You are not that which surrounds you. You are not the events. You are not the politics. You are not the chaos. No more than the bird in the sky is the sky, No more than the plant in the soil is the soil. No more than the cream in the coffee is the coffee. You are essential. You are real. You are. (C) Glenda Kotchish Sepember 12, 2023
Image by Image by Alan Dobson pixabay.com
The lesson is that all things are not lessons ...but being
(c) Glenda Kotchish September 7, 2023
Prepare to be delighted.
(c) Glenda Kotchish 9/3/2023
Q. Perfection?
A. Strive and you will be all that you want to be.
This is perfection.
(c) Glenda Kotchish, September 2, 2023
Perfect perception waits for the space of wanting to see, of wanting to understand. (C) Glenda Kotchish, September 3, 2023
Finally you are here. We've turned and tilted in just the right ways for you to be in our sights to be imbued in your embrace. Welcome...September (C) Glenda Kotchish 9/1/2023
Tulips lean over the vase edge Color faded, wilting on the hearth
At the base lies the dog sleeping curled into a ball rays of sun warming him— A slight jerk, perhaps a dream
The sound of dripping from the clogged gutter outside the window
The clock on the brick wall ticks away out of rhythm with the drain pipe’s dripping— no rhythm at all this collaboration
Distressing like the rapping of young people’s music makes me long for Bach
I rise find the blue-tooth speaker the cell phone, amazon music press buttons slide screens
Bach centuries old joins in
(C) Glenda Kotchish 2022
The birds in the bleak mid-winter, before dawn tucked in the trees, quiet, waiting, sleeping. The deer somewhere in the the woods grazing in familiar places, perhaps they will come to my door for corn. Later, I will put hot water in the bird bath to melt the ice. Later. (C) Glenda Kotchish January 2022
Neil Gaiman, in his master study class said that you should keep a compost book–a book of ideas, starts of stories. And while this log would most likely be undeveloped, it would provide you with material for future stories when you or it had matured.
This story, “Homearama” was in my compost book, actually the very last page of the book. I jotted down the words last summer when I saw a brochure on a new development in my hometown. The image was captivating in its starkness. I haven’t changed a single word from the original. I hope you enjoy it.
She is a white fox now and hidden from view. It’s hard to see her, especially on misty, foggy days. But she’s there, white, silver, vixen and wise. She knows all the tricks, old and newly invented; so beware when she slips across the corner of your vision. She’s up to something, to be sure.
In yonder year she was red and blazed like the sun. A shot, a comet, a blast of color she was, slipping in and out of the hen house, under the fence, through the hedge, into the woods. Her long legs admired, the swish of her tail–envied. Her head held high, she pranced about, skipping across the brook, into the stream, swimming, bounding into the river–currents ignored–she emerged–on top–always.
She is all this, still. She’s bold, she’s bright but ignored. You’ve been warned. If you see her, you might not, you probably won’t but she’s stirring the pot, she making things happen, she’s molding you and you have no clue.
© Glenda Kotchish
July 25, 2018