2/9/22
trying to decipher waking and sleep. more bland, most certainly, is the time spent now, writing and waiting, thinking, stewing. waking. it percolates, my dream world. fumes through my day in a haze that won’t shake. among the sleepers I remain actually articulating the world in my frame. not here, in the sun, am I sensing such bond, waking firmly and in love, still to wither grey and gaunt.
and yet the best, still I find, marks its place as I doze. vibrant colors seal the night, sinking takes the body whole. pass each hour drawing near to this release, have I made anything of my days? redirect and grow myself, I still will likely never know.
2/10/22
How quickly I find myself changed. Just a slight blue in the sky, following the wisps of cloud banks into one another and watching the sunlight soak up each morphing structure. Yesterday brought me low. Dream leaked into the stench of life, not till I got home was I sent into the depths. Moments, some sweet smoke in my lungs after the grey evening.
Cloudy days are odd, and even more strange as the light leaves. Rocking any part of equilibrium, like a gutting. They stay, a golden, heavy type of grey as evening creeps in. Linger, sink down into the bowl and suffocate us like one large ghost.
I am overcoming. The lack of duality, lack of longevity in so many of my peers and their peers peers, it’s like no one here can think. Challenge does not meet them readily, or they expect they’ve already got the golden ticket, less all else fail. She is with them, bouncing and curling, smiling I am sure. For the first time, yesterday, I recognized in the sprightliness of her sustained youth she may not be willing to morph. Grow larger, collective, lonely as the clouds. An enabling vice, locking her to people and places that dull her light.
Funny so, in high school she adamantly avoided such a provocation, adjusted her life as to not fall into this exact trap. Become immobile, stir in the same pond, fall in line of her own sisters, beautiful as they may be, but much too sensitive and suffering. She knew this, held this fear so irrationally in her system it became her. I do not think she can face me, not in this rendition of self so far off from who she yearned to become.
Young young, I remind myself we are young and infinite time lies ahead to reconcile each woe. It is just so funny, just so strange. Pick me Pick me really is the jargon, I can’t wrap my head around it. Float on, it is outside of my self, I am misting.
A poem I wrote back in my New Yorker life…
And I’d follow too, I think
A hawk swings skyward
through the distant slant of windows.
Thick and bellowing Light hangs in the air,
nuzzling herself deep into the cloud belly –
few stragglers escape.
Each thin and beaming tress
swept off before rooting to this earth.
If I rest here long enough,
they’ll take me, deposit me
elsewhere, she must think.
I don’t blame her.
An airplane casts overhead
and towards the distance.
The hawk follows.
–
Even reading now, sorting through my archives of a different time I see myself, different now. As I should be morphing, and perhaps it is as simple as a drift. She and I are not meant to be, impossible to be in unity right now. No qualm meets me here. I just wish she would talk.
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