Happy Things · Uncategorized

A Japanese Poetic retelling

A Japanese poetic retelling from Mischievous Kiss #1, Episode 14 & 15.


Go for a walk. Buy a juice at a convenience store. Get in a fight. Do as I like. No one cares what I’m in for. Hug a tree. Cry a lot. Get passed by a white cat. “Ee-ou”– I will. Have fun together.

Forget about life for a while. I like him? Nothing in common is nothing in common. Why does every one keep asking me?! My father’s best friend is not okay. Learn to sing, “I did it my way.” You never know what happens next.

Happy Things

Autumn’s Start

There is a fire starting in the forest. The late sun touches the tallest tips of branches and the golden light spreads down a hundred feet. Ready leaves ignite in a flame of burnt orange, amber, and pastel yellow. Autumn is just starting to appear. I have been in Vermont for a month and a half. I feel that I have learned all that the people I am with can teach me, but the trees and the land have just started to lecture. Which color belongs to which leaf and which leaf belongs to which tree? All the sudden I have to know; I desire to know. Something hidden deep within the earth sprouted and grew up while waiting for me to find it. A tree of silver, a copper bark. These are things of another place calling out to me, trying to teach me something . I am ashamed now to have ever sat and pondered under a tree without knowing its name, without first being properly introduced.

Here, there are hills of great trees as far as the eye can see. Purple has sprouted on the hilltops. Like an army moving toward an invasion, I can see the signs but I stand paralyzed, foolishly unprepared. I do not even know the ground underneath my feet. On this September day I sit in the shade of a Sugar Maple by a weather-stained barn. The grass is dry and soft with hundreds of seedlings around me. Tiny pines, tiny ferns, small clovers all looking up at me saying, “Don’t you know who I am?”

In the field are flowers of yellow, with individual purple clovers spotting the scene. And there is one small flower of golden red. I have never seen it before, and yet, it seems to know its place in this world more confidently than I. One glorious reddened flower enjoying the breeze and the sunshine on an Autumn day.

Happy Things

Flower Seeds

Flower seeds on a wire rack. How does one put them on? How does one take them off? Do they grow there? Flower seeds rotating in space. Digitalis purpurea, myosotis alpestrisBellis annua. Each tiny grain more delicate than the first. Unending is the cycle of growth. It never stops rotating.

Here is a blue petal. Light blue—the thing of clouds. Blue petals drop on the ground by their sisters. Blue gives way to brown; brown gives way to green. This episode travels through the world with a free-pass ticket—no expiration date. Petals fall to the ground and dream their way to a wire rack stand.

Happy Things

The Hair Appointment

“Have a seat right here, dear. Just give me a moment to wash this hair goo off. Ok, now what can I do for you today?—Oh dear lord, baby, your hair is a disaster.”

“I know—turn the mirror away—I can barely even look at it. Last Wednesday a racoon crawled on top of my head and died there. My hair has never been the same since.”

“Well, of course your hair hasn’t been the same; you have a dead raccoon stuck in it.”

“I thought it best to leave to the professionals.”

“Well sure, baby, but you couldn’t come in sooner?”

“Not in planting season. You know, all hands to the fields—every adult, child, or decaying vermin.”

“Don’t you mind. Just put this bib on. I’ll get you right, quick. I’ll go get some gloves.”

“I really can’t thank you enough for taking me on, you know. Will removal be extra?”

“Dead rodent is the same as highlights, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose it’s just as well.”

“But I’ll knock off $5 dollars for you since I’ve had an animal die on me, too, in my past. It can be a terrorizing event.”

“You too? What was it?”

“A horse.”

“A horse?”

” Yes, a horse. I’d taken my ol’ Beauty out for an evening ride on the new country road –Just past the white church, and how’d you like it–right as I told him to turn around, he gave out. Kaput. Fell underneath me. A goner.”

“How strange. Was he very old?”

“Not a day older than twenty-five. When I was twenty-five I was in the prime of my life, way back when. I was up to my waist in mischief–both feet in the very muck of it, I tell you. It made no sense.”

“Perhaps it was on account of your weight?”

“Me? Wait? Well, of course I didn’t wait for a dead horse. That’s nothing doing. If I didn’t walk myself home, I’d be sleeping on the steps of the church to this day. It really was quite traumatic.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you end up doing with it?”

“The horse? –The only practical thing. We bulldozed it over five feet to fill in the hole in the church parking lot. The members had been praying for the means to fill that trap-hole for weeks. God works in mysterious ways, they say. Nothing gave me more joy than to be able to be the answer to their prayers.”

“You must be proud.”

“I was, I was, but stay still now. –There we go. No more dead hairdos. Now let’s start by putting your head in the wash bucket.”

“Oh no, stop! You can’t wash my hair. The egg nest will be ruined!”

“Egg nest?! Now you have a nest in your hair? Girl, I like to refer to myself as county, but what to high heaven is wrong with you?”

“It’s to keep chicken eggs in, obviously. You’ve never done this? Why else did you think a raccoon crawled up there?”

“Can’t say I didn’t wonder. Does that work well?”

“Usually. Until the predators come. They’re smart little buggers. This old raccoon died choking on one of the fake eggs I put in for the snakes.

“Snakes?!” Do they get stuck in your hair then too?”

“From time to time.”

“Yes, well, that looks like all I can do you today, sweetheart. Remember to schedule again in four months. And ask for Lacy. I’ll be busy that day.”





Happy Things

Bird Watching

A packed lunch on a sunny day. A pair of binoculars around the neck of a bird enthusiast. Every day is a picnic when you eat at the park. Crispy, stuffed green pepper— tuna I should not have been allowed to season. The bright mallards agree with me in their own way. “Excuse me, sir. You’re in a city park.” I wanted to say to him. “There are no birds, except for the fat, waddling ones. The ducks can hear me, but they don’t mind. Ducks look like they haven’t minded anything for the last one-thousand years. I spy on my bird-watcher. A nearby drake keeps an eye on him too. He puts his binoculars down in a hopeless shrug. “Hey, mister, I’m a bird, quack. I’m right here in front of you, quack. Look at my brilliant green feathers. Don’t know you proper ducks don’t sit in trees, quack?” The drake talks loudly at his feet. Don’t worry, little mallard. I notice your beauty, and your great skill on balancing on one foot without falling over. You impress me. If only more of us could be as peaceful as ducks.

Happy Things


I call her Pari. That’s not her real name of course, but it’s the one that always gives me a sort of a chuckle when I say it because she’ll do her own turn-up-head-nose-crunch to go along with it. I like her a lot.  When I get in one of my “the world is going to end” moods and stay in my reading room all day, she’ll come by and bring some fresh cut flowers. She loves open windows and unrelentingly spreads sunshine onto the piles of books and quills and runners. Whatever human decency I’ve lost these last few days will be found again before she leaves the front gate.  Maybe she’ll even come around today.

Happy Things · Uncategorized

Story Thoughts

How do you write a good story? —Something that matters to someone and captivates people’s hearts. What is it that separates paperbacks from legends? Who are these few special souls that uncover the New out of billions of grains of sand on forgotten beaches? How many conflicts can this world sustain? How many made up worlds, movies, plays may be written before every scene is just a rehearsing of old?

I do not know what captures our attention, be it places of fantasy or alluring characters or dramatic action we secretly wish for in our own mundane lives. There must be something more. Perhaps it is simply the fact that written stories only last 300 pages, whereas ours last a whole life and lose our attention long before the credits.

I believe there is only one true story, and a thousand different ways to tell it. Can I create way one-thousand and one? Can I imagine a new color or make a new leaf? I do not know I have such skill.

I could not make a new leaf even if you gave me more time than the end of the world.