified.


  6. Yes. Yes, yes, yes! You are an amazing writer. Keep putting these moments on paper because believe me, you won't recall them when you're older. Thanks for sharing them with us. Blessings!

  7. Nope, that is most definitely a scene that will never repeat itself. Sometimes I try to stare at Devon and listen and smell everything around me, so that I can keep it ingrained in my memory forever. I often wonder what will stick out in my mind ten or twenty years from now.

  8. this is so tender and radiant with love.

    and i really like that shirt.

  9. I was just dropping in to wish you and yours the happiest Independence Day. May your day be full! May you enjoy laughter shared with family, great food shared with friends, fireworks to make you gasp, a lump in your throat at the anthem, and a full and grateful heart at all we have been given. Happy Fourth of July, my friend!

  10. I'm just wondering... How do you make poetry out of everything?

  11. aaaaaah. this post, your writing. so beautiful. so. beautiful.

  12. Wait! Wait! Where did the comments go for your fourth post?!?!?!

    "freedom to feel ambivalent"

    Holy motherclucking!

    Holy holy.


    Strong strong bold and strong. I lived in the States with my once husband for seven or so years, was it? I say yes yes and more, to this.

    Love the Cohen. (canadian, eh.) LOVE NPR. Love reflection.


  13. earthquakes and dinosaurs and pimps....that says it all. Love it.

    I hope you and your baby deer have a lovely weekend!


use your kind words.