tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-290724832024-03-07T02:53:47.314-06:00Chachi Loves VinylChachi Loves Vinyl is a music geek collection. It is born of road trips across the midwest and through the south. It is born of a musty coat closet full of forgotten records. It is born of dance parties in living rooms, dorm rooms, and bedrooms. It comes from thrift stores and record stores, friends' collections, live shows, and loveworn compilations.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.comBlogger188125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-63709078685384560842017-09-14T23:58:00.003-05:002017-09-14T23:58:46.921-05:00When I close my eyes and listen, really listen to intricacies of the falling notes - I can see, I can smell warmish days walking the back hall of my father's office, bounding steps down a slight hollow/hallowed incline.<br />
<br />
I can hear this winding story play in the courtyard outside, full of flowers. I can hold his hand in mine.
I can travel through time to see it all again.<br />
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I had thirty years in my pocket to spend. I have no time left. Those remaining days wasted in fear, clawing for understanding that took so long to find. Captive.<br />
<br />
But closing my eyes today, he is there. Sitting in his small office lined with shelves, pictures by the Impressionists crowding his wall, stained glass, blank spaces and his warm eyes. To hear his voice again I would give anything. I would give anything.<br />
<br />
Last summer, I walked the streets of that small town. I met souls that he touched. I saw remnants of his gifts. He was still there in traces. I could almost hear him. It might, it should have been...so much more.<br />
<br />
His home away from home as a child, then our home, for which he bartered - fertile farm land for warm memories and a chandelier - had now decayed in our absence.<br />
<br />
We had fled. My family fled this land so long burned in to our blood. The life from that house, it's remaining heart had fled with us.<br />
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I close my eyes and can see his face. That dear face, gone from this earth, three years ago. Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-81085514390266560102015-11-04T12:16:00.000-06:002015-11-04T12:16:52.457-06:00Your name now lies under a tower of letters, a dream and fifteen days to say return. You said less than nothing. Your light eyes under hooded lids, your typed word an empty bit of electric ink, your silence a lazy sinking shy note. You have left it all behind. All of the loud brilliance. All of the heartfilled eccentricities. In boxes. In rooms. In darkness.
<iframe style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1887548216/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/track=2133375865/transparent=true/" seamless><a href="http://ings.bandcamp.com/album/dog-physics-ep">Dog Physics EP by ings</a></iframe>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-46705804368633970232013-10-01T14:08:00.002-05:002013-10-01T14:08:28.932-05:00nobody's here<iframe width="100%" height="166" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F74225827&secret_token=s-M1yrk"></iframe>
I recall a sliver of a moment on a darkened road. You are by my side. You are quiet, hands swinging as we walk, breathing in the cold, puffs floating above. My fingers dig at frayed strings in the pockets of my jeans. I cannot speak. I walk. We step in time. Why do you? Why do you stay? I turn my head, surveying the moonlit edges of flat fields and I imagine that you stop short and turn to disappear into the night. I would flow forth, against winds and winter, against the silence, steps no longer amplified by your echoing gait.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-17998166626049417092013-08-23T07:19:00.002-05:002013-08-23T09:07:34.552-05:00collaboration/:\fabulation<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/D-0dEg6AAow" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
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Hardwood floors and flimsy fabric. I lie here so long, one leg tucked under the other, that when I stretch and turn and lean to touch a foot to the ground there is nothing. And I have not the courage to leave. What is this day, the weight of it, the magenta hue? The shivering starkness, the realization that there is nothing else.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-34759520355335584892013-08-20T08:30:00.002-05:002013-08-20T08:31:32.704-05:00<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/68a65lCY49Q" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-67581731722834938782012-10-13T18:59:00.001-05:002012-10-13T19:15:11.087-05:00<iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/T_TWC-gc-uo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<a href="http://www.bonaparte.cc">Bonaparte</a>
<br>
1.
Turning.
2.
Tumbling.
3.
Driving.
Stop.
Fumbling.
Falsify.
The circling.
Fake.
Circling back.
Fantastic.
Oh.
Did you know?
Did you?
Once more.
More.
And more.
More.
Gripping.
Silence.
Circling.
Stop.
I stop.
I stop.
Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-86941770225028763222012-05-06T18:02:00.002-05:002012-05-06T18:02:18.936-05:00The rooms were stacked one upon the other. The rooms? Rather the frames, the skeletons of rooms sitting on wooden pallets along the road. Highway 40. Bluff City. This patch of growth in the prairie. Below the bluff the fields stretched for miles, flying, leaping across small rivers and over sad decaying structures. The rooms, the frames, were stacked upon one another sitting in the middle of this tiny village, across from the house with the white picket fence and the sealed attic room. I was told that they were hotel rooms left over from a tornado. And every time we drove past them I could see the swirling air and hear the screeching train of storm pulling them apart. These thoughts were frightening and comforting at the same time. If this sort of horror happened to something so close by it would never happen to me. Yet it seemed that every spring and autumn, as the weather so drastically changed, we spent at least one evening sitting at a card table in our candle illumined basement listening to the battery operated radio. In that span of time, while waiting for the all clear, I imagined those shells of metal waiting to be swept away once more.<br />
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<a href="http://www.cocteautwins.com/">http://www.cocteautwins.com/</a>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-88960700485915564792011-08-20T18:32:00.001-05:002011-08-20T18:52:40.187-05:00Neighboring Sparrow<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/9099052?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/groups/22388/videos/9099052">ASTW Presents: Four In The Wild | Ruby Kato Attwood | Sparrow</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/astorytoldwell">A Story Told Well</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br />
You were two, three, four steps in front of me. I could not stop staring at the backsides of your shoes, peaking out from the your frayed and darkened pant hem. I could not stop staring at your bobbing, careless gait. We trod, stumbling, stamping, tramping through small hills and valleys, through the thick trees on the backside of the creek, balancing on the banks, tiptoeing around darkened holes in the ground, jumping across fragmented portions where the rain had eaten away at muddy bliss. The roots were beginning to show. The undersides of the overgrown walls which lined this stream were stacked with stones and sediment. We'd wade into pools calf deep, rolled up jeans, feet steadfast in soil, toes wiggling and searching in the ancient, lovely, squishy sod.<br />
<br />
Where was I? <br />
<br />
<br />
Your shoes sat on the bank at this point. Socks rolled up, shoved in and forgotten. We took large sticks and made pictures in the sand. We skipped back and forth between flat rocks protruding between banks and stepped back into the water once more, proud of our Summer day balancing act.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-88000507519143203042011-05-03T15:59:00.001-05:002014-03-14T10:58:58.334-05:00Jordache JumpDear Dreary Monday,<br />
<br />
I spin around in my chair. I cross my ankles and close my eyes. I try to imagine a periwinkle sky or the bright spectre of a Spring sunrise. <br />
<br />
My headphones have become a headband, a musical, whimsical, and stylish work accessory. <br />
<br />
SECRET: They are a portal. <br />
<br />
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When I walk down the hall, my heels twist out in a little dance. The taupe walls pulsate and the fluorescent lights flex and fumble along to the beat. <br />
<br />
--------<br />
<br />
<a href="http://cstrecords.com/patjordache/"><strong>Pat Jordache</strong></a> (whom James refers to as a drunk Canadian version of New Order. I would say more Orange Juice than New Order, but it's all relative...and it's all <strong>awesome</strong>.) has a new record (Future Songs) out on <a href="http://cstrecords.com/">Constellation</a>. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://vimeo.com/19317436">Pat Jordache - Phantom Limb</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/phoof">philip a karneef</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-23165114037328629162011-04-20T10:18:00.000-05:002011-04-20T10:18:22.262-05:00CoverThe morning starts as if a dream, with downed trees and misty silence.<br />
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Thoreau and I tramp down uneven cement and stone. We turn through brambles and glide over patches of green. <br />
<br />
What is this day? Where did everyone hide during the storm? I spent late last night pacing the floor in my pajamas and peering out the window, watching the wind and rain sprint and then gust/gush down Jefferson Avenue. I waited for the end of the siren's piercing wail. I would not call this fearless moment. James checked the weather online and when the siren did stop, we calmed Thoreau and then slipped back into bed. As I dropped into slumber, I could hear the ever-fading voice of James telling me where one should go in case of a tornado. I dreamt of water pouring through a cracked window and the dark, musty corner of the basement of my childhood home. We sat at a card table with an emergency radio, playing cards by candlelight.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-24211829965402888942011-04-19T15:39:00.002-05:002011-06-02T08:54:07.722-05:00intention<iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/FcNUFOlynPI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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For this small space in time, sitting, ankles crossed and toes curled, I feel the weight of those pints and cigarettes, that shoddy conversation, my fake smile. <br />
<br />
The elastic curve of my forehead draws up and my breath skims and shakes. Why do I even try to pretend? What brings this flourescent light to my eyes? What blocks out each corresponding memory?Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-22992855498009757092011-03-05T17:00:00.002-06:002011-06-02T09:03:23.108-05:00people is place<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rVl3jgnb_UY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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Your thin lipped, toothy smile, surrounded by grizzled, tan pallor. Your Jeans, too short, hanging loosely around your minuscule frame. Your spindly fingers grasping the bar, cutting elbows jutting behind you. Bottles line the wall. Posters blanket the ceiling. We are enveloped in the smoke stale air. The fan turns and I am alone. This darkness, this dirty dreary edgy hole. No window. Light floods from the small stage. Light lingers around the bar. Light peeks from the top of the soundboard. Stacks of chairs line one wall, the wall covered in posters and shimmering spectres of the past, thousands of staples. Thousands. <br />
<br />
I once had a dream that I was compelled to remove those staples one by one. Hours of bloodied knuckles and splintered wood rewarded with a tetanus shot and a cold Budweiser. As I drained the last drop from the bottle, the walls of the bar started to crack and then crumble. Each in turn fell backward...leaving only the roof above us and beyond it, the starry sky brilliant.<br />
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<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zafwnCzuO9M" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-66982266718500840962010-09-01T20:38:00.000-05:002010-09-01T18:52:30.736-05:00Would you?Swing, swing, skip, step into the dusk. <br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8cTrQGOGT_g?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8cTrQGOGT_g?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-28191923253887767302010-07-26T23:14:00.003-05:002011-03-05T17:03:46.390-06:00no new enhancementsbut so much more. I've not posted much over the past two years. Sporadic strange descriptions of cloudy, drowsy days, a few favorite videos, mentions of local activities, small bits of news. I plan to write more, Dear Hearts, for this small gathering of friends. No expectations. Just truth through the dusty frames. Just moments of here and there. Some music. Some memories. A few small hopes. And many plans. <br />
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<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5NTQU_7RJuA&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5NTQU_7RJuA&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-16245644816028426832010-06-22T20:58:00.004-05:002010-07-13T22:39:33.077-05:0010I find myself surrounded by wrinkled, sad laundry and warm air and evening light. I am serenaded by Mark Kozelek's ACDC covers and the whirring hum of our new bronze toned vintage-looking oscillating fan. What is this time? What is the time? And where are you? Days and hours and minutes away, in a solemn room, in a neighboring country. <br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bQVfw3yIU6k&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bQVfw3yIU6k&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-36530829960898030052010-05-01T16:51:00.005-05:002010-05-01T17:04:04.770-05:00watch signs. keep right.a lovely and odd bicycle safety video featuring the music of Jon Brion.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/IbxfykEw924&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/IbxfykEw924&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-12895283489153681632010-04-06T10:38:00.007-05:002010-04-06T11:03:26.438-05:00Impressions of the PastAbsolutely gorgeous video directed by photographer Tim Lytvinenko<br /><br />Megafaun "Impressions of the Past"<br />Directed by: Tim Lytvinenko - <a href="http://luceoimages.com">http://luceoimages.com</a><br /><br /><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7293049&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7293049&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/7293049">Megafaun - Impressions of the Past</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/hometapes">Hometapes</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><a href="http://home-tapes.com/Hometapes/HT029.html">Learn more about Megafaun</a><br /><a href="http://home-tapes.com/Hometapes/HAUS_HT029.html"><br />Buy "Gather, Form & Fly" on 2xLP or CD</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/saraleah/3960603138/" title="Leah, Lil Leah, and the guys from Megafan by SaraLeah, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2558/3960603138_ecd674e5d2_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="Leah, Lil Leah, and the guys from Megafan" /></a><br /><br />My friend Leah and her Lil Leah puppet on her birthday with the boys from Megafaun at the Bottletree in Birmingham, Alabama. I love this picture. It's magic.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-240044871247268822010-03-17T00:32:00.010-05:002010-03-23T18:11:56.841-05:00brookwood2004 - Charla and Tom stood at the end of my hospital bed. I felt rather tired and under accessorized. A day of steroids can do this to a girl. The white patterned cotton gown and drab bedclothes. The plain striped walls and pale pictures. The exhausted looking television in the corner of my vision. Tom and Charla appraised the damaged/damage and smiled. They knew that I would eventually be okay, no matter what. It had been quite a scare, indeed. I would make it. I would find my way. Tom handed me a copy of Modest Mouse's newest record. And as he and Charla said their good byes and departed, I slipped the cd into my discman and reclined.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/e1UzPkkuOtU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/e1UzPkkuOtU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">...everyone's a building burning<br />with no one to put the fire out<br />standing at the window looking out<br />waiting for time to burn us down<br />everyone's an ocean drowning<br />with no one really to show how<br />they might get a little better air<br />tf they turned themselves into a cloud </span><br /><br />from <span style="font-style:italic;">blame it on the tetons</span> by <a href="http://www.modestmousemusic.com/">modest mouse</a>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-18437952614727718092010-03-03T16:54:00.000-06:002014-03-14T09:38:53.398-05:00golden mouthed momentsI didn't expect it to be like this. Not now. Not during my first quarter back at school. Not in the midst of huge promising projects at work. Not now. But with the stress of it all came this, burning and bending, bashing in all plans. <br /><br /><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9882354&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9882354&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/9882354">FOALS // SPANISH SAHARA</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user1118144">dave ma</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br /><br />I am on the tenth day of my MS relaps-a-cation. I've started a second round of steroids. With my trusty aluminum cane and a pair of padded slippers, I've overcome biting foot pain and an unbalanced gait to get from room to room. And the rest of the time...I lie here on the futon and wait. I rest. And hour after hour passes by. The light creeps up and down the windowsill. The snow keeps melting on the lawn, all traces of winter storms disappearing. And slowly, in their own achingly quiet way, my symptoms have started to melt away as well. Yes. I know it's going to take some time. Even so, I can feel strength returning and the smile returning to my face. Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-61716335676807778022010-02-13T18:49:00.005-06:002010-02-13T19:47:46.481-06:00respiteI, in my whale pajamas and bedhead braids, am suddenly aware. <br />It's the kidney-bean-shaped, hand-with-splayed-fingers sized numbness just to the looking-down left of my belly button and the coldness of the hardwood floors. The floor is damp with melted snow. I hold my cup and saucer high, sauntering from kitchen through the dark bedroom and into my Saturday. I set down my coffee and crawl back into bed, tucking my arms and shoulders under the edge of the comforter. My bare feet wallow in the tuck of sheets at the foot of the bed.<br /><br />Where are you going, my Love? What are you doing? Folding back pages and trying not to bend the spines.<br /><br />I am warm.<br /> <br />Where are you again? Bent over desk, pulling on your beard thoughtfully. You close your brown eyes and open them again to scan and comprehend the words on the printed page before you. You inhale, catching the heated air into your brown, battered lungs.<br /><br />My mind is swarming and spilling into sleep.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FnkvljZsNTQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FnkvljZsNTQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-26977895509405843252010-01-17T23:19:00.005-06:002010-01-17T23:47:23.989-06:00swimYou turned your fork over with quiet grace. Crumbs traced, fell into tiny raked lines, golden. I took another sip of coffee. I turned to the window. These late nights, the pressure in my head, my left hand stained with ink, my eyes tired and stale, these late nights had to end. You smiled and tilted your head to watch our waitress ramble down the aisle. Her shoes gleamed in their own rigid, florescent loveliness. <br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/sn-Ip7HwWLE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/sn-Ip7HwWLE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-68758312193064913642009-12-22T08:01:00.004-06:002009-12-22T12:43:22.346-06:00Holiday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-smBOUk5EXiJKWIHAuH4h7ua2e3tC6ZW5ht7YcjgJ7hjSMoHa4Srot06z_Jz1KI8lKtRhNHI0zi70C1mhjPJAEqdurGteh1FSzvR_druRMagsJXfmEyBEqY5rsz_WWP6ZSeyQ/s1600-h/Ilikeyou.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-smBOUk5EXiJKWIHAuH4h7ua2e3tC6ZW5ht7YcjgJ7hjSMoHa4Srot06z_Jz1KI8lKtRhNHI0zi70C1mhjPJAEqdurGteh1FSzvR_druRMagsJXfmEyBEqY5rsz_WWP6ZSeyQ/s320/Ilikeyou.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418060407651590674" /></a><br /><br />500 hundred miles or so into tomorrow, I will turn and stretch in my car seat and look out into the darkness, scanning the horizon for that hint of light, that faded lovely glow in the distance. Birmingham. The Magic City. I will look to James and smile sleepy tears of excitement. Soon I will see our families. Soon I will hold my grandmother's hand. <br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsc1iEKYXZQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsc1iEKYXZQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://www.myspace.com/christinacourtin">Christina Courtin</a> - Rainy </strong> - <br />one of my favorite tracks <a href="http://www.saidthegramophone.com/archives/exaggerate.php">recently posted</a> on <a href="http://www.saidthegramophone.com/">Said The Gramaphone</a>.Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-5955949982199131322009-12-16T22:09:00.002-06:002009-12-16T09:14:30.588-06:00Winter 1993Sometimes, dearest, I just stop. Because I don't understand. <br /><br />Sometimes I look at my life and say...yes. All of these things. <br /><br />Sometimes I turn and look at you. <br /><br />Sometimes I remember that trailer on the edge of town. Sometimes I remember a white bench seat in an old two door, the engine humming in the chilly Winter wind. The awkward windows. The scene on the screened-in porch. Weren't they all scenes. Weren't they all waiting. Why didn't they say one thing. I was in the midst of a Midwestern Austen adaptation. Longing. Silence. Longing. Silence. Whispers. Anticipation. Silence. All in the middle of a god-damned cornfield. <br /><br />You were there, corn silk hair and gray eyes. You were there, all form and no function. You were there, hands in pockets and digging at the gravel road with the toes and heels of your shoes. I was there and I walked away, cold air burning red into my tear-stained cheeks.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vsjM25eSkEY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vsjM25eSkEY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://www.myspace.com/sharonvanetten">Sharon Van Etten</a> - <em>For You</em> from the album <em><a href="http://www.sharonvanetten.com/">Because I Was In Love</a></em></strong>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-55803878018684897112009-12-01T21:39:00.005-06:002009-12-01T22:16:43.016-06:00Pied Piper TriumphantI reached down to nervously clutch my purse. My hand furrowed down between chair and desk to find a lonely lunch bag. I caught myself and stared up at my Advisor. I had almost captured her lunch. "So..." she smiled and dragged one hand across her hair as she tapped and tapped the mouse. She turned her head to me. Her bangs stood out sideways from her head, a dangerous angle, sharp and satirical. <br /><br />"Um...I don't know. Um..." We stopped for a moment as I fumbled through the papers upon my lap. I was so ashamed of the amounts of Ds and Fs and what-have-you's on my transcripts, but so proud of the memories that they produced. Every year of incompletes, save one, stood for this lovely, terrific life I led. Every F for a series of mornings, overslept or just delinquent...from what adventures? From stuffing students into my little blue car for seemingly pointless but truly amazing day excursions to St. Louis. To the family farm. To Denver, Colorado. To defunct Utopian communities dotting the Midwest. To shows in Chicago, Atlanta, Nashville, and New Orleans. To late night rock shows at the Nick. To laying about on rainy days discussing nothing but the weather while Red House Painters beat the din that marched my heart to it's adolescent sadness My only regret is time. That I am 31 and have so much math yet to learn. <br /><br />"So? What do you think?" She had brushed her unwieldy bangs down. Her eyes peered through her slim glasses. Click. Click-click.<br /><br />"Yes. I think that's great. Those classes sound perfect."<br /><br />And with that...I became a student again. At last.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="225"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=6912147&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=ffffff&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=6912147&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=ffffff&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/6912147">Múm "Sing Along"</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/teamg">Team G</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29072483.post-70374279480814673302009-11-20T12:14:00.003-06:002009-11-20T14:13:39.019-06:00Trip the Friday Fantastic!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO8tckK5BHo4x2Xs2ahNEj03F_bdKsxsmd1wz8LKUlWfMbDeWAVl1I2vH57XVrAxQTbSIf-bNLsm3d0t1WGE9WrNc5kRC9FuvMXK-LlOV7_tBVwleh0DBY6b5J9bwqVt3-rbDU/s1600/lifeonmars.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO8tckK5BHo4x2Xs2ahNEj03F_bdKsxsmd1wz8LKUlWfMbDeWAVl1I2vH57XVrAxQTbSIf-bNLsm3d0t1WGE9WrNc5kRC9FuvMXK-LlOV7_tBVwleh0DBY6b5J9bwqVt3-rbDU/s320/lifeonmars.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406251201575333602" /></a><br /><br />-friday FANTASTIC shortmix-<br /><br />Melbourne - <a href="http://www.rsteviemoore.com/">R. Stevie Moore</a><br />No More Heroes - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W4pkNcE8nsM">The Stranglers</a><br />Andy Warhol - <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RweSvE_cHLk">David Bowie</a><br />Kay-ray-ku-ku-ko-kex - <a href="http://www.myspace.com/mumtheband">Mum</a><br />Wake - <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theantlers">The Antlers</a><br />RR vs D - <a href="http://www.myspace.com/peaofthesea">AU</a>Sara Leahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11234651901560601320noreply@blogger.com0