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Like a boat hull

swaying in the heavy swells of sea night

wine sloshes across the deck

merging with the wash

all is red now

I am merciless

What is there even to think of

in times that mark the end

.

Like a great big light,

sour as the sun

standing at the corner of each room

Or on the road in front of the car

tears well up, closing eyes 

to shake off, in the edge of minds

it is there too bright to ignore

What else is there to think of

.

The kind of fog that permeates

every cell in a body, weighing 

each step as slow as the warm winds

Almost a homecoming, it is

sad and hollow, space for seeds

.

I see this vulgar sun in the corner, 

looming, and in 8 months 

what then? Shall I sit and stare 

away as if it isn’t prickling all my skin

each moment, like the moon

obtuse in the sky though I only just 

stepped out and still, she lingers 

behind a tree. I am spinning like a loon,

where are you?

.

Heavy, vision blurring, one never knows

what it looks like,

sounds like, feels like 

on the other side

of the End

On the phone this evening I listened to my grandmother attentively, fully, near something I’d never done before. Trial, error of the fleeting and filialless mind. She is well and as I have always known her. Sweet, strange, so sweet and far off. Complex, too, in ways I don’t understand yet.

Days churn quickly now, pace in the dark hours of life. My dear friend and I speak of a turn, and hill-top our lives, our summiting. Ever since I was young, the word summit felt like a space held in a valley, not like cresting or peaking. There was still movement to be had upward. And that, I suppose, is still true.

She has found herself some love, a new job, a new home all in some year, as I am establishing the groundwork for what my life may look like, witnessing womanhood in its fully power and submission. We both enter the calendar year that holds our goldens, and our moon year opens on a selfish day of mine. It is unspeakable and wonderful.

Tired, that is how I have felt most. Winter is begging.

My dreamworld wakes me overflowing and unable to spill. It is strange how the mind always does know. Saturday night, rupturing Sunday in whole, I dreamt of a spirit baby and a city so tall. Shapes and colors like the ocean, much too beautiful for modern man, and warm warm morning sun. The clock spun and at some point I wandered my way to the top of a building. I dreamt of a fight, or a combustion between two who I walked into among work this morning. They too are people who see the world as it is. Crazy together, perhaps. Can I really escape and let my being wander as a medium for something beyond? My mind does not like to play too subtle.

I can fully come into myself, and will, for the matter. The time ahead is abundant, look at all the shifting thus far.

Outside the windows, snow is flurrying about, maddening. The house cross the yard and the leaves both yellow. It is lighting the air in all directions. Near naked, spiny trees pale off into the whiteness a few blocks down. I reckon we are in a cloud.

Today I have been struggling. Smiling up at the brief sun but my head aches on and off. I am thinking about voices echoing, not my own. What good is all that? Time spent frivolously, slipping off to torture oneself? Like the Devils mad work. Witnessing history in our step.

The small home is making all the house noises. I can hear the clocking gently taping, there are pipes clanging and hooving from time to time. I wonder who lives in the walls these days. About right when I begin to long for it, the heat lets out a sharp exhale through the baseboard vents. A car slops through the alley time and again, tired as we are. I hear myself take a deep breath, not very often. Like in another room, after the fact, hm.m..

I do miss school, how it had been.

It was a place for lively debate, genuine curiosity about the deeper interests of each other. Outside world concerns sure, but why do I write? These days I am tired and worn from the same conversations. The people I love most pursue of course, but the world beyond the glass wall is foggy and slow moving. I wonder what all the others are thinking.

The bell in the most beautiful church downtown is tolling now, a half block from the kitchen. It has not stopped. Not near the hour, what might the emergency be? Pause, it returns for four more slower gongs, what are they thinking?

The walls in my house catch the sunlight across the way, like a portal open. Three tall windows, and the room is yellow too.

cold months cont.

Hard to think our tricky thoughts,

graft with minds desire,

give way to any selfish plots

when under all this weather

we simply need our fire.

The rain has rolled in

on top of the pass the sky is white and trees

ready for lights, I have made tea now

at home in big socks, am I

rushing into this?

Batten the windows, I am finding any reason

to smile and soon my soles

will not touch soil, buzzing

like long lost love and how sweet

again and again that shall be.

We are all turning in,

each mountain looms close now,

breathing thick air slowly

over the wet pines,

we watch from below, breath melting

up to the clouds,

giving heavy huffs,

for good grief,

before buzzing coldly along.

Someone is born today, that’s really how this whole month is.

I believe I may have figured myself out. Seems like a stretch, but I just could swing it. Life, unobstructed by financials strain, and my work fully practical, within grasp. I am interested, moving this way. Imaginably, I suppose it will take some time to generate livable abundance, but time is all I’ve got anyhow.

The dog digs around his torn up chair, building a little nest for the evening. He looks uncomfortable, staring out the west window or indirectly at me (as a lizard or a horse.)

The fresh air of this late late late warm autumn graces Montana well. We have pours of rain near most evenings. I hear they are being stolen from our northwest friends. Of course this land is changing, and just as we are of the earth, inevitable, on any timeline, part of the “cause.” But still, this living rock would transform without us. Shift her seasons and pools of water, much larger than I could effect. Sure, time moves quickly around us but our time is terribly short. Gratefully short.

I see the orange leaves happy here, and I know I am lucky. Still though, Mother is always beautiful as am I. Life simply remains here. No amount of distraction or dedication has yet deterred me from this powerful truth. There is no lonesome in this truth.

I do not yet believe in the roles members of a house must play, but my do my love and I fit into them nicely. We ebb and flow uniquely, each pushing our own bounds, but in practice of biological want or need, we have grounded like trees. He holds divine space, environment for me to flourish in my creativity, my energetic thresholds. My love provides space for me to work for Us. For cooking and dancing and tidying, a space I cultivate a conducive life for us both. Tending towards our optimal selves, I gain traction. I love this, I feed off my stretching capacity. I display my love this way, every day since I’ve been earthside.

Chicken in the oven. My back right wisdom tooth is pressing its way up. Present and perceived self blend more than ever these days. This is the true, fruitful life I suspect. My love and I both, wandering with each day. Of course not always am I able sit in abundance like this. But life is regular. I mean this in so many ways.

The food I eat, consistent and filling. Nutrient dense, flavorful, ancestral. Full-bodied and integrative, home-cooking is a must. As a woman in this world, I imagine I am of the minority here. Truly I am newfound in it. Life was not so abundant, and my body struggled deeply, cellularly. Self-sabatoging, complicit in my victimhood like so many people I did not eat well for years, nearly decades. Still, I am so lucky for the abundance I already know. My youth did not erode my lust for growing, supporting a healthy body first. This is the greatest gift I have yet to know.

A cyclical life is one I clearly witness now. After deeply sitting, tuning in to the deeper workings of the earth inside this body, listening eased. It is a friendly conversation, not rigid as a teenage girl. I am the calmer of my ailments, the first responder. How lucky, how supportive, how mutual, how innate. Cycling with the earth. This is a proof deeper than gorges in the flesh. My healing body confirms all suspicions, I witness life unravel before me, held tight in the trust and reverence of my body to guide me.

A female body. Unique and “undiagnosable,” often. Read and write and breathe and read, she is scientifically sensical, I’ve found. I know her more deeply than I could ever be taught. This Life is rich, for I intend that in all places. The sun sets pink on the hills, again.

Yellow light, new to the season, coats me through the kitchen window. one pane. there are about a million powerlines slashing the scene into a mosaic: rich blue sky, red church – bell and cross. Life has changed rapidly and not a moment of it have I been embittered. Growth into my young maturity, I am less and less alluded by time, even concerned with it. Mantras sink in over the days, I hold onto myself. I recognize you standing in the mirror, like I pulled you straight from a dream. Warm sun, single pane.

something like the sound of a monkey on the album I listen to. We sleep warm together, entwined all night, dreaming through. My lover is my greatest accomplishment. He draws me into the obvious truth, I have no choice but to become, more and more deeply, me.

On a call the other day, a woman astounded me. The revelations around diagnosis, the ‘freedom’ acquired by such, wrapped in Yin and Yang. Our culture rejects Yin, lashes it into formulation or casts it as broken. You’re diverse, jumpy, your mind is broad and floating, versatile in its form. Pity, no room for that in a Yang favored society, ADHD it is.

To say this as fact is not my intention, merely a claim of relevance to someone else that stirred within me. Throw her into the looney bin! A woman who might know and see the ether beyond. Suspend herself outside of the physical, and call her insane. My world broke then, my identity limited my potential as my mind fired wrong. Of no harm or chaos were the energies I picked upon, though still shaken. Material reality crumbled around me, and I sought coverage in a place of boxes, pathologies, abusers. I signed my intuition away and took the label they gave. Proud, functioning, distilled. My power was behind glass doors, and I engaged the world in a dance of embarrassment, fear, difference, specialness. No one could touch me, I proved I was tainted.

My Yin, as I gently come to understand. In flow with the world beyond our eyes, picking up on energy as it passes, calling out. I was young, conditioned, the world was just too small. Even as a child, I gleamed at the idea! Praying for seasons of apathy and repression, praying to hate myself enough for love. Sharp bangs now, and smiling with the sun, I am closer to those manifestations that I might’ve ever imagined. There was no place in the physical world for them anyway. My body moving through the air, I know this. Wind, clarity, Yin I let sing.

Let this year, moving swift to winter, continue to heal. One year, ago? bitter and imploding it seemed. I could not reach the surface to breath. Let this one have been a lesson, a testament to my movement. One year, a blossom of life and death and rebirth, myself included. One year, ahead? i imagine myself, flowing the route of a fallen leaf on the river, belly to the sun.

I ate breakfast in the bathtub just now. It is late morning and a rain is gently warding me inside. The trees and the shrubs and all their underlings are really the best listeners. Pity to have to drive to most of them now, and I have never been too good at waiting, wrapping and enriching myself in the true cyclical way of time. I see it down the line, I know it is my future, existing present as well and boy do I feel blind. I am a city girl, an urban legend now. (cant breathe) Nothing too prim and posh, but at least a few blocks until I can touch real grass. Not even last week I blessed this! True ambivalence and a youngsters (Him and I both)dream living.

Thursday I shall forage, and every day I do get better at reading my needs (heeding them most off.) Tending to my garden. I tend to pour outward, almost to no good. There is something about the pull of this bleed, it drives me to bed. I am witnessing the wildness of my becoming. The great sensations and power of my body, like I had envisioned as a child. When you are young, everything evolves from the inside. Participation, or proof of our distinctive energetic power begs to seep out before our eyes. Into material realm, if only we could confirm it, and a child becomes obsessed. Our focus, our identify become a gaze on the outer.

Shift again to my simmering adulthood – I feel far off. Though I have always brushed my ego well, it is the outer, the world and of it am I, witnessing a deep call to the inner, the One. I see the world live this way in large. Not our Mother, not the Sun and Moon, but the people stewing about down the streets. I look myself in the mirror as if I am not also the whole room. My focus now to the child or the root of myself I left sitting on the porch. I know I am young to feel this already. Funny, this shift between the two, both rushing in opposite directions toward union.

In the bathtub I shed a few tears in mourning of sunrise and sunset spilling into my door. I wake up in love. The world is here but still far away. With all the concrete, I stare at my phone more, I hold my breath more.

Muck drudged and a child

I do stand, time is really a circle

cycling and cycling to ocean

never quite meeting,

I am different in myself,

different in my gentleness

and grand in my love,

to endure Life, in pure form,

I molted skin and just with her,

soft, frowning chin, lock eyes

and I know this earth better,

more honestly,

all the light back into the land,

and in a theatric build

my world now, becoming,

I sit with, and build home

in love