to what it is, while awake

Outside it is quiet. Outside it is 5am. Encroaching winter cold calms the foliage until it is eerily still, nothing stirs; the birds aren’t even awake. Everything seems absent, abandoned, alone. My only company, year after year, from walks here and there, in my imagination and in real life, before the sun rises, always, Venus. 

She looks down, a whisper of of luminescence, a silver bauble. She winks and promises to return. Next morning, she’s there waiting again, pulling the stars and other planets across the sky; an epic, million-year-old symphony—comforting in its promise to continue, in its desire to move despite your existence. You may acknowledge it—and somehow it feels like it’s acknowledging you. 

A place you can never, will never go; a place composed of poetic stanzas and perfectly knotted paragraphs, with promises of moments that will never happen to you, to me, to us. We are always kind of alone. Our innermost hiding place is usually hibernating. It is usually cold, isolated, afraid, distant. The tundra amidst vibrancy, radiance, energy. Venus ignites this and that reminds me THAT in my pretend place where I am mostly alone, I have lived a thousand lives with a thousand pretend and real people, been on trains and trips, in different countries, planets, said different words, married different men, made movies and pornography, written novels, never grew up. 

It is more beautiful to pretend that you will do these things than try and fail. Hemingway knew it. 

 Autumn is a season of ghosts. Ghosts of nostalgia. They march in with lanterns, burning incense, transmogrified, wearing layers of decaying leaves and lace-capes made of snow and they hint to smells and promises never kept and years past that we can never reclaim. Inevitably, they grow weaker every year, unable to carry the burden of our past lives, our past autumns. The memories to be rekindled become less and less as we become more disenchanted with hope, the past and rebirth. 

The entire sequence of everything: from our collective globular, fiery beginnings, to every storm, bug, gust, hut, home, mountain, moment, kiss, tingle, tickle, sex position, person, planet, putsch, promise, rape, rapture, song, war, birth, breath, comet, quake, book, poem, death or autumn that led to our existence, here now. Every thing that had to happen so that when while walking at 5am, I was hit with a particular raindrop, that I smelled a particular shade of wet earth, that I saw and cared about that particular glowing body. That I am in my particular body. That I am here and I love your particular body. I do love your particular body.

What is love and what does it feel like? The commitments and promises we make are so intangible, so forgettable, so weak. These are all mysteries to me, overwhelming, dependable, beautiful, mysteries. They are mysteries that are worth going to sleep and waking up for, so we can dream and pretend, so that we can maybe play and smile and do something worthwhile for ourselves and someone else. Always for someone else. It is true love if it keeps you walking but maybe not feeling and then sometimes feeling (too too much). And you write something. And you feel even more than love. You are in love. With the view of the hillside farms and forests. With the animals that you care for. With the animals you’ll never meet. With the people you pretended to love. With moments that are now memories and the moments that will soon be memories. With the beginning and the end. With infinity and its promise to always be there even when you’re not.

now you can go to sleep. 

the moon

Perhaps you stared into a river.
There was somebody near you who loved you.
They were about to touch you. 

You could feel this before it happened.
Then it happened.

That is my name.
Richard Brautigan,
In Watermelon Sugar

if it gives you hope

I miss baking. It is soothing and delicious. While at school, I don't get the chance to bake and that's about the only time I know enough people to make confecting something decadent worthwhile.

(Unrelated, but I am perhaps too excited for Pad Thai, which I will consume with ferocity on Thursday.) 

Today while walking outside some wind made all the yellow leaves fly off a group of trees. I never want to live someplace without seasons. I am thankful that I get to be surrounded by Autumn right now, because it makes everything seem easier and nicer.  I am thankful for the leaves changing. The view from my window is like looking into a different universe


I said, wait-- then
dawn collapsed leaving only the moon
jellyfish rising like hot air balloons 

I see see-through dress
membrane, presence, shedding a layer 
before becoming an incandescent insect
stumbling towards a barren land of light

children walk up and down the street
waiting for you-- me, here
candy, glass, candy, your shadow
among misty birches
hiding, but pretending that you're not hiding 
looking at the light in the kitchen, watching what you're not supposed to see
your old lover, the person ignoring your calls 

grey and haunted 
if you call me I will turn around
if you want me to wait I will wait
if you give me that night
if you give me that whisper
wrapped in plastic
I'll take off the mask and eat them

wound up in the choking of a crowd
breathing in their breathing and
not able to look to either side
I look into the grey matter at the bottom of my cup
I look into the baobab seed
I look into the parentheses

I press my hands into my ears 
to block out the sound
if I can’t hear it I didn’t hear it I never heard it I won’t hear the lie
it was quiet--
inaudible—your lips moving but a throat without vibration
closing my eyes, cringing, in bed, collapsing myself into myself

I remember Celine—a figment in porch light
a crease on the bedspread
not my lover in the headlights, rain pelting us like grains of sugar

with hands shaking, I can barely keep the pencil

I am grateful for showers. I am thankful for running hot water, a tide of warmth and a rushing of comfort, a place I can hide and close my eyes and be naked.
I am thankful I have skin to feel the water.
Ska music. Ska for always, unconditionally, making me feel happy. 
Really cute animals, such as bunnies.
Dinosaurs. Dinosaurs for being cool to read about and watch movies starring them.
My ficus bonsai tree because having to take care of it reminds me I have to take care of myself.
I am thankful I have the ability to throw myself totally and completely into projects and people; to donate myself wholly, solely to a play, a painting, a person, and know it’s the right thing.
Snow. Boats. Water.
Yoga at the end of the day.
Hockey games.
Going camping, smelling like a campfire, the woods, pine, coffee.
The universe. The universe crashing. The Milky Way pulsing. The cobalt Cayuga Lake.
I am grateful for the garbage pottery bin in the art studio, from which I’ve snagged many pieces of pottery that are worth a second chance. Everyone deserves a second chance, maybe sixty chances.
I’m grateful I am patient.
And for the ivy growing over my window throwing green onto my walls.
Bugs.  Even if they are house centipedes trying to crawl into my bed.
Colors. Autumn. Tennis.
Mint tea.
Animals, dreams, poetry, hushed promises, wet grass, sneakiness, raspberries.

                                                                        wake up.

in my life, i want

a solar eclipse

i want to help people
i want to help animals
i want to make people and animals get along as much as possible
to climb trees
to kiss and be kissed, to befriend, to be gentle and kind and forgiving, to be more patient and caring, vigorous, passionate without fear, grateful without question
i want a house, to go back in time, to have grass, to have a cow, to have many cows and if at all possible a farm, to wake up on the farm, to paint and watch the sunrise
i want to have a child and to surround myself with people who i care about
to praise nature
to learn, re learn, r elearn, rel earn, to never stop learning
go to an opera
play piano
paint things that are beautiful
and to appreciate things that are beautiful, even sadness

i like:

My friend Johanna's pottery. She creates ceramic bowls that look like they were formed in the ocean. They look like aliens live inside of them. They contain creatures and nebulae and lichen and feathers and chocolate, all in their glazing. I have a surplus for all my dying mint plants.

Mint plants. Because when you take real mint and you make a tea and add lots of sugar and some lemon, that is the best thing for your stomach.

The film Tree of Life.

Children. Because nothing has given me more purpose or comfort or happiness than working with children. With children, I am allowed, encouraged, expected to be silly, excited, curious, awkward, innocent and funny. I love hanging out with kids and listening to them tell me stories and I like making up stories with them.

Bees, of course. Bees have been on the planet since the Tertiary period. The same period where mammals overcame the giant reptiles.

The poem, I Sing the Body Electric.

The books To The Lighthouse, Sula, Wuthering Heights, My Antonia, Lolita, Venus in Furs, Tess of the d'Urbervilles and the works of Carl Jung.

Playing pretend. Pretending I am someone else. Pretending that everything is different. Imagining myself on one path while I walk on another. Pretending that colors are different, people are different, places are different. Imagining, creating, strengthening the place in my mind that only I can go, the only place I can touch, the safest place.

Being in love, but I say this with caution.

Farms, farming, cows, sheep, ducks. Fields. Grass. Quiet. Quiet, gracefulness, simplicity.

Moments. Moments strung together. We are swept from one moment to the next, relishing in the intensity, the succulent, bursting, pleasure of color, texture, sound, rhapsody. And as we connect from one moment to another, we're building webs of memory like a spider. Every seconding we're shifting between moment (memory) moment (memory). Here is where God is.


fossil hunting.

walking through fields, walking through libraries, walking in forests. dampness. becoming a bug. crawling inside flowers. pressing our faces together. pressing.

painting, drawing, building, breaking, tearing, mashing, creating, mixing, feeling beautiful, feeling like you're floating, feeling like your hands have separated from your body, feeling like you have separated from your body

remembering that you're part of the universe, that the universe is part of you, that you are part of a whole, that you're responsible for how you treat others and how others treat you.

holding children, playing with children, watching children play, being with children, being loved by children and loving children, hold their hands, holding hands. clasping. folding. giving. excitement, enjoyment, the luxury of enjoyment. deceived into enjoying, tricked into believing, forfeiting. weakness.

writing. even if you go back and are sad about what you wrote and it's sad to remember that we have forgotten or what we never had or what we lost. but that is the most beautiful feeling. we should embrace those feelings and try, with everything, to know that we are feeling those things and understanding them. trying to understand memories, to understand the shape of memory, to touch and hold and keep the feelings that we can't always have forever. elastic, unforgiving, relentless.



aurora, crepuscolo, accepting defeat, accepting failure, accepting anguish, inviting change, inviting wires, divulging, whimpering. glass trees. glass sound. glass winter. glass touches. glass emotions. glass whispering. cerbiatto.

remembering things that never happened. imagining places that never happened. walking when it's raining, when it's october, when it's cold, pretending that you're someplace else. hearing music when there is no music. touching music when there is no music.