The Hours Before Sun

The Quinns are early risers.

Just shy of 5:30 am, my mother cheerfully disbanded the sleepover JQ and I began last night, the slumber that began (as all great slumbers should) with “Murder, She Wrote” on sleeptimer. Coffee brewed, the lights on the Christmas tree were turned on, the familiar local accents of the morning TV news greeted us. Dad joined us and we discussed student loan debt, giggled at the segment about the bobcat being released back into the wild, sighed sadly at the footage of it waking up in the forest, tranquilized.

Because we are Polish (in whole or in part, depending), we have traditionally celebrated Christmas Eve as sort of the main event. However, this has become a rough estimate as years have gone by and our merriment has grown and we have become committed to more and more parties. 2012 is the year of many Christmases: today we will celebrate an early Christmas Eve, the day my parents host a house full of friends and Burak family for a long lunch of perhaps one million courses, all of them fish, and presents dispersed in increments.

But most importantly, do you know what else today is? It is the birthday of Partysteamer Gongaprincess. Baby, I woke to see your dawn.



RIP Sebring.



For you: did you know that Sylvia Plath, the patron saint of sad girls, was also an accomplished visual artist?





You’re going to die when you see what I found for you. Your mouth will open clean as a cat’s.


About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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One Response to The Hours Before Sun

  1. May your beets be plentiful in this holiday season

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