Saturday, May 30, 2015

Gobsmacked




The ritual of placing the bottle of cannabis in a cup of warm water, Frida's eyes, the coconut oil relinquishing into the drawing up, just so, that tiny bit, 1.2 milliliters per syringe, not a murder (crows), a grist (bees), nor a rookery (albatross) or a bloat (rhinoceroses) but a group of them, nestled in a blue fertile cup, the Lone Ranger keeping guard.

I am gobsmacked by this liquid gold.

8 comments:

  1. Visual and written poetry. Elemental and visceral. Thank you.

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    1. Thank you. Coming from you, that means the world.

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  2. i am gobsmacked by your poetry, too.

    how did you arrive at the right dosage?

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    1. We tinker all the time. We have found that a small dose works better for Sophie. Lots of trail and error, though, and it's ongoing.

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  3. A very life-giving still life.
    And honestly, Elizabeth- I have a butcher block thing in the middle of my kitchen with two wicker bar stools beside it. Frida is everywhere in my kitchen and I have an arrangement of blue hydrangea just a few feet away. I am a bit gobsmacked myself at the very familiarity of this scene. Without the cannabis.

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    1. And I wished you lived next door. We'd have so much fun in our kitchens!

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  4. Lovely writing, Elizabeth. And moving. And a really beautiful photo to look at, too. And why am I not surprised that you and Mary have very similar kitchens?

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    1. Thanks, Andrea. And yes, I think Mary and I have a bit of the same thing going on with a west coast/east coast perspective.

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