Miss it, miss you.
I miss precipitating from my cloud of thoughts. Spreading myself too thin and watching the rainflow waste itself in the gutter. Gutter to ocean, back to the clouds…be back soon.
I miss precipitating from my cloud of thoughts. Spreading myself too thin and watching the rainflow waste itself in the gutter. Gutter to ocean, back to the clouds…be back soon.
Something has been impressed upon me more complex than a collection of terms can ventilate. What an amazing and desperate feeling to have little control of that which lies inside all of us. To be so moved we cannot move.
I was reminded twice this week that either:
1. there is another life I will be living after this one, or
2. that there is another life I am living right now.
It came in the mail today,
a thank you and goodbye for now.
Parting peacefully,
A sigh of sad relief.
This may be the last I see of her cursive. I will remember her cursive.
Again, this friendship could not make its way to this life’s end.
I’m trying not to think we failed, or, at least, that I failed.
Perhaps we got further than we did in our previous existence?
If not now, then we will be reincarnated once more,
hopefully,
so that we may try again.
I must continue to practice the fine art of friendship,
so I can see her again someday.
Washes in light.
Sometimes I write when I’m on the Uptown 4. Sometimes I write about people who have somehow figured they could just stop figuring me out.
Sometimes I write when I’m on the Downtown 4. Sometimes I write about people I’ve decided to stop figuring out.
Toe jam hidden under that pedicure.
Bleached, shaved, waxed, plucked, threaded, Nair-ed, zapped.
Tucked, lifted, stapled, stuffed, cinched, suctioned.
Spit, swallow, hock and hack.
We pick boogers,
breathe morning breath,
do one and two,
sweat and stink and
scratch our butts and
sag and curdle and
forget to clean our smellybuttons.
We shed all over the bathroom floor,
the bathtub drain.
They sometimes stick to the bathroom door,
the bathroom walls…
all over,
a beautiful woman.
The Jurassic teleporting crickets live down in the basement with us.
Ugly. Beautiful. Reminders of the afternoon.
A lone blue heron graced us at the end of the Merrimac.
When I turned around, she had already dissolved within the ripples upstream.
Dragonflies touched down and took off around the trembling wings of the black butterfly. They followed us like fairies along the shore. Touchless. Turquoise.
Another sticky world of milky grey mussels and minnows.
Mirky mystery conjured my usual fears of not knowing.
Layers of fallen leaves, over and over.
I had never been here before, but I understood some things about myself.
M. Picasso
A giving boy, always greeting us with gifts at the door.
He chases butterflies, birds and plastic bags, but never catches them.
He likes to watch them float and flutter away.
Breezes make his ears twitch.
Windy days make him walk sideways.
On rainy days, he dips his head to the ground, slithering blindly down the streets.
An emotional soul, though he easily forgets sadness and anger.
He remembers very little but recalls his traumas.
He doesn’t like to cut his nails or be the first to walk through a doorway.
A strange fellow,
sometimes hidden under the art table or inside a dark crate in his bedroom.
He loves company, but sometimes enjoys his solitude.
Fragile but stubborn, sweet but independent,
He is always seeking, half awake.
Breathing. Expressing his feelings through his exhales.
Chef Jacques Pepin reorganizing mother nature (aka deboning a whole chicken).
I am writing about the fact that I want to write but haven’t been able to. I can’t concentrate on my reflections. I can’t hold them long enough in my memory to get them archived onto paper. I like it quiet, but there have been ongoing conversations going in and out of my head that haven’t stopped, that follow me into the night, into my dreams. The white space in New York has a lower gravity pull, so it’s hard to stay in those spaces when you find them. Everything is a distraction - the train announcer, the halal carts, the flyers, the signals that no one watches. I haven’t decided if I’m supposed to stay here forever. I still often think of Hawai’i, of somewhere quiet, where you need a flashlight after the sun goes down.
When I let go, often a good freedom is released. If I breathe, others can too. We exhale this life together. We are connected by accord. We pray for newborns to arrive safely into the arms of their parents. We pray hard and we tell our spouses that we should continue to pray everyday until she arrives safely, warmly. We want her to arrive.
I never stop ignoring a good father because he reminds me of my own. I imagine his tears right now. I imagine his hand cupping her tiny head and his new feeling of joy. I wonder about her joyful exhaustion as she brings this child into the world. She will always be bringing this child into this world. One moment, it never existed, and now it is here, to be named, to be clothed, to be kissed, to be exalted.
This is dedicated to Emi & Shoji.
