Imagine never finishing Moby Dick. Urging neighbors to resist the urge to write down stories that arise in - and belong to - the oral tradition. What is your problem with messiahs again?
Cats begin sleeping on the bed with us, elongating at our feet, curling up between our bodies, sure signs of autumn. Living where main roads sometimes go miles with nothing on either side but forest. Who is lost at sea in more ways than one.
The earliest tools were sticks and stones, and I think often of my ancestors when I find myself gathering them. Waking up hard, full of longing, breezes in the window reminding me sex goes nowhere I haven't already been. Grilling the last of the zucchini, thunderheads floating lazily down the valley, the girls discussing their favorite books, only a handful of which I've read.
When I was little I used to pray it would rain in deserts so the animals there would have something to drink, a good example of my overall kindness and deep confusion. At three a.m., sitting in what might be called meditation, something is killed in the bushes between our house and the neighbor's. Slowly all the stories stop mattering and you are left with this: this this.
Once again work and money fall apart and the illusion my luck is bad or God doesn't love me finally dissolves. How the way one cares for the world changes in time. Peace is an effect of justice, and justice is a form of healing, worthy of our attention.
Music choices for the road trip are Bob Dylan, any era you want, which I'm told is no longer a charming answer to what do you want to listen to while we drive. Work clothes soaked through. You thought you could become less of a dreamer by removing the dreamy paintings from your home but that too was a dream, wasn't it.
A look in the grocery store signifying the old willingness, the familiar loneliness, the desire to be met in ways that include other bodies unclothed but which we now know goes beyond orgasmic cries in ways not easily settled in us. What is the name of what you are?
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