Thursday, November 16, 2017

Monday, November 13, 2017


That title is Wilson's contribution to this monologue, and far be it from me to erase what little paws have written.

The way the game works is this: If you are caught saying the words, somebody else gets to keep your necklace.

She gave me the jam because she knows how much I like jam. 

Before I eat dinner, I'm gonna eat a little jam appetizer.

There isn't anything to get back to. You just evolve and you leave it all behind and you take everything with you.

People tell me their secrets.

There is a line in my journal that I didn't finish writing. It starts like this: How many times have I sought com

While he makes toast in the toaster oven she is piping it nicely with a little nozzle, a few roses, and then giving it a good blowtorch.

He has put some corn syrup in there. We'll see.

You just gotta wait for these things. You can't rush it.

I am 90 percent sure it is the chockecherry jam.

God, please care for the Earth and all of her creatures.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

I eat the banana it is good

The snow boots sit dripping onto the mat. The ski lifts will be open by the end of next week.

I remember going to that post-modern art museum and I remember walking outside of it into the dark, cool night. I remember being surrounded by other people, maybe yellow lines on the black street, maybe crossing the road to access a lit passageway toward the subway. What I cannot remember is where I was, who I was with, or where we were going.

In that D.C. apartment we did shots of vodka and washed them down with diet red bull, disgusting, then I think maybe we took a cab to a burlesque show and I really loved it and also I felt uncomfortable the whole time, albeit not because of the burlesque.

Walking alone in D.C. I went to art museums, sat on windy benches atop professional buildings, gazed down on the river, walked long through the state park, stood tall in front of those charging dogs, had my ass grabbed, was chased while shouting NO, got called at and harassed on a daily basis, disappeared into that crowd of drummers drumming and acrobaters acrobating, hopped on rental bikes and pedaled all over, walked the rich streets of Georgetown, kissed him by that koi pond or rather he kissed me and I said I didn't think he should, reconnected with high school friends, sang in the shower, sang in my bedroom, covered my bedroom walls with pencil drawings, lived on a mattress on the floor, had sex in my room and then in his room, had sex in the basement bedroom, had sex after climbing up the fire escape and shimmying through the bathroom window, crashed a party in a skintight leopard costume, told him I didn't respect him as much and probably never would, ate a lot of falafel, had my boots on, lent that crying young man on the sidewalk my cell phone and gave him a great big hug, handed out sandwiches, granola bars, money to all the homeless people I met, sat in that literary cafe and dreamt, read my writing out loud to my writing group, read my writing out loud at poetry readings, brought him along to a poetry reading, went to the aerospace museum, ate hot dogs, rode the bus to choir practice, committed to memory that image of him sitting on the bench amidst the greenery and the concrete and the graffitied skate park and the water. I auditioned for a choir and I was one of only a handful picked. I wrote and wrote and read it to other people. I walked and walked and walked all over the city and even though it gave me many reasons to be I was not afraid.

You're allowed to have a little fun.

There is still hope left in this world. When did I start being so serious all the time?

Monday, November 6, 2017

Honk if you're lonely tonight*

I don't think I can read any more apocalypse stories.

When I first moved into this basement apartment I was apprehensive about using the two burners sunk into the narrow, poorly constructed countertop on account of the fact that something in them doesn't work quite right; the burners will not light on their own, even though technically that is what they are meant to do. Thus anytime anyone desires to use one or both of the burners they must turn on the gas and put fire to it in the form of a lighter or a match. I was apprehensive about lighting one or both of the gas burners with a lighter or a match because I was a bit worried that I'd blow the whole place up. Consequently for several months I did not use the burners any time I was alone in the apartment; I would use them only on weekends, when he was available to help me light a fire under my scrambled eggs. On the other days I ate most of my meals cold.

At some point, I suppose, I must have forgotten all those nights I cooked on the little gas campstove from the pack on my back.

These days I must be back to remembering. I turn on the gas, jam my fingers between the metal spikes that suspend pots and pans above the flame, and flick the lighter. I put the water on to boil and it is not until several minutes later, when I sit down at this borrowed laptop to write, that I realize I am no longer afraid to light one or both of the burners on my own.

I am making a mug of chamomile tea.

When the water has come to a roiling boil I wrap my shirt sleeve around the pot, lift it from the burner, turn off the gas, and pour the still-boiling water over the tea bag, which swells grotesquely and spasms a little in the water.

Humans boil lobsters alive, and snakes swallow their prey that way too.

Today he waited in line at the post office to retrieve my new book and my flower essences. Supposedly they will help my body heal from the trauma of having snapped my ankle and hopped on one leg 5.5 miles out of the backcountry.

One of the weirdest parts is that it still does not quite feel like my leg, my foot, my ankle. It feels a bit like somebody has sewn a new leg, a new foot, and a new ankle onto the right side of my body while I slept, only the parts aren't all from the same factory and they don't quite go together.

Luckily I have found a woman who is helping me. She travels down into the deepest layers of tissue and invites my body to let go of its clinging so that my leg and my ankle and my foot can return to where they used to be.

I cannot resent my body for getting so out of sorts. It was simply trying to protect me.

I owe that brother and sister and that old wilderness ranger and that smiling golden retriever a great debt of gratitude.

He was going to patch the backside of his pants yesterday, but he didn't do it.

I don't think I have had sex under the covers for going on a decade, if ever.

I am hopeless for you. I melt to a warm, gooey substance seemingly incapable of making major decisions.

Also I am so stubborn. I obsess over this more than anyone I know.

I could look for an ambient tape hiss. 


Then what?!

*with great thanks and admiration for Silver Jews

I don't think I know anyone born in November

Sans serif fonts are in.

The doctor has left the building.

We went to the meadow and it was even more magnificent than expected. How to put words to it: Hanna cozied up in that plaid flannel shirt, chasing through the snow after wherever her legs carried her. Scooping clusters of snowflakes off the tips of overwintering shrubs and blowing them from my fingers with a wish. The sun so powerful I felt its intensity growing from behind massive plumes of cloud. Hiking up to the overlook just as the wind blew the entire snowstorm away to reveal layers of blue and green and white and gray mountains in front of me.

I am reminded of the parable of the sun and the wind, and who could best convince a man to take off his coat. Open up let the light in.

Our lives need fantasies in order not to ruin them.

I am lying wet-haired on the blue flannel sheets in a baggy blue t-shirt and a pair of gray and pink-polka-dotted boxers.

My feet and ankles are still sore but I didn't feel a thing while I was walking. It was simply too beautiful, and too cold.

I watched the temperature drop, counting, and looked up just at the moment that rain changed to snow.

I remember driving alone through those quiet country roads in east prospect, the sun settling over farmland, and feeling for those minutes dialed in to expansiveness and possibility.

What is the guitar not playing. Act one scene twelve.

The drying rack is broken beyond repair. At this point I've spent as much on duct tape as I would on a new drying rack. My laundry bag, also, has ripped to the point that it is hardly functional. Yet I cling to my stubbornness even though I already have not won.

Some days I think Noel has more integrity than any other member of his friend group; other days I think he is lower than dirt. Which is it, Noel.

He reminds me that I contain multitudes and it is exactly what I needed to hear. Sometimes it's simply everything all at the same time.

As usual, the heron chooses this time in the evening to take flight over the closet.

I am going to start painting again. I have my PA license plate tacked up over the doorway into the kitchen.

Though I still do not much care for the taste of regular Coca-Cola, I do concede it is better out of the glass bottle.

And why is your coat hanging in my living room, holding space on that coat rack I picked up more than four years ago for $15 in Queens.

When I went to the library to cancel my membership, they seemed shocked by the idea that anyone would leave.

The rabbit sits, as always, beneath the moonlight and the snow-covered boughs.

My back really aches, so much so that I can barely move it. My back is going to feel better soon.

I'm a different person now.

I trust that there is nothing to get back to.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

Once you have felt it do you ever stop feeling it

Once you have felt it do you ever stop feeling it. Do you ever want to.

Sure it's a little daunting but it feels better already, doesn't it?

Do you know that feeling when you're not sure exactly what music you want to listen to, so you pick an album that seems like maybe-kinda-possibly it will fit the bill, or at least won't terribly offend your sensibilities in that moment, and then WHAM! it's exactly what you needed to hear?

Today I danced for three consecutive hours and then (after drinking one of those protein shakes and eating an almond and coconut energy bar and sitting on the outdoor bench for 20 minutes even though it was gray and cold) danced for another three and a half.

This is why my feet are raw and my back is aching, and still my body can't stop moving to this album even as I lie here on the pulled out couch. Once you find the music in you it keeps bubbling up for as long as you don't slam a lid on top.

It used to be that I did not move my arms; now my whole body moves.

I remember walking around that road in my parents' neighborhood vividly, I remember it being a common word in the household growing up, and yet for a moment I can't remem--Crestlyn! 

Yes and walking down the hill to the small woods. And discovering the old ruins and thinking I was the first one. Trying to pretend to myself that I hadn't seen the beer cans or the graffiti. I was nine. I yearned to discover.

The archeologist did not wish to purchase the boots after all. He had not realized they were insulated boots. He is looking for a boot he can wear during the summer, when it is too hot to wear insulated boots.

I can't believe I have a day off tomorrow. It has been so long.

The first night I wore jewelry but today my fingers were naked; my wrists were naked. I wore a flowy tank top over my favorite strappy blue sports bra and my favorite pair of yoga tights and that was it. I didn't even paint my toenails even though I had intended to paint my toenails prior to today, although in retrospect I'm not sure why I had created such an intention in the first place given that I so rarely wear toenail polish. Perhaps it's because I knew my feet would be the focus of so much attention, what with dancing and all.

The carrot mug sits coffee stained on the messy table. Also Hanna's harness and a set of keys.

We are going to do something in 15 minutes.

This music is so pretty I feel like I'm going to explode.

Get bumped

How do you say my name. Everyone pronounces it differently. My parents can't remember who I was supposed to be.

The time for over-thinking is over.

This will be the best part of my day: Walking down the hill with Hanna trotting beside me, the leash looped in her smiling mouth, as a gust of wind blows up from behind and a wave of rustling Aspen leaves overtakes us like a golden river flowing.

And this: Whirling and twirling to the rhythm of my feet until I lost myself, until I found myself.

What I remembered is that I am safe when I am in me. What I remembered is that I still know how to be free.

Tomorrow I had planned to take Hanna for a long walk in the meadow above 10,000 feet, but the bottoms of my feet are raw and my ankles stiff and maybe even a little bit swollen after a bath. We shall have to wait and see.

I appreciate your honesty.

For a late-night snack I am tipping my neck back and pouring frozen fruit from my water glass into the back of my throat. I catch a strawberry between my molars and pause, letting my breath melt the thin layer of ice still coating its skin. I chew it lightly and swallow.

This song was unexpecting.

I remember running up the long incline past my high school, so far removed, finally, that it hardly feels like it was me who used to be trapped behind those walls.

You just keep peaking and peaking.

I think I helped them feel good with my offering. I think they were smiling at me because I was beautiful.

What I remembered is to keep moving.

I mean really sit and think about it!