for what it's worth:

i moved my blog to www.littlebirdred.blogspot.com 

puzzled and running as always, I forgot to inform... most. 

!! 

may those who love us, love us.

moving chaos: cardboard tents/key exchange/cooking for sarah: you can cook?!/tears/fears/grateful goodbyes & hesitant hellos.

more later, but a post to say i'm alive, alive and well in north-west oakland, california.

the one photograph i've taken thus far! mural project outside my building.

sarah & me & sam & the prius.

icanread

oakoakoakoakland.

...as small as a world and as large as alone,

thursday: dave jones & oc fair (cotton candy heart)

cassie's post from yesterday.

Today my older sister described a moment in which she knew: It is time to go. And I knew exactly what she meant. And then I starting thinking…that feeling. That IT IS TIME TO GO feeling. That is in our blood.

Cheesy but true: I envision sometimes- 100 years ago- some sparkly eyed McIntosh or Walsh man woke up in a small grey cabin on a big green shore, he read the newspaper, suddenly felt the full weight of the pending war and knew: it is time to go. Everyone thought he was crazy. He got on a boat.

Fifty years later in Canada: our frugal, tough as nails in work/love grandmother, she looked at her abusive husband circling the pond with another woman again , looked back at her tiny blonde children, and knew: it is time to go. Everyone thought she was crazy. She got a divorce.

Twenty years later in Providence: our father played his final hockey game and graduated from Brown, everyone said- join a sports team bobby- get a desk job bobby! And he looked at Jenn, and at the same small town where he grew up and the same game that had brought him so much, and he knew: it is time to go. Everyone thought he was crazy. And he drove south.

And now something inside of us strikes us suddenly, strongly, irrefutably, and we just know: IT IS TIME TO GO. And everyone thinks we are crazy, and maybe we are, but hey- craziness channeled the right way means extraordinary---- so we will marry the wild emotional egos of our grandfathers with the grounded, calculated ambitions of our grandmothers to show that.......high risks mean high returns- even the financial analysts can't deny that one.

So Congratulations- my sister is realizing the dreams of our ancestors.....! She is, yet again!, a wonderful inspiration to me and many others.

::::::

written by my sister, cassie.

milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were,

:::: the only representative of today photo available::::

wednesday: popping advertisements & cassie's jaw dropper post.

... so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,

tuesday: sister-love & fellow-love

.... went down to the beach to play one day,

monday: beach-party & a party-party

no work no problems.

skipping town in five days!

friday night:

Letter January 1998

I am not acquainted with anyone
there, if they spoke to me
I would not know what to do.
But so far nobody has, I know
I certainly wouldn't.
I don't participate, I'm not allowed;
I just listen, and every morning
have a moment of such happiness, I breathe
and breathe until the terror returns. About the time
when they are supposed to greet one another
two people actually look into each other's eyes
and hold hands a moment, but
the church is so big and the few who are there
are seated far apart. So this presents no real problem.
I keep my eyes fixed on the great naked corpse, the vertical
corpse
who is said to be love
and who spoke the world
into being, before coming here
to be tortured and executed by it.
I don't know what I am doing there. I do
notice the more I lose touch
with what I previously saw as my life
the more real my spot in the dark winter pew becomes--
it is infinite. What we experience
as space, the sky
that is, the sun, the stars
is intimate and rather small by comparison.
When I step outside the ugliness is so shattering
it has become dear to me, like a retarded child,
precious to me. If only I could tell someone.
The humiliation I go through
when I think of my past
can only be described as grace.
We are created by being destroyed.

Franz Wright

my first line.

taken somewhere between the pacific ocean and the salton sea.

, another.

advertising?

probably won't choose it as my focus.
really like this ad though-

ciao, cassandra.

Sent at 11:05 AM on Wednesday
Cassandra:

Cassandra by Robinson Jeffers

The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white fingers
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter, Cassandra,
Whether the people believe
Your bitter fountain? Truly men hate the truth, they'd liefer
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion—
Vendors and political men
Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for kind
Wisdom. Poor bitch be wise.
No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to men
And gods disgusting—you and I, Cassandra

Sent at 11:14 AM on Wednesday
me: hahahahahah

::::

photostream

::::

joy thigpen

july.

source

salton sea.

25% higher salinity than the ocean.

last free place.

slab city.

location: slab city
temp: 120
4 hours each way, 8 hours total.

today: salvation mountain.

leonard knight told me love & peace will rain down hard.
i think rain sounds the same as applause-
pressing my ear to mr. knight's seashell,
i hope, i hope, i hope.

eternal optimist

I say: Dad I have to get a mouth guard because I grind my teeth at night.
Father says:
funniest thing I've heard all day.

if you are focused on all that you want, how can you enjoy all that you have? lao tzu

(not my assemblage but lovely)

from coco + kelley

haaa

poking fun at the sartorialist
from refinery 29

before I leave southern california, a list.

1. salvation mountain.
2. salton sea/slab city
3. san diego.
4. pacific group.
5. oc fair.

perks of being a boo.

after three and a half years this is what our conversation has come to!

remember this book?

i can read

getting close to leaving,

::::

live in a home not a place,
more ideas, too many ideas.

wake up, robin.

source

can't jostle myself out of dreamland.

why my sister is my sister:

good good monday

we're all in this together.

(that's how strong my love is)

two weeks left of work (10 days).

design crush

put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard (anne sexton).

iamblessed

reminds me of uncle pat.
i guess he made one as a boy,
it collects dust in money & walshie's house -

a very small project,
fossilized into artifact,
to be found by a cassie, a jackie, a robin.

It's the way you don't care about me that makes me care about you.

source

loving the heist series.

both the graphics & the music,
from Brian Michael Gossett.

Lonely Lake.

It was the name given it on our hiking map. Intrigued,
we followed a narrow, rising trail flecked with autumn,
aspen leaves beneath our feet, young trees leaning across
as if to guard the integrity of loneliness. At the end,
we found the lake, small jewel shining in space, not
obviously frequented, although there was a rickety
dock and on it, a battered rowboat and dented canoe.
No paddles. We sat, one in rowboat, one in canoe,
the loneliness of the lake pared down to bare essentials—
shore lined with thick, dark pine, intense and cloudless sky,
sun flaring on water's changing surface. A hawk dipped
down to startle the peace while two ducks rode the ripples
unperturbed. Stunned by beauty, we reached across—
boat to canoe, canoe to boat—to touch hands,
our own lonely selves connecting as lightly and effortlessly
as the dragonfly wing that earlier brushed against my face.

Joyce Kennedy.

! switching back to robinmcintosh.blogspot.com for good.

don't like the domain name thing, going back to the default tomorrow.

east bay or bust

move in august 1st!
more on my flickr

happy fourth.

roading.

source

driving up to san francisco this weekend,
after my begging and groveling omar decided to join me -
t&ds old style.

oh happy canada day.

breakfast on the raft,
lake of bays, ontario.

:: the mythical woman keeps watch ::

new space in sf (second scheme)

crisp white
robin's egg blue
ra ra red
transparency
unslammable door

theresa andersson.

a little ! for the morning

snoozedthroughmyalarm&

*source

no time for breakfast.

mondaymondaymondaymonday.

also, a fun thing to look at as I consider getting a new tattoo:
WTF were they thinking.

paint(ing) the town red.

birthday,
girl friends,
making eyes,
hot, hot office,
guy friends,
carmeli,
fashion district,
hollywood,
writing,
reading/sleep.

endweek.

sara morishige williams
via Oh Joy!

partial reunion this sunday.

one sixth of the herd is visiting!
she is the second little one on the left.
she is stopping by to see Jackie and I on her way to fiji (so jealous).

back story

cassie read me this poem once.

this person can do amazing things with paper.

out of all the sayings, this one is my favorite.
first person to name the poem gets an air kiss from california.

imagining my new space in san francisco.

white
baby blues
patterns
hardwood floors
mosaic tile (dreaming, dreaming)

various sources, including: decor8 & home sweet home & others I can't remember (sorry!)

bob & i.

15 years old, Like a Rolling Stone: my lonely Florida bedroom- the next morning I was crying at the breakfast table and Maija, my best friend, put her thin arms around me.

16 years old, Hurricane: headed to the beach in Evan's mustang convertible. I was home for one day between Duke writing course and Canada. Everything: fleeting.

17 years old, Crazy Love*: dancing in the wet Spanish street with Judy and Melanie.

18 years old, Don't Think Twice, It's Alright: cooling my feet in the columbia river in oregon, talking about what college would be like with Maryl.

18 years old, walk of shame in the early AM through the Michigan diag, Mr. Tambourine Man lifting the ends of my mouth.

18 years old, Subterranean Homesick Blues at the Debs coop and falling in love with a boy who owned no things. Drinking forties and watching Don't Look Back.

19 years old, sinking in a clawfoot tub in Paris, holding my breath and pushing my head under, Lay Lady Lay playing on the stereo.

20 years old, sprawled on the floor of Evan's beach house, listening to Just Like a Woman while he painted a tidal wave on the living room wall.

21 years old, in Santiago, listening to It Ain't Me Babe and thinking: I agree, I agree.

23 years old, The Man in Me: Pete singing to me lightly, in his low, steady voice. Me trying to memorize how his body felt against mine.

24 years old, Girl From the North Country, me: missing someone.

*a version w/him, van morrison

deconstructing a girl talk song.

30 seconds of What It’s All About reveals 35 sources.
via Wired.

jackie blow it up on girl talk.

cat's craddle.

i used to play cats cradle constantly. i would start with cats cradle and end up at jacob's ladder, stopping by french underpants and twin stars along the way.

i can not wait to attend art school and be inspired by my classmates.

source

god help the girl.

compare & contrast.

fall 2005.

graduation, spring 2009.