Devonne Brown

athesaurus.com

…breathe deeply and often…

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  • The Odd

    Sometimes, the odd is a catalyst for transcendence. Incessant noise and chatter become too much in everyday life and I want to lash out and run into a meadow of wildflowers and ferns, seek shelter in an old shed and call it a day. Call it a life.  The closer I get to reality, the Read more

  • Relaxation Prison

    One could call my home a relaxation prison. I don’t go anywhere or do anything of consequence to anyone but me. I plant and water flowers and watch them flourish along forest paths. I write in solitude. I prepare and eat my meals in solitude. I do everything alone. My warden, Norris, demands his cream. Read more

  • Hurricane

    My heart will always be in the green of Appalachian small towns. The first house I remember was a one room school house converted into a four room house with a porch, and an outhouse out back. I have a picture of my sister and I playing in its backyard in front of the outhouse Read more

  • In the Midnight Hour

    In the midnight hour, when no one else is around or listening, the story I tell myself is that I didn’t fall off the turnip train yesterday. That the voice of Linda Ronstadt still rings true in my heart and head. I’m still the woman I was forty years ago even though I have silver Read more

  • Long ago

    I’m still not used to the Fourth of July without the indignity of the sumptuous feasts my mother concocted on her birthday. They had everything but bursting fireworks against the black sky. They weren’t necessary for her celebrations. Everyone was too tired for them by dark anyway. The family would have had to replenish its Read more

  • Lasagne Night

    “Do you remember when we had dinner in that old house in the woods on the farm?” Ruby asked as she took the pan of lasagne out of the oven.  Alan smiled. “Yeah, you wore your prom dress and I wore my sport coat. Mom made lasagne for us. We took it to that little Read more

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  • Van Gogh Epiphany

    When you start reading to your kids, you do it because you want them to learn to read. Then this happens. My first born read a  passage from a book about Vincent Van Gogh having a “cafe moment,” when Van Gogh’s experience, memory, talent, time, and place all converged into one glorious period of creativity…

    devonne@athesaurus.com