Writing Spaces

One of my favorite spots to sit in Mallorca while working on my novel and consulting Robert Graves, who lived part way across the island.  (Consulting his Greek Myths, that is.)




image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Cushions, Mallorca

Graves's Grave

He climbed back up and up and up the higher trail, along the olive terraces—the olive trees they graft onto wild olives, for strength; the silvered trees hoary, druidic, wise; the twisted trees like arthritic old men on their many-layered terraces of drystone.

He liked to think of Gabriel Garcia Márquez visiting Robert Graves (not just all of the movie stars) in the house Gertrude Stein suggested Graves buy on the outskirts of the village of Deià. 

And then he visited the grave.  He paid his respects at least twice a year.  Robert Graves, poeta.  He’d seek out the simple gravestone just as the light was going and the names could scarcely be made out.  Marti, Colom, Maroiag, the local families.  He’d be alone in the small walled graveyard behind the church on the hill (d’es Puig), the highest point of the village, trying to identify the source of the goat bells that carried so clearly from across the valley, somewhere among the steep stone terraces, the olive trees.  No goats that he could see; only the dead poet, his stone surrounded by white lilies.  He was always moved by the simplicity of it.  E.P.D., En Paz Descanse.

—Christie

(On Memorial Day, remembering a visit to the grave of the collector of the myths who’s been important to me in my novel that talks so much about them.  This passage from the long short-story I have still not finished about the detective in Mallorca, The Mirror.)

Writing Spaces

The perfect garden chair, in Santa Fe, perfectly placed for jotting down lazy spring dreams.






image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Snowballs, Canyon Road

Unfinished Haiku

In the wind a bride,

anchored by her husband’s hand.

A haiku, never finished, in an old notebook.

I wonder how I might have finished it?

A kite now airborne.

Or in a different mood, a kite not airborne.

Even a single letter changes everything,

depending on my leniency—or whim.

—Christie 

Writing Spaces

OmmWriter.  The new app for my new iPad.

O brave new world.

image:  OmmWriter screen

Nesting

Getting ready to leave on a long trip,

I’m conscious of being grounded by

the pale green lichen on a branch with rough bark

the smooth richness of Greek fig yogurt.

I prowl around the drugstore, looking for 
     potions, talismans. 

Black mascara, rye crisp, miniature tubes of 
     Colgate Whitening,

the momentary temptation of a nailpolish

the color of the blue against the evil eye.

(I love to travel, so it’s got nothing to do with that.)

With me I take lavender to lay among my clothes,

two British mysteries I’ll read cover to cover 
     on the planes,

stories and poems I’m working on, in a 
     maroon folder,

in case my muse deigns to take off her earbuds 
     and talk to me.

My favorite flannel nightgown with its seven 
     white buttons.

A compact quarter-pound of Peet’s French roast 
     decaf, Melita grind.

Coming home again, I must first wander 
     through the house,

turn on the heaters, microwave my purple striped 
     beanbag,

make tea in both teapots to go in the refrigerator 
     for tomorrow,

fill the bird bath, water my lime tree since it 
     looks like it hasn’t rained.

And after all these homecoming rituals, 
    start to miss being away.

—Christie