Je t'aime.

At the Brooklyn Museum, I stood staring at this painting of St. Joseph holding a flowering rod. The afternoon was a messy one, as I was joined with a companion. Jim stood there near me and my many shadows, just like his written self would. He’s from Istanbul, and his entire past is a dirtily unknown tale that makes me tremble. Upon our first meeting, my eyes cracked and my soul scattered, while we spent much of our time looking down at our feet, talking about the problems and desires that make us light up and go out in the world, only to sing or hide. As much of an awkward occasion that it might have been, the afternoon ended with the only real parting that good friends are prone to have. It was painful, and I had speckled tears there on my face, while a whisper went out towards all else as he questioned: “Do you think we flew too close to the sky?”  I merely mumbled, “I think this is just us being scared.” And the world rolled on. I gave him a hug and disappeared.

Most social situations exhaust me, unless of course I feel in charge of my own destiny. Needless to say, I was relieved to get home and return to my dog and boy friend. I was glad to sit on the couch and let my arms return to their warmth, and I was glad to write my friend a quick letter and craft up more escape plans, for this coming fall. The more I stay in the city, the more I get thirsty to get back on the road. I spend all day looking at possible vehicles that me and Zach could plug in some money for, and be on our way. We are both troubadours, and I think time alone submerged in whatever he loves, would be good for Zach. He works a day job that keeps him coming home unfulfilled, and it makes me ache. There in his exhaustion, I find sad little graveyards. The bones of initial optimism. And I’m always looking up to the sky, trying to make change. I keep reminding myself, that my love is a garden. It can heal.

At mid-day I sent a letter out to Michele and picked up a parcel that my grandmother had sent, with old tshirts and face wash I had left behind when I was last in Wisconsin. Cousin Rachael wrote and said that she was giving up some of her medications and being more directive towards making change herself. It was good to hear, and she seemed active and excited. Her excitement, seemed to be infectious. I couldn’t help but keep smiling.

Here are some lovely pictures of us, when we were both younger: 

;] x

There are muffin crumbs all scattered across my desk, intermingling with dull colored pencils, small letters addressed to friends, photographs, and dusty old books. In one tiny red box, there is an odd assortment of jewelry —one of which is a necklace with a butterfly gem attached. I stare at the box knowing what’s inside, and knowing what it symbolizes. Death is there and then it is gone and like everything else, I forget. But occasionally, I sit up and remember and my eyes bug out and I’m no longer young. My soul seems to hum and whisper and I desire to be so many things all at once. It is like a sad song.

I check my email and there are messages from the poets I’ve made connections with. I sit and read through them and hear pain breathe out of their sentences. They write like Keats, they write like Bukowski, they write like themselves — which is always better. And they circle their problems and lay them out and offer their heart, saying that they don’t know where to go with their time. Because just like everyone else, they feel so alone, and they feel so sheltered. They scream and bounce and demand understanding in the way they cry. And this is all something that I know, this is all something I hold.

I sit circling Angela’s name in my mind, trying to craft up some sense of community. One in which us odd folk can talk and be, without any sort of scorn or trouble. What’s important though, is that I know I can’t separate myself any further. That sense of divide just creates dark tunnels. And hell, I know that creativity isn’t something rare. It’s well and alive. It’s in everyone and everything. But then again, perhaps its just our fear that we need to kill most. —Maybe we just need to DO, and talk later. Maybe it’s our heart that needs to be listened to. Maybe the answers will come merely from action.

What I do know is that there are a lot of good and talented individuals that get washed out by society and all its rules. They are told to attend school and to take a certain path, and they continue on so, hating the routine they end up being surrounded with. But what’s silly is that their art follows them. They cling to it achingly, even when they don’t have time for it. They string magic and loud noise up on the wall and let static mock them. They let their lone towers sound off and bring them more fear. But this fear is a cushioned hoax.

Because it’s all that inner stuff that saves their soul. They love it and they know they love it, but they’re afraid to TRUST it. And what’s even sillier, is that they could live on far less. Their big fancy apartments and well-established mealtime pleasantries, aren’t anything compared to the satisfaction they’d know, if they’d just try and get wet and learn from their passioned mistakes. 

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I guess I just wanted to say that I love you all. I’ll just always be a wayfarer.

I’ve spent the morning looking at Sydney Parkinson drawings, and reading my friend Michele’s cool book. In fact, I’ll probably post some review of that soon. It’s too good not to. She’s the type of gal that you just can’t help but adore.

My newest written experiment isn’t fiction at all, and I think in some small way, Michele helped inspire that. It’s in fact a booklet about love and the relationships I’ve made that have remained solid. A perfect compilation of all of my best moments. There in the intricacy, is a poetry that’s familiar and warm.

So yes. Hopefully in the next couple months, that’s something I can share.

I just wanted to bring some small attention to the fact that it’s my dog’s birthday though. He’s just turned seven, and is one of my favorite of pals. 

Oh! And if you’re looking for some good new music, be sure to sneak a peek at my boyfriend’s tumblr. I keep telling him to write lengthy articles, but for now there is an entire archive of folk-centric songs that pull at the heartstrings well.

SUNDAY//

Woke up at seven, after watching dizzy basketball snap-shots that led to over-drinking from a bottle of hard cider. Syracuse lost in the final four and I had fought depression with funny antics like stealing Zach’s droopy hat and pretending to be him, while shouting out songs of encouragement. My personal favorite however, was a slam towards Michigan, as I repeatedly called McGary a fairy and twirled around in pajamas like a true little kidster.

The morning brought about exhaustion, but I bit my way through it and pulled on a pair of smelly jeans that needed to get washed. In the bathroom I put my hair up in a pony-tail to hide the layers of grease and annoyance. For a five minute segment before slipping out the door, I caressed Zach’s forehead and gave him several kisses while whispering my adoration. It was warm in bed, what with our dog Umphrey providing long body embraces, and it took so much will-power to forcibly get my butt moving. I could have played lazy for a while longer, but I hate being late places. I get disoriented and lost.

After my train commute to Manhattan, I dipped into a Dunkin’ Donuts and got a vanilla chai, only to discover that it was basically hot water with sugary bullshit mixed in, to comfort all those marvelous people that order their doughy death rolls. The taste of it, reminded me of my early childhood, and I walked across the street, with an air of nostalgia. In the root of my mouth, I tasted memories that brought me back to the days when I lived on Western Avenue. It was there that I lived in a house that was haunted. My parent’s were young then and so was I. I remember being obsessed with old 90s fads. I was never hooked on Mariah and Britney like everyone else, but found myself listening to Hoku a lot. That and Billy Joel. I liked to be a rebel and tell my friends about old blues musicians too. Skip James was my hero. I’d make up plenty of stories.

But anyways, back to my day. After getting that rubbish and yet stirring cup of tea, I pranced on over to the Shirasu-Hiza’s. Once arriving, the two boys were at the kitchen table still eating breakfast. Their father Joel was guiding the older of the two along, being that he has some problems focusing on the eating process. His mind gets distracted, but he’s very endearing and cute.

Once they were finished, I made a crown for Arlo and there was a brief crying episode when Ansel snagged part of his ‘favorite pillow’. It was an old relic that belonged to his mother, and was made by his now non-existent great-grandmother. In fact, he was so traumatized (even though the gem is already well tethered) that he said we had to get on an airline flight to Hawaii as soon as possible. He said his grandma would fix the darn thing, and we had to get there pronto. In the mind of a four year old that probably makes perfect sense, but in reality it’s just idiotic. I had to swaddle him for a bit, with the help of his mother, and explain that his plan just wasn’t possible. His screams faded.

Soon thereafter some sort of resolve, I got paints out and we all sat around creating. Arlo went ahead and painted a beautiful Matisse-like picture of a potted flower, while Ansel worked on an image of a chicken and its many baby eggs. Both were darling and beautiful. I got excited for them even!

Eventually, I went outside with Arlo, while Ansel helped his parents with housework. Arlo exhibited his new bike skills and we played store with snacks we brought with us: dried fruit slabs, and salted seaweed. We also threw around a tennis ball we found hidden near a park fence, and played various games. When we went back inside, Arlo got out his uke and was strumming it with the guitar pick I said he could have. He’s quite the musician!

In fact, the music worked like a good teacher. Just those gentle strums, made both of us stronger. We learned from our smiles. We let our day turn brightly.

* ((Art by Becky Nevin))

The last dream I had that I can remember in any detail, was one that came to me while I was still in Wisconsin. It had one of those continued plots that seems to pop up repeatedly at night, with the same four or five characters that only exist in the imaginary realm, but still feel extremely relevant and familiar.

In the dream, I worked in an office space with a love interest who remained faceless, but reminded me most wonderfully of my boyfriend. Our love banter was luxurious and daring and trust was assured and felt. We also worked with a variety of other co-workers, all exceedingly interesting, if not weird. One had a stringy beard, another was incredibly funny, and there was a group of three females all supernatural and reminiscent of Ms. Frizzle — a cartoon character from the 90s with messy hair, long flowing dresses, and a pet lizard. 

In past dreams, I’ve known these characters as adventurers and have gotten lost with them on busy backroads in the city somewhere. Cheap thrills and gun shots and mercy kisses have been had and shared. Often, I’d be exposed to some sort of terror, and still manage to miss the bullet of it. I’d escape without so much as a bruise. I’d wake up with busy eyes and a sore heart. 

In this particular dream though, I remember going through filing cabinets with a short asian girl, that was quite plump but pleasant to look at. We were both fighting against some sort of clock, and were equally aware that our boss was a complete tyrant. It was in fact our mission to fight our way against him, given what we knew. We were simply born in a corporate world, in which we were never taught to think for ourselves. But in that moment, we knew what we were up against was a devilish evil, and that fear was what we were fighting.

My dazzling love interest would come in and out of the office with great poetry slipping from his mouth, and he’d get everyone committed. We all sat around talking about our heart and our feelings, and whether or not we’d survive.

During my favorite part of the dream, I’m sitting in my pajamas making out with my babe. We’re talking over life and death and our will to live if only with each other. The tyrant boss we’re after comes in, symbolically wearing a military uniform. He asks me to leave the work place immediately, because of my casual wear, and I flash him the birdie when he’s not looking. Dirty, indeed.

Right before I wake up, there’s a quick scene in which I go to the toilet and change my tampax. Moments later, when I actually do flip open my eye-lids, I moan when I feel moisture deposits on the inside of my underwear. I have vague memories of trampling out of bed, only to look and see a red river.