Once I chased a dream, a bird song,
a peacock feather,
through midnight down to the lapping water
silver crickets like ear-stars singing
all along the fields where fieldmice hide.
There is no place to go
but down to where the night water runs,
and runs black and slow,
slow like feet running in a dream.
Kind water, sweet and black
whispering, "I take nothing back.
I only go on."
The dream was really a beast
covered by night; I did not know,
and I followed the rank smell far,
too far away,
to find it, large
and turning, white clawed and snorting
too awful for fear,
too awful for running,
the song of my living too awful for fear -
and now to go on,
walking;
dawn is near.
Stephanie Online
The life and works of Stephanie McLintock.
Where the Night Water Runs
June 11, 2013
July 02, 2012
Astronomy
The stars, they are not stars
when you look up;
they are not rocks, but bits of light,
holes in the earth-cloth,
light shining through, like black paper
pin-punched, held up to the sun.
You are not you,
not even a star;
you are a hole through which
I see only shining. I can not guess
the source of the light.
There is a beyond, beyond the cloth-skin,
but so hard to reach,
like touching stars.
Conversations with a Flame
She held the match to the candle and waited. Slowly the wick caught and flared up, sucking and wavering, burning her fingers. She dropped the match and stamped on it with bare feet. She looked into the flame.
"He's gone," she told it.
It puffed and stretched.
"When will I see him again? When will I hear from him? He won't write to me, he doesn't know I exist. I'll never find out what becomes of him, and I can't stand it. Forever. He's gone forever now."
"Don't tell me about it," the flame said in a dry, light, crackling voice. It darted like a snake's tongue.
"I have to tell somebody. "I've never loved anyone before, an dhe doesn't even know I love him and he's going away. Oh God, what can I do?"
We Will Sensor!
Today in Home Room they passed out the Senior Information Sheets - what I've been waiting for. They ask for your nickname favorite saying (Ten words or less, MUST BE PRINTABLE) ambition (Due to space limitations only two ambitions will be printed) pet peeve (Due to space limitations ... ) and highlights (Due to, etc.) At the top ofthe page they tell you: REMEMBER THAT THE YEARBOOK IS A PERMANENT RECORD THAT WILL REPRESENT YOU AND YOUR CLASS IN 1982 AND FOR YEARS TO COME. USE GOOD JUDGEMENT!! WE WILL SENSOR!!" Just like that, with an "S". Must have been written by L_______, our class president. L______ is good at triteness. ...
Anyhow. Nickname: I don't have one. Favorite saying: something from a song / Ambition: Writer, bum. Pet peeve: school spirit / Highlights: WWUH on Sunday nights, electric sneakers
Larry D______ pointed out that although they only have room for 2 of these things, they allow you to list up to 25 school activities you participated in!
Georgeanne says that Rockville High lets you write anything you want, w/out sensorship!
- September 1981
January 28, 2012
Happiness
All the mourners had left. The casket stood in obstinate, definite silence, like a shut-in turtle, not giving anything of itself. Tiny lacy patterns swirled in silver paint around the bottom and the top rim, and the black wood shone. In Marcia's brown eyes the room blurred and dulled, and she half tripped down the two steps into the parlor. She drew a breath to avoid sobbing aloud, walking slowly toward the black box. She carried flowers, a bunch of hovering baby's breath; and as she came close, she drew up the long, badly fitting dress to her knees, kneeling on white tile. Her eyes would not lift from the floor. She felt she must say something to her mother, say anything, pretend for a moment that she was alive again. Too much weight, Marcia thought, all at once, I can't take it all at once, I can't, mom, I need one more minute of you, I didn't have long enough, let me tell you something. You don't have to talk back, just pretend you're listening, let me sit you up and talk like you can hear me. I want to tell you what I did in school, what I want for supper, what my teacher said, and that I can't take it all at once, it's too much.
May 02, 2007
Stone Deaf
The other thing is how I got to see the Stones in Hartford. I tried to get tickets but couldn't - first they said there would be no tickets sold that day, then I heard they had gone on sale 1/2 an hour ago. ...
So when we drove home we stopped by Harvest to see if their machine was working again, which it was, and we waited in line. Right then they sold out. So I was depressed. The radio station WHCN was giving away tickets and this pissed me off - how did they get hundreds + thousands of free tickets when fans waited hours in line and then didn't get any? A D.J. from WHCN got on TV with a suitcase of tickets and said the station was giving all these away, all you had to do was be the right caller and you would win a pair. I tried but of course those contests are almost impossible to win. So out of desperation comes inspiration.
Fear and Loathing at the U of Hartford
When Hunter Thompson came to speak at the U. of Hartford, I went to see him. First I called the U. to find out if the public was allowed in - no, you had to enroll in the jounalizm course, for several hundred dollars. I couldn't do that.
Letter to Her Brother, Summer 1982
I was going to have Jim Garvey, Georgianne, Gary, etc. sign this card but I can't seem to get it done - I went to George's grad. party a couple of days ago in the rain but nobody you knew was there.
This weekend's plan goes like this -
Thursday [June 17, 1982] - Garcia-Weir concert, New Haven
Friday [June 18, 1982] - off from work (do you believe it?) Graduation practice in the morning, leave for Cape Cod to see Garcia-Weir; Joe is driving Georgianne + me
Saturday [June 19, 1982] - Graduation in afternoon, leave for Maine with Joe + Georgianne
Sunday [June 20, 1982] - spend day in Maine, see Garcia-Weir at Cumberland Civic Center, drive back
AND I WORK ON MONDAY!!!
Buffalo
From her journals. Undated; probably summer of 1981.
When we got to Buffalo we headed for the War Memorial Colesium, where I thought the show was. Buffalo is a dirty, run-down place on the whole. The War Mem. was in a bad section, like Hartford going toward the North End.
The Collesium itself was a beat-up wooden place, open air like a baseball stadium. No ded heds or hairy people or lines of cars. The gravelly parking lots were practically empty (except for rusting car wrecks). We couldn't believe our eyes, after driving all that way, to arrive at a place like this. Was the concert cancelled? As soon as we came to a more decent neighborhood, we pulled in at a college and Keith and Leonard went in to call a radio station. Hank and I got out and stretched. We took out the tickets. On them it listed the collesium as the Buffalo Memorial.
Ah ha! We whipped out the map of Buffalo + sure enough, on the other side of town was a Buffalo Mem. Collesium. I painted WE FOUND IT on the car + Hank went to find L + Keith. He couldn't - came back and we waited.
April 25, 2007
February 06, 2007
Roads of Mexico
I remember the brown boy with brown eyes
who tried to sell us a toy wooden ship
first in the smoky restaurant
and then, as if he had followed us,
in the smoky bar
where we had our pictures taken
so we could know we had been there,
and Tom was drunk
and all his friends were drunk
and we went out to our cars,
I, driving without insurance
along the unknown roads of Mexico
and backing onto the sidewalk,
then we were out aong the highway, back
toward Tijuana, full moon,
our line of cars
calling and beeping back and forth.
We were looking for the perfect beach.
It was too dark to see,
and then we lost the rest of them
around a curve, and it was only
Larry and Tom, still nearly a stranger
and I, and I
pulled off and we walked
through prickly pear, down the hill
to the warm sand and then
the warm Mexican sea.
The moon was still full,
and Tom was drunk.
We lay blankets and sleeping bags on the sand.
We could hear the clicking of sand fleas.
Larry had to go back to the car
for something he forgot
and I ran to dance with the waves
as if in a dream -
the moon moving the waves,
the waves moving me,
I moving my shadow,
my shadow bowing to the moon.
And Tom was suddenly by my ear,
saying he was secretly in love.
I stared at the arms around my waist
saying, Larry will be back soon,
but it didn't matter, really
because I didn't love this man
or even like him very much,
and then I felt as if I was slipping,
as if my mind was washing away
or ebbing out,
all so strange
under a full moon.
I wanted to cry for all the times
I fought to keep from washing away
like the sand, ah this time -
and I wanted to beg him for mercy
but he turned
and walked up the beach.
A moment later
he was asleep.
The Magic Flute Player
"You sure you want to hear this story?" the old man asked, smiling at the young children sitting near him. They giggled and nodded, fidgeting in anticipation.
"Might give you nightmares, this one. 'S about dragons!" The children begged him to go on, to tell the story. He sat back, relaxed, and began.
February 05, 2007
If I Knew a Place
If I knew a better place I'd go there,
and drink up the rain,
hands cupped like open mouths
to starry skies.
If I knew a place where buttercups
still laughed like children,
and ponies ran,
and sands were scattered with silver shells,
and trees forgave the wind --
my feet would fly like wings on fire,
I would not look back once,
would not kiss the iron goodbye
or leave light tracks on stone.
Eyes, find the way
the unicorns have gone.
Follow the butterflies
that lift to the skies like stained-glass milkweed,
more instinct than weight --
lead me stumbling home.
This earth is not mine -- I feel no love
in the touch of maples that don't know my name,
and smothered, blinded earth that cannot
feel the sun.
If I knew a better place I'd go there,
laughing and make it my own,
hold it to my heart by its roots and flowers,
unicorns' horns and butterflies,
eager, blue and hungry skies
that wait for wings,
earth that grows with weight of feet
in speckled springs.
Wings of Song
Now, all alone in Eden,
ashamed to claim his creation,
he climbs the grey, wilted trees and weeps
for everything so soon
gone wrong.
He gathers all not dead around him,
the half-wilted remnants
of unequaled beauty --
a violet still blue
a brook not yet dry
as its stone banks crumble
under the weight of his tears.
And from someplace
out and beyond destruction
a bird flies, dandelion yellow,
black-throated and full of song,
perches above him, clasping the branch
with perfect, silver-clawed toes.
This tiny songbird surely
is too sweet to be from invention's hands,
wasn't created this wild from his clay.
It perches on one finger outstretched
and calls for beauty to live and not flee.
The creator speaks softly, rustles the leaves.
"You were right all along.
I give you the world, yellow singbird,
for I couldn't have written your song."
