3.7 updgraded and downgraded in the same timeframe as ru paul's drag queens, i watch from the comfortable love seat recliners, cuddle with the kitten, consider what it is to be the cat sitter on this side of an anniversary trip to paris. 3 more days, and i'd have been 17 years married--but we stopped in the troubled teens being anything more than obstacles on each others' paths to happiness. when will i stop living in the death of this dead thing? i consider this country of earthquakes and seven hills, learn to ride the j, move up and down the streets i've walked with someone else's clipper pass and notice how fast i like to close the door on the rest of the world now that i am safe inside a space warm with unconditional kinds of aged in the barrel love that manifests in goulash of all levels of spice. i watch mistress of spices, the black hut classes i've been gifted with now remaking themselves as phd courses that allow for feminist creation theory to make itself up all over them. what is it to be alive in the aftermath of math? i consider the journey to the universe, the learned speakers speaking from their place behind podiums of northern california think tanks exposed. i have been swimming in one for awhile, and now, deeper under the waters of obscurity, i continue to dive to the places where the electricity runs inside the creatures that can only live in the blackest depths. diamonds. eels. long slow descents into quiet enough to hear yourself think your own thoughts countryless countries of under the world. where the oil is? i was offered the opportunity to sell the oil rights on land that had been given to a man who sat down opposite me on the bart and guessed i was from kansas. me, in my knitted plastic bags bursting with feminist theory readers, my stuffed overfull red barrel of a pleather zip without its tail pulled carefully across the straining to stay closed teeth of other people's clothes given as offering to the over privileged set of experiences that combines to congregate in my form, and what else was i carrying? a half colored germany bag brought home by my boychild from his excursion--oh, yes, and a damaged old computer bag now gaping with the overstuffedness of still more books. still more books. still more books. still. i write them, books. i write them, words. i am forever beading them together with silence, standing them up as some kind of string, moving through the world with what they do not offer as offering--my offering. what is wanted with these? another shift, another move, another moment offering its crossroads in the here and now of time, i will take to the kitchen and make coffee? or pour tea from the stained plastic standing next to its fruit punch lover on the top shelf? there is something of kansas in this place. there is something of 17. there is something of who we were when we were first deciding who we would be. his happy marriage shining from across the atlantic, i bask in the glow of what works. love feels like love. it always feels like love. underneath the words and disappointment and frustration and rising and falling barometer of weathers, the whether or not i love you part drops out of spaces that sustain themselves. love. love. love. love. love. it is the silence that sews together the spaces behind, under, between all the words. kisses are like punctuation. they are the both cheeks kinds of symbolic affection offered by custom and spread out over time. i think of the ru paul straight boys--the metro boy who fell in love with himself as a girl--the kind of deep, rich, stunningly beautiful vulnerability involved in getting free enough to be real. who could withstand transformation without falling? so terribly in love? with life? this moment meets this moment meets this moment. i look up to the images of places having been traveled by my dear friend. i look up at the words carefully penned as lists. i look up at the ideas of the stories now telling themselves out loud in the object collections of the still lives here assembled. i consider what charges the air and light, the dreary surround, the drizzle of rain after earthquake on this day of opening days in this now. i consider the park on the corner, the dream of this day now waking up in itself. i go to find the warrior princess and let this moment's awareness fall to my feet. all these stories of shoes unfolding in pictures shared through mobile uploads. projects of everyday reality. projects of the everyday, the temporal reality tested over time, the truth of what gets made up between the words and spaces. i consider the virtual worlds of what is not alive and rooted and growing in the ground. i consider the bedoin romance of a traveling life. i consider the comforts of what feels like home. i consider that it is possible to always take it with you.... the real ones, where you are always safe and deeply loved, these don't hold you in them forever--but there is something in them you can plant, can root inside the heart, can believe and breathe into as true, can take form in the formlessness of time, and bend and break open and continue to co-create more spaciously as roots expand and grow, push their way out of things that attempt to contain them--trees grow, forever, in the connection to water and each other. i feel the roots sprout out of my feet--moving wide in circles of reaching. i consider what it is to have them spread under the ground ahead of me--making the path on which i can wear down the heels of my plastic shoes.
oh, for the who knows where this is goingness of word journeys...
i lay down the track. i put in the miles.
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