What You Missed

Today the destined late-March blizzard arrived, and so as usual when I'm stuck inside with my computer, I started fretting about my blog. And eating clementines. But mostly fretting. In the likely case that you didn't know, I've been running a blog outside of this one, Hyacinth Blues, which I created for all the miscellaneous things I do and think about outside of books and film. But I've had an increasing amount of trouble trying to keep the two blogs separate, because books and film are such a huge part of everything else in my life and because just writing about them seems really boring and impersonal to me. So here's what I'm getting to:

I'm combining the blogs.

This one will still be called the Rambling Imp, I'm just moving my other stuff over to it, because it's my blog and I'll do what I want to, hey? So here's what you missed from the other blog:

Some Photos I Took While Strolling Around My Village

Along with some ruminations on living in New England.

Some Record Hauls

Including-

The Kinks

Ellington Indigos

Poulenc Concerto

Some Gushing Over Phil Kaye and His Beautiful Words

A Sketch

Some Commentary on J-Rock and Male Attractiveness in Asian Culture (TBC)

A Mixed-Media Collage ft. Floating Lips

Me Attempting to Be the Forgotten Third Main Character of Ginger and Rosa

A Love Letter to a Cat ... (?)

The night we met, 

the ice made lace on the frozen ground.

The snow blushed a frostbitten blue, 

and moonbeams fought the winter-starved shadows

that surrounded us in wait.

I remember your eyes, 

how they watched me as I approached.

The way they flashed citrus in the black.

I thought you would run

when I shattered crystal with my steps,

but you only stared.

And when I came close enough 

to finally touch you,

to know that you were not the silhouette of a dream,

you were gone, 

dissolved like ink into the night.

(by Skye)

A Poem About A Mug

A white 

ceramic 

mug

placed on the edge of the table,

a semi-circle ring jutting out over the precipice.

Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly, 

tasting colder, 

staler, 

with each sip.

Leaving a stained rime on the virgin white

where it has receded.

It sits there, inches away from my hand.

Nails bitten down, 

discolored

patches dry and flaky,

wrinkles beginning to show.

I watch,

from the corner of my eye.

The mug.

So brittle. 

Already lines 

in the places I know it would break apart

if it fell.

when it fell.

My hand heavy on the table,

turned lead with the power

of possibility,

the what if.

The I could.

I see the liquid 

spreading across the tiles,

pungent,

seeping out from between sharp edges

of ceramic shards.

Spreading still, 

down tracks of grout. 

Until a faceless person

lays down a rag and sops the mess up.

Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,

throws the whole deal in a trash can to be driven away 

the next morning.

But my hand has not moved yet,

and still the mug sits with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,

and my hand tensed,

and watching,

waiting.

(by Skye)

Some More Jazz Records

Some Pictures in The Woods That Are Meh

Another Sketch

Pictures From New Years

Another Sketch

And Another

Some Fangirling Over Mirumagraph's Artwork

A Pseudo- Deep Poem About Eyes

I was born with blue eyes,

as empty as the sky on a cloudless day

and as clear as the water lapping up the shore of the beach.

Soon I went to school,

learned my alphabet

and the difference between they're and their,

and I became a writer.

My eyes were brown

and they saw the sky in words

and the ocean in lyrics and verse.

Next, I learned to color inside the lines

and that yellow and purple were complementary,

and I became an artist.

My eyes were green,

and they saw the sunset as a palette of dying hues

and the ocean as a living watercolor.

And when I asked why,

I became a philosopher,

and the specks of doubt shone gold in my eyes.

I learned to feel small when I looked at the stars,

and to seek truth in the vast unknowns of the sea.

So now I have the artist's eyes,

with pupils the black of spilled ink,

with irises of blended paints,

with whites of forgotten dreams.

And only when I close them

do I see myself.

(by Skye)

And Another Picture of Trees

So that was a few months of blogging summed up in one post. These are the types of things I posted on my other blog that I'll start posting here, just because it's really hard to keep different parts of my personality separate. I hope you liked! If you want to see more of this, along with book reviews and film reviews, you should follow me! Until next time,

Skye.