Jessica Brannen.
Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Lately: Making mobiles, asking people to draw me a piano, longing to have a garden, hibernation mode, baking a disproportionate amount of biscuits, looking up words, scrawling in notebooks, chasing whippersnappers, making lists, making collages, looking at tree branches with spring waiting in their wings, 9 am Saturday morning dance class. (tooooo early)


Listening to: The Radio Dept., New Order, LCD Soundsystem, The Drums, Max Richter, Fourtet, Krakel Spektakel (kids), The Kerplunks (kids), Fem myror är fler än fyra elefanter (kids).

Reading: Natalie Goldberg- Writing Down the Bones, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, Virginia Woolf- A Room of One's Own, Tove Jansson- Trollvinter, Solveig von Shoultz- De sju dagarna.

Watching: In The Night Garden with tired kidlets at bedtime, and a little Portlandia.

Scotch tape, play doh, book pages and freshly cut grass on top ranking smells list.

Persnickety yet easy-going?
And no more naturally austere than you are naturally vicious. (Charlotte Brontë)

Middle child.

You can make me a Mexican feast and bring me cosmos or tulips.

Bookish, journal-writin' type.

Husband from Scandinavia and 2 kidlets.

Grew up in Chezzetcook on the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, playing on the beach and in the woods. Still spend a lot of time there. You can hear roosters.

Lived in Sweden for many years and speak Swedish. Love Sweden and Finland. Visit every year.

Hollyhocks and delphiniums.

Studied art, photo, film and textiles. Have a love of all things arts and crafty. Also gardening, sewing, and writing.

Remember rolling down the hill?

Remember picking Fool's Gold out of the road with butter knives?

Remember that time we sneaked into that white abandoned house and saw a wedding dress in the closet?

Let's go swimming in the ocean.

And go thriftin'.

I can peel carrots really fast.
I'm left handed.
I wish to find secret letters or notes hidden in old walls.
I love good old-fashioned letters.
I love quilts.
I love scraps.
I make a mean pancake.
Collective nouns are funny.

Over and out.

February 27, 2012

The more it snows (tiddely pom) the more it goes (tiddley pom) the more it goes (tiddely pom) on snowing (A. A. Milne)

It’s snowing. Everyone is asleep. I’m leaving the dishes for tomorrow. It feels so different when it snows in late winter than when it snows before Christmas. Then there’s this buffer, you feel like it’s making everything cosy and picturesque. This feels more ominous somehow. No it doesn’t. It feels more peaceful. Or what is it? Neither, it feels like it’s pointing out to me that I am less comfortable. More questioning. I mean, no. That’s not it. I am perfectly comfortable but it’s like some reminder. Or there is something shaking me off balance. No, I wasn’t particularily in balance. Not shaking me off balance but reminding me that time is passing. Reminding me that I don’t have control. Do I want control? Reminding me not to stay too comfortable. Shaking me awake? Isn’t it spring that does that? What is this unease? It’s just snowing, it’s just a fact. Why complicate it?

I don’t know, I mean, I just went back and had another look and it looks good. Picturesque, and people are out walking their dogs in it and stuff. I’m over it. I like it. Not cosy, but not without magic.

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