September 29th, 2014

Two figures against the backlit church side. They sit on the wall
of a raised garden. One is a round older woman and the other a
skinny child. He crawls all over the garden and makes a game
of his movements. He stops and leans on the woman and for a
moment they are a picture. Then he bursts from her and nearly
runs into the street. The orange streetlight rests on his hair like a
hand. Stop right there, son, it says. And he halts sharply and then
slinks back to the woman who still sits, unmoving, amongst the
silhouetted plants of the raised garden. This animated story paints
itself under my eyelids and I see it still as I slowly turn the corners
to home. In my mind even now the two remain, the boy a trembling
life about to break into being, a tightened string, the woman a rock
around which waves and wind break. They stay like this, turning
slowly and mechanically in my mind, like figures in a music box.


September 23rd, 2014

I can knot my hair on top of my head now. It has grown.
These dreams though, they continue. Two in a row now.
They start in my brain and travel through my body as I
dream them, making my hands open and close like a
fish's mouth, making my legs kick off the blanket, and
in the morning my stomach holds onto the dreams and
I call out of work and cry, except there is no water left,
so this crying is the kind I do in every movement of my
body. It is more complicated now. I am acquiring more
hearts. They hang on a bloody string and I pet them
gently and offer them my own blood when I can squeeze
it from my crumpled, wrung-out heart. There are many
things about this that are wrong - one is the fact that I am
still talking to you in my head and dreams. Goodnight.


September 17th, 2014

Everything is art he said standing on the edge of the sidewalk
Music is art. Fashion is art she offered. Fashion is absolutely
art he agrees. Food is art. These lines in the pavement are art.
The light turns red and we cross in a crowd. It is art that we
cross in a herd; it is art that I walk directly below the stoplights
half-hoping one will fall on me so that I can rest for a little while.
It is art that I always watch the white lines of the crosswalk
below my heels, whether or not I keep to them, and sometimes
I do, and that is art too: when I do and when I do not. It is art
that later that night, though I don't know it yet, Jeremy and Caitlin
and I will drink and then cry together in a movie. We will sob
together over love and birth and death, some of us louder than the
others. Even later we will sit with Alex in a windowless bar and hate
things together. I will lower my head to my arm and count my breaths.