moments.

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I’ve been collecting moments throughout this dear little career of mine. Writing them down, sharing in this space, keeping them safe here where I can return to them when they are needed. Last Saturday night amidst multiple mediums of fire and water, I scooped up a pretty powerful one. It’s past my bedtime, but I’ve got to get this out, down, locked away here in my safe space…

At 8:14 I crouch behind the basin stage. In full red unitard and crimson pointe shoes, it would be tough to hide me even without the hundreds of fiery crystals and plumed feathers crowning my head. Our elliptical audience catches my heart beats then tosses them up like sparks spit from blaze, left to scatter down wildly into the water below.

At 8:20 the performance begins. At 8:24 the first torches are lit. At 8:27 it starts to rain.

Then comes my cue. Stravinsky’s Firebird is reaching its swell, behind thin black capes I make my way to center stage. I enter the huddle of students, worriedly whispering, The stage is so wet! Be careful Miss Kirsten! and as the horns exhaust I am hoisted up from the group.

The music takes a sharp breath in while the audience applauds. Slowly in cadence with the petering cheers, I feel wet ground replaced beneath me and I stare boldly into the crowd. A bassoon guides my sanguine step forward, carefully onto pointe and then downstage. Red feet are less timid than mine. Looking through the layer of thin black smoke and metallic raindrops between us, I finally break gaze with the crowd to twitch my chin down with the quick recoil of my wings.

Oboes lead me through my trance before the flames assemble and the horns creep up again. We board the boat and push into the river as the finale builds. I peak. On a platform in the center of this wobbling wooden vessel, I can feel the warmth of four huge torches surrounding me. I stand in a deep lunge, never feeling more balanced and unstable. Stravinsky’s creation lets out its largest blast. I peek. Up into the weeping night sky, bending back toward flapping wings. It’s then the crowd’s cheers fall silent and I’m wrapped up in my moment. Under water, over water, through fire and cloaked in it, I cry.

This perfect, strange, magical moment, between PVD and me.

 

photo by John A. Simonetti.

bucket list and a birthday

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It’s been a strange few days, so here are some photos of blue skies and books.  My mom had a few Providence places to cross off of her bucket list, so we (very spontaneously) strolled through the gorgeous athenaeum and the quiet Arcade together.  We talked architecture, restoration, politics and love.  We walked Westminster and Benefit, bought vintage sweaters, picked up fallen leaves, and picked out East Side homes around the Boulevard. November is weaving its golden ways and once again I’m hypnotized.

Speaking of my lovely mother, today is her birthday!  This wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t wish her a very happy day here. xoxo!

all the leaves are brown

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Ah, autumn.  This weekend felt short, yet decidedly fall.

There was a cousin visit, complete with brunch, a stroll through Swan Point and heavy and happy life discussions.

There was tea times three and lots more walking, leaf rustling, west side mansion shopping, and poster hunting.  There were Bucks & Dunnies, Ducks & Bunnies, pumpkin peeping, late night cookie baking (have you ever made just one chocolate chip cookie?) and more “life discussing”.

In a few hours it’s toes first back into ballet, but for now, I’m savoring the warm fuzzies of this photo diary.

bike n brunch

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Something about us on bikes just feels right.

One of first dates was spent behind the handlebars, racing down a bus tunnel with bellies full of froyo.  We biked our way through Vernon to Giverny, up to Monet’s gardens and back again.  We pedaled along train tracks to a rusty old bridge in East Providence, and crossed a bridge over the Seine to meet a whirring train headed for Paris.

Of course, if we’re not biking, please find us brunching.  Oh, pretty please.

Savory crêpes, sweet pancakes, miso fettuccini, we’ve brunched it all.  No discrimination.  Many a pilgrimmage in Paris led to golden eggs and spicy avocado toast.

So a Monday dedicated to biking from Barrington to Bristol for brunch?  Bliss.

hello october

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This weekend was a “kirsten weekend”- that is, I was sickish and sore and in the presence of world’s best beanfriend and thereby granted full control over activities.  My picks…

sushi + red wine + couch + this romantic drama

pumpkin blueberry pancakes + tea + couch + fleet foxes

pvdonuts + more tea + neutaconkanut hill hike + an old bridge friend

homemade portuguese soup + roasted autumn fruits + this romantic drama

Sometimes I enjoy being a walking cliché.  And sometimes I wonder how we fit so much into half of a weekend.  Welcome, October.  I like you so far.

fine

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What a fine, fine weekend.

We had Nick’s, we shared old bay popcorn, we watched indie films, we made cornmeal blueberry pancakes.  We shared space, we adopted cacti, we antiqued.  We put a new spin on an old school game, we napped, we laughed.  We spoke easy twice, we donned a red fez.  We crafted in the sanctuary, we admired the Pearl, made a new bridge friend, we visited an old one.  We ate pears and pico and peanut butter.  We hoofed it downtown, we got lost in the watery fires, we hunted wine, we met friendly faces.  We invaded Brown, we limboed lower, we sipped Del’s, we climbed a roof.  We sat in ghostly study halls discussing the miracle of childbirth.  We rubbed tired eyes.  We held hands.  We walked home.

A most very fine weekend, indeed.

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goodbye, sweet june

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June began with a wedding and ended with a window.  The weeks between brought sunshine, studying and sugar.  Most days were dominated by a study of the social history of Providence as chronicled in architecture (one of the best college courses I’ve taken thus far) and twirling about with Free People.  In the sugar department the aforementioned gourmet donuts via new kids on the block, pvdonuts, do indeed taste every bit as good as they look.  You can’t call yourself a pvd kid until you’ve tried one, and they are well worth the wait.  So go get ’em, guys.

In travel news, it seems Watch Hill always calls us without warning.  But I’m not complaining; our spontaneous trips to Westerly always yield good conversation and a refreshing shift in perspective.  Together we leave with a deeper understanding of each other, the kind only an empty beach, popcorn, and pinot grigio can invoke.  And of course, Olympia Tea Room never disappoints- sometimes Marcia even offers free cake…

 

 

cutesy couple photo by Michael Collins.