Laurel's Blog

This is my blog.


In Boston there's an old colonial state house that still stands with the lion and unicorn adorning each side of the regal gold door, symbols of the King. The tiny building is dwarfed beside the stony sky scrapers with their metallic reflective sides and sharp edges, looking like they could in fact scrape the sky if it got too close. The tiny statehouse has remained there since the day it was built as the largest building in Boston. Now it quietly but boldly holds its ground.
I grew up in a city full of history and old buildings and what I learned as a result is the art of clinging. I’ve been taught that what has passed should be preserved, and that no part of history should be left and forgotten about. I drove my first car until the AC and heat no longer worked, the locks were broken, and the rear axel was almost falling off. I take pictures of everything whether I later look at them or not. 3rd birthday cards, ratty stuffed animals, postcards from Vegas, Italy, Disneyworld – all still somewhere locked and safe in my room. Impractical? yes. Crazy? probably. I get attached. I cling and remember and my car, my pictures, my ballet shoes from 2nd grade, my old statehouse with the gold lion and the marble unicorn – they’re just as important as now as tomorrow as grad school a resume salaries and a retirement plan – as giant mirrored buildings that resist wind and scrape the sky...
Downtown Boston has one of the highest car accident rates. We're just anxious, and we like to move. With all that traffic in the center, with the one way cobblestone streets and the horn honking, you're hardpressed to find a bumper that's still intact. Bostonians talk fast forgetting their Rs, walk fast forgetting hellos, drive fast on freeways forgetting blinkers- rearview mirrors- anything learned in drivers ed. But still, we're very careful to preserve and remember everything we're flying past.

posted by Laurel  # 9:18:00 PM


A Love Story-

Aren't all stories written out of love? good ones anyway, written out of passion and fire from the writer's heart to the page, or maybe we consider most stories to be about love in some way because love is a word to which we attach a plethora of definitions. i love my dog, my car, my sister, my red sox hat, my first boyfriend (my second boyfriend...) my boyfriend from first grade who I don't call my boyfriend, my picture of my aunt I never met, chocolate covered strawberries and the wonder years reruns. laugh if you will and say that’s not real love but who are you to say real and not real? haven’t you said I love that movie, that city, that car? have you loved – been in love? (the difference?) and how do you know – are you sure?
Love Story – a wonderful tragic 1970 movie with Ryan O’Neal and Ali MacGraw and a haunting beautiful theme song – that was a love story ending in death, many love stories are (romeo, romeo wherefore art thou romeo) stories to depict, to illustrate, to explain – and what needs more explaining than this emotion, this “thing” we’re trained to admire and strive toward but that lacks clear boundaries, a focused explanation, a coherent definition…So continuing in this vein, you’d be hardpressed to find a story not about love, even if the author denies this claim – denies vehemently that his/her story has anything to do with love, then in this yelling, this passionate defending of the true theme of the story, isn’t he or she showing passion - rage - fire - love?

posted by Laurel  # 7:02:00 PM


I met
you and fell,
like babies from
boughs – umbilical
cord vines strengthened
slowly and your voice echoed
in my mind “Nice to meet you”
ring ring ring and
“It’s Tim” became “It’s me”
became “Hi”, I learned your voice

I heard once that
smooth stones, ruin
their hard
edges until they
the droning
face of
a fingernail I wonder
if the
rocks would protest,
if they
had any say at all.

I know.
Okay. Telephone
cord wrapped around
my finger No talking now
-No need -No loss I hear you
cough on the line. Nice to meet you.
I love you. I’ll stay. babies from boughs.

posted by Laurel  # 9:36:00 PM


my mom's a piano teacher, and when I think of her I remember how her hands look bending and sliding over glassy piano keys. saturday mornings were for piano lessons, and once a week the rhythm of her songs in practice punctuated the morning quiet. I learned the basics, how my hands felt on the keys- how hard to press. but what I learned best was not something included in our formal lessons. from hearing her play, seeing her face, watching her hands, I learned to feel the notes on the page. she taught me Fur Elise, her song, the only one her hands still remembered how to play from her 5th grade lessons with Mr. Rossmore on 52nd St in Jersey City. she didn't teach me Fur Elise from books, I just watched her play and mimicked the motions, like learning a dance. I watched her move and lean to the music's ups and downs and slowly I learned that I too could hear the notes as something more than notes, like seeing an ocean as something other than water and sand. I learned what she never tried to teach me, how to read where the notes want to go, and now Fur Elise is my song - now I play with my eyes closed and lean with the rhythm, knowing exactly how far my hands should stretch. after piano lessons we'd make pancakes - blueberry with too much syrup. I poured the batter and she did the flipping and the morning's songs would echo in my head while the pancakes cooked. Fur Elise is the one that stuck. it reminds me of feeling what cannot be taught. it reminds me of listening and missing wrong notes. it reminds me of hands showing age and still moving, of my mother, of blueberry pancakes, of Saturday mornings in pajamas.
posted by Laurel  # 9:54:00 PM


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