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Julia Klatt Singer
Goodreads Author
Born
in Chicago, The United States
Website
Genre
Member Since
November 2013
For my father, on his birthday
If I had to give him a season, a weather,
he’d be Fall, the harvest moon (the tractor,
the way its light traveled the field, its veil of dust)
the crunch of gravel, of twigs, of bones.
He’d be the thicket
the grouse hides in, the scent of burning
leaves, the shroud of night, the path
smoke takes, the way a voice can lead you
closer, than you’ve ever been
every kind of gray; dove and ash
charcoal and c Read more of this blog post »
he’d be Fall, the harvest moon (the tractor,
the way its light traveled the field, its veil of dust)
the crunch of gravel, of twigs, of bones.
He’d be the thicket
the grouse hides in, the scent of burning
leaves, the shroud of night, the path
smoke takes, the way a voice can lead you
closer, than you’ve ever been
every kind of gray; dove and ash
charcoal and c Read more of this blog post »
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A Tangled Path to Heaven
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published
2013
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Twelve Branches: Stories from St. Paul
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published
2003
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Edward Hopper's Nighthawks; a conversation
by
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published
2008
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Untranslatable
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published
2015
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Untranslatable
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“Tsundoku
(Japanese) Buying books and not reading them; letting books pile up on shelves or floors or nightstands.
My parents used to joke about making furniture out of them; instead of being coffee table books, they could be the coffee table. Ditto on nightstands, counters, roofs. When we were kids, my brother and I, teased about always reading, built a wall. Right through the middle of the neighborhood, protected ourselves with fiction and with facts. I loved the encyclopedias best; the weight of them, how my grandmother made me walk with one on my head to practice being a lady. It wasn’t until college that I built a grand stairway out of them; their glossy blue jackets looked like marble in the moonlight. I climbed it, to the top of the wall. Peering over, I found you, on the other side, alone in your bed, asleep. That was the first time you dreamed me. In your dream, you told me not to jump. But to be patient. (We were young then, it would be years before we’d meet) and then this morning, I found you in my bedroom. In your hands, How to Rope and Tie a Steer, a mug of coffee, a piece of slightly burned toast. I took The Sun Also Rises from the wall, made the first window into your heart.”
― Untranslatable
(Japanese) Buying books and not reading them; letting books pile up on shelves or floors or nightstands.
My parents used to joke about making furniture out of them; instead of being coffee table books, they could be the coffee table. Ditto on nightstands, counters, roofs. When we were kids, my brother and I, teased about always reading, built a wall. Right through the middle of the neighborhood, protected ourselves with fiction and with facts. I loved the encyclopedias best; the weight of them, how my grandmother made me walk with one on my head to practice being a lady. It wasn’t until college that I built a grand stairway out of them; their glossy blue jackets looked like marble in the moonlight. I climbed it, to the top of the wall. Peering over, I found you, on the other side, alone in your bed, asleep. That was the first time you dreamed me. In your dream, you told me not to jump. But to be patient. (We were young then, it would be years before we’d meet) and then this morning, I found you in my bedroom. In your hands, How to Rope and Tie a Steer, a mug of coffee, a piece of slightly burned toast. I took The Sun Also Rises from the wall, made the first window into your heart.”
― Untranslatable
