Harper Pitt: I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there’s a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so. 


Hannah Pitt: An angel is a belief, with wings, and arms that can carry you. It’s not to be afraid of, and if it can’t hold you up, seek for something new.


Harper Pitt: I don’t understand why I’m not dead. When your heart breaks, you should die. 


Joe Pitt: My whole life has conspired to bring me to this place, and I can’t despise my whole life. I think I believed that when I met you, I could save you. You, at least, if not myself. 


Prior Walter: But still. Still bless me anyway. I want more life. I can’t help myself. I do. I’ve lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they’re more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they’re burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children – they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal. I don’t know if it’s not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do. It’s so much not enough. It’s so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life. And if he comes back, take him to court. He walked out on us, he oughta pay. 


Mr. Lies: Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions. 


Angels in America is unbelievable.

There’s pieces everywhere. There’s pieces everywhere hidden in every shrapnal cloud, in each bosom laced around my own wonder. A bundle of trunks full of odds and ends of a life that lived. 

How fucking GORGEOUS has my life been.

Discovery is at every fucking corner. There is an intensity within me that is bubbling. I am within my own ravenous ghost heart. The golden light that flows through the window in my room is the most beautiful light I know. I am a seeker of all things and I keep finding myself within the pages of my own recompense. 

I’m going to need a momentous person to truly devote my life to. He will be a king and an artist and a muse.


Rip the earth in two with your mind
Seal the urge which ensues with brass wires
I never meant you any harm
But your tears feel warm as they fall on my forearm

I close my eyes for a while
And force from the world a patient smile

How can you say that your truth is better than ours?
The blind man sleeps in the doorway, his home
If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy I could have won

But I gave you all

I close my eyes for a while
And force from the world a patient smile

But I gave you all

But you rip it from my hands
And you swear it’s all gone
And you rip out all I have
Just to say that you’ve won

Well now you’ve won

‘Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. And then, one not-so-very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story. A story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that will live forever. The End. The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. 

This story is about Truth. Beauty. Freedom. But above all…Love.’

Oh miraculous Christmas. How did I get here? What magical arrangement of moments brought me to this bliss?  All the people in my life who have tossed me into the golden light…who have given me and received me and all the places and the moments in time that we have breathed into life…I am grateful to every bit of recycled magic that has filled my lungs with breath. 

And above anything in the world is love. And my inner child is just running rampant through beautiful memories and lost moments in time and misty glittering light and I am here in my room surrounded by everything. Everything. I am so glad I am a hoarder of things…it brings me close to myself. I am surrounded by pieces of myself. They are real and physical and they all connect me to this world of memory that swirls around my every finger tip and wraps itself up in my hair in bows and in tiny laughs that linger in the dust. I can’t figure out anything. Not a single bit of this world. But I like to think I have my own subjective words and truths and bits of magic that light up my own world. I have words painted on my wall and there is a tree that moved me deeply as a child displaced somehow…from its flowering beauty to a 2 dimensional representation on the wall…still unfinished…snow is falling outside these tiny old windows and I am laced in this indescribable love. No need to tie any of this beauty to any singular words- makes the edges of something white suddenly churn with colored words. I’ll stay white and snowy inside my room for a few days. Let everything trickle out. Let me family heal my broken edges and let me love radiate through them. Give it all love. Everything. I’m left with the same conclusions over and over…and today…I have no conclusions…I have joy in my heart…the kind of joy that could never be translated into letters and syllables. And whatever journey my mind takes…all the angles and patterns I find, dilute and destroy…they are all my path home. I am home. I am resting. I am healing.

I hope anyone…anyone reading this right now…takes a breath in to feel their own magic air within their own perfect lungs. You are beautiful.

I’m living my OWN life again. MY story.


Well heaven only knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal
A hurting human soul

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
And everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown up christmas list

What is this illusion called the innocence of youth
Maybe only in our blind belief can we ever find the truth


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH I just want to collapse in a puddle.


There’s this whole society that exists on the TV that is SO INSANE. There is so much presentation EVERYWHERE. Self-perpetuated society that is SO weird. We are so lost in this wrapping paper life. And I get it. I get why it’s fun to be an atheist. There’s a comfort in feeling higher than everyone else. As if you can see something others can’t. And there’s that same feeling that emanates from Christianity. Everyone wants to feel as if they understand something that no one else does. I want whatever faith I have to come simply from the poetry I want my own life to be.

I’m ready to be my new self. Whoever I am moving into being…I’m ready for it. 

Healing now. Healing.

But ugh. I feel like fucking Holden Caulfield. I’m still so depressed…and Christmas seems so contrived and heartbreaking. I miss my childhood. I miss before my family was broken. I’m so angry at all the men in my life who have continued to treat me like shit. Each and every one. Everyone I’ve ever loved. I’m mad at myself that I still care. 

But the beauty of belief…that permeates this season. Blind faith…but still.

I am connected to all parts of myself in all places and moments of fruition. All the things I touched…all the feelings of disconnect.

There is something deeply missing. Beyond things that can be healed. Just loss without anything that can fill those places. 

And there’s this desire to share…to reach out…to show off…because we are so disconnected from any REAL human connections. We are empty and reaching. Longing and loss. 

These pictures feel like little precious moments that have been waiting quietly to meet me again. I remember EVERY ounce of feeling within my body. People get frozen in time. And they speak so differently with time.

Being present carries everything. All of these subdued colors. I have everything WITHIN my presence. And moments are lost within a thousand spaces. Within you and me and the words that I want to describe it. 

And we really had these moments. They really existed. 

Do we all grow together as a collective unconscious? 

We are all trying SO hard to hold on to these patterns to make us numb. 

The things I saw. The things I touched. The things I claimed to be part of my human experience. The things that woke up my deviant soul. Memory is a fallen angel.

How can I say which part of my story really matters?

I love the child I was this year. And I love the sad woman I’ve grown into. 

And I don’t want to wade through old feelings and memories anymore. I want to discover again. I need Italy. Newness.

I could probably adjust to anything if given enough time.

STOP MEASURING YOUR LIFE based on these arbitrary things in your head that have been somehow implanted in your mind.

In my life I need to find someone who can LET THINGS GO. 

My love story is much more like Love Actually…with a multitude of wonderful love stories in my life…and I think that will be much more beautiful. They will all be mine and they will all be full. 

And this concept of romantic love…of hope…Christmas…they all flow from the same wordless river. Words like magic and faith and God and belief.

Love is always enough. It its many forms. In its infinite avenues. In the chopped bits, the cruel hands, the devastating eyes. In my mother’s grace and my father’s destruction. In all the people in my life who have ever shared this undefined wonder with me. 

And there is a time and a place for everything. A time for anaylsying and a time for letting go. A time for purging and a time for sorting. A time for healing and a time for moving on. And now that this is over…I can begin to recognize what was healthy and what was not…what strengths I might have in relationships and in dealing and in what ways I should learn to be stronger.  There are certain things I’m good at letting go and certain things I continue to obsess on.


Part of me
Has Died
And won’t return
And part of me
Wants to hide
The part that’s burned

Once, I
Knew how to talk to you
Once, once
But not anymore

Hear the sirens call me home
Part of me
Has vied
To watch it burn
And this heart of me
Has tried
But look what it’s become

Once, once
I knew how to look for you
Once, once
But that was before
Once, once
I would have laid down to died for you
Once, once
But not anymore.

Hear the sirens call me home

And then all your selves come back to yourself. And you meet in the middle of time. And all things. And all things. Linear trajectories, stories within stories, ceiling fans and shades of light and streaming senses and pictures of you and feelings of me they’re all here. All together. Everything is speaking today. Every stone, every pebble askew within the framework of the cement, every molding painting pinkish palid and all this light that is interacting with everything. Everything has something to say. Hello and goodbye. A passing. A connecting. Fruition. 

I love this place wildly. 

And I want to write all my beliefs down…at periods of time in my life…and compare them. Because things I believed a month ago I don’t anymore. I’d like to follow the evolution. And you always seem to think you’re wiser today than you were yesterday…but who can say much of anything these days? The winter light is eerie with memory and opening fingers. The world is holding me. 

Time to let go now. Time, I cannot race you. You win every time.

Nothing ever quite begins or ends except for in the constructs you allow to exist in your mind. 

The creation of a place exists within the energy that persists, not in the particular arrangement of objects that sit at any moment. Feel the meaning as it comes in AND comes out. They both exist. Release is its own creation. I permeate through space and then I keep moving. 

Ready? No. Good.

I’m trying to hold on to an objective sense of this place in time and it will NEVER happen. Give it up Lauren. 

And my compulsions are okay when I can recognize them, get outside of them, and laugh them off. Then let go.

Keep arriving. Keep seeing it from all angles it will keep calling to you. There is not one moment of arrival. Everything travels. Stasis is illusory. You can never feel it all…you can only get the feeling OF it. 

Shapeshifter. It’s even in motion NOW.

I remember what move in day felt like…life is unbelievable. And then it dissipates. It’s ALL creation. And I love the way this fabric feels on my muscles. And that’s what it is. I love the presence of that plate. Of these receipts and dirty socks and this one beer bottle cap sitting next to the remote we never used. I love the shape of that bag sitting there. It’s all arranged. But change the arrangement of yourself and you are still innately you. There is an essence that cannot be destroyed. I can’t quite find it or map it but I can feel it. I just want to feel my body moving through this space a little longer. Touch all the objects that carry your various presences and see what they tell you about how you’ve evolved. Every surface is drenched in my soul. Empty wrappers and itchy carpets…those times Adam and I fell asleep on the floor…when we watched Firefly. The program from The Revival…September is so VIVID in my head. All the places my objects have shown me. It’s ok to be a materialist in this sense…the embodied pieces of me that I put out on display in postcards and small trinkets and posters that say where my heart lies. I surround myself with myself and I feel home within 4 walls. Scottsboro playbill…when I really thought that the awkwardness was just a passing phase. Hah. I entered a child in love and I leave a broken hearted woman in shambles. But SO much stronger. Wiser. More mature. 

And I am confronted by all these preconceptions I had about this semester when I moved in…and how WILDLY different the world looks now. It’s so mind blowing. 

The objects get moved. The love transforms. Everything permeates. Osmosis. 

Pick up all your memories and pack them away. I am dragging you out of every inch of this apartment and throwing you away. Maybe placing the good parts in a box to take home and hide in my closet…but you’re getting excavated. THIS is what I needed.

And let some things actually DIE. Don’t presume that everything will be able to be found again or SHOULD be. Somethings DIE. 

I am an assembly of memories. I’d just like to whisper my fragments towards the moon.

My essence is hidden in the stolen smells and the lingering plastic bottles and the dirty underwear. A home is disassembling itself. I remember when you were here with me. We had sex there. But this is MY life. These are my objects. Not yours. Pamphlets from places we never made it to. Unused condoms, those are the worst. I can feel myself shifting with every broken dream. You’re so close within this presence that I can almost me sure if I turn around you’ll be there running your hands through my hair or kissing my shoulder. I can feel you moving about this place with me. But this is not about you. This is about ME. My life. My apartment.

Everything is just stimulus. And this stimuli is so wrapped up in you. The night I put these postcards on the wall while you listened to my soul. This is the final push. It’s helping too. Because I’m remembering the good parts again. September pieces are coming out of the woodworks and everything else is mine. And September was beautiful. And I remember that you.

Accept that not EVERYTHING is wrong. He is not wholly bad. He is not even half bad. And accept that we had what we had when we had and it is not THAT Adam that I need to purge…I will always have that love…it is THIS that I need to purge. Sort out the memories. See the light AND the dark. Recogize all. Differentiate. Separate into piles. Throw out the trash…and pack up yourself. Reclaim your life. 

You loved me SO beautifully. How could I ever hate you? How could I ever not love you?

Love moves through my life like I move the places I inhabit. She is following me and waiting to set up home somewhere new. 

Is there an isness to me or to anything and where is it? Is it a continuum? I am obsessed with sensation. 

It’s just making peace. Accepting. It’s not spite that I’m ridding you from me…its just fact of life. I can’t blame you for anything. What control do we really have on ourselves? How much of me is just inherent? If I increase my mental force and control can I change my being? Are you subject to the whims of your isness?

Humanity has traced a long path of evolution, somehow jolted from feeding off the soil of this Earth to fast food chains in wild, sprawling cityscapes of steel- we alone have transformed the landscape of our land. Human uniqueness remains an essential question that urges us forward and justifies our very life style, yet it seems quite an overwhelmingly vague concept of what it is precisely that makes us so unique. While it may persist to prove futile to attempt to speak of any objective answer from what is always a subjective being, it could be suggested that our human uniqueness has transformed not from something inherently special about ourselves, but from our disconnect with the land that breathes and feeds us. I assert that if any uniqueness could be procured, in would be in our disconnect from the earth which sustains us and in our ability and need to fuel our own concept of uniqueness. David Abram’s work The Spell of the Sensuous details this concept from a variety of poetic standpoints, and suggests a radically transformative view of humanity that the one that pervades our sweeping, post modern consciousness. Surely, this book is laced with poetic subjectivity and there can be no true way of identifying a solid truth, but this idea of fundamental truth seems moot in a post modern world regardless. So the question remains, are humans unique?

This word “uniqueness” presents itself a very interesting construct. It seems that ‘uniqueness’ itself can never quite be harnessed or possessed truly and objectively by a human mind- for we are perpetually locked within the essence of human perception. There is an inherent inability to ever truly conceptualize or perceive what sort of continuousness a tree might experience. There is a blatant barrier and cyclical wall in the struggle to see the world wholly from the singular space of human eyes. We can only see so far and only with the fragile limitations of our own elucidation, and as wise and seemingly evolved as we may feel, the true scope of our perception can only take us so far. We are structurally built with only two eyes and they are set forward- thus our perception is canonically cauterized within this specific field of vision, and our minds wrapped tightly around the lattice work of our own subjectivity. So to attempt to define, quantify or qualify our own human uniqueness seems inescapably hypocritical and barred from the place of a unique human being. The hand touches itself and feels itself but it is limited by the expanses of its own skin and its own inability to be the table that it touches. It can only know what it feels like to touch the table from the minute place of the hand. Herein lies the root of our own beautiful subjectivity- that which creates our innate individuality and gives rise to this uniqueness, while at the same time inhibiting our ability to truly see the individuality within a larger reality. Our embodiment both creates our unique mind and being while at the same time trapping this mind within a space that can only see itself through reflections and mirrors and never truly quite see the whole of a circle. The earth itself can only be half lit up at any one time- and yet, the earth rotates and that light spreads over the entirety through the vortex of time- never all at once, but in pieces and gathered moments of presence. In this same way, we ourselves can never truly shed light on the whole objectivity of the world and our uniqueness within it.

The more important question might be less of are we unique, but can we see and accept that we are the same? Is it possible within the human, modern ego to purge ourselves of this incessant need to be king and see ourselves as the flesh of the earth? Of course on a logical and physical level we are clearly and identifiably unique at the very level of our structural integrity and shape and make-up. However, is all made of the same star dust that is swallowed by the trees and regurgitated by the oceans and formulated within the rocks upon which we stand. And moreso it is the level to which our uniqueness is important which is the more probing question, perhaps. Is our uniqueness fundamentally empowering or is that merely a delusion of the human ego? And ultimately, is our uniqueness unique enough to cling to- to salvage and to value more than the uniqueness of anything else. Are we unique enough to warrant the disrespect that we pummel onto the earth? Are we unique enough to set ourselves apart so much to the extent that we disconnect ourselves from our own sustaining life force: earth?

Is there anything within our evolvement which is unique in a truly novel way? And even if there was, how could we ever know? There is an inherent reflective and reflexive quality to this question that cannot be moved past. We can observe biological facts, yet we cannot ever truly get past the walls that bind us to our own embodiment which castrates us in our own feeble minds. We can only see out of two eyes and thus any answer we may grope at is only a certain fraction that has been lit up by the place of the sun in the sky at any given moment in time. However, it appears that our uniqueness lies in our relationship to nature. Are we the only ones who have lost our connection and awareness? The only creatures that might fall into this same state of disconnect are domesticated animals that remain indoors or potted plants that fall within stationary living rooms- yet all are the direct, manipulated result of a humanity that demands a power over all things for its own design. And yet, there might be a world of perception that the nonhuman world might possess that we simply can not fathom, know or seemingly measure- hence the nature of it being ‘other’ and separate from ourselves. We are so innately separated- from nature, from animals and from ourselves.Everything breathes off the earth and with the earth- everything in innately connected, and yet we insist upon destroying the land and ripping out the cords of connection that draw us near. From a subjective point of view, it seems clear that no other living creature- plant or animal, is as disconnected from the earth and the web of life as we are. The processes which connect these nonhuman beings to the earth through food and through the web of life are simply transformed within our post modern world- a human diet can consist solely of processed foods manufactured in a factory. So how and why did this disconnect come to be?

We cling so longingly to some essential quality of ourselves. Bolstered by the ideas of religious thinking that pursue us into concepts of divine natural selection and materialistic measurements, we give ourselves our own sense of Godliness. If certainly our perception is our reality, and we stuff our perception with images and designs of a God that created humanity in his image and we grant ourselves the ability to place ourselves at the top of the totem pole.

Where is the moment of disconnect and is it our fault? Abrham suggests that there is an innate point of disconnect at the birth of language. Our ability to give voice to the world both defines it and creates webs of worlds within worlds that feed themselves and delineate an entire circumference of being and meaning that simply could not exist without language and words. He expresses that: “Under the aegis of the Church (Christian), the belief in a non-sensuous heaven, and in the fundamentally incorporeal nature of the human soul-itself “imprisoned,” as Plato had suggested, in the bodily world- accompanied the alphabet as it spread, first throughout Europe and later through the Americas. And wherever the alphabet advanced, it proceeded by dispelling the air of ghosts and invisible influences- by stripping the world of its anima, its physic depth.” (Abram 253) Words cling us to our tiny circles as well as thrust us out into planes upon planes of ingenious and imperfect realms. They weld unlimited weapons of new creation and new destruction without which we would stand splintered and unmoving. Language sets us in motion. And certainly it can be said that Christianity and a large portion of classical religious thinking pervades our sense of reality and in many ways, puts life out of reach- takes us out of our bodies and puts it out in the ethos somewhere. God is presented as something outside of ourselves and apart from this earth and thus takes one more step towards the disconnect from the earth. There is in inherent contradiction between this patriarchal, Christian concept of a God that must be served, and a loss of respect towards serving ourselves and serving our earth. So the question arises, can you be Christian and not be an environmentalist? Let’s connect the morality.

There is some sense that the divine should be something other than this earth, when in fact the earth itself holds more mystery than could ever be empirically measured. The puppet master in the sky image of God does not necessarily perfectly find its way into this thinking- it more feeds a rather patriarchal and in many ways, empirical nature of reality. The earth itself, however, speaks in abstract terms, whistles without words and continues to unfold in a myriad of matrices that never quite add up to numbers or letters.

The structural integrity of our entire society is founded upon our own human uniqueness. The very fabric of America is woven together on this incessant concept of “individuality” and to remove that would undermine everything we hold dear. The state of human disconnection is so inherently tied up in parallels of America and the only way we feel we can assert our individuality is by differentiating ourselves. Rather than respecting that our individuality will exist no matter what we do, and that there is more diversity in our union than in our petty attempts to separate. We cannot just trust in our own uniqueness, and so we claw and scratch at the surface of our suggested selves to procure something resembling a sense of self. It is this very need for a sense of self that separates us. And this separation continues to shred our disconnect. Every step of disconnect takes us farther and farther from our original sense of home. We do not trust our home, so we batter against it with name brands and plastic and something borrowed and something blue and something turning bitter at every corner of our figmented pigment shapes.

The trace of human evolution and our civilized trajectory of industrial revolution paves the way for this disconnect. Everything feeds into one another and every bit of our discoveries as a species we have used to further bolster this theory of our own importance. However, we seem to regard our evolution as something that defines us and sets us apart, rather than something that binds us to all other creatures. “The publication of Darwin’s Origin of Species and the Descent of Man introduced a profound tension into the anthropocentric trajectory of European philosophy and science. If humans are animals evolved like other animals, if in truth we are descended by “natural selection” from primates, if indeed fish are our distant ancestors and mice are our cousins, then our own traits and capacities must be, to some degree, continuous with those found in the rest of the earthly environment.” ( Abram 78) The problem, it seems, arises not in our inherent egoism, for this seems to be a staple of the human condition and by product of being conciously emodied, the problem may linger within our eyes. It is a loss of awareness and a manipulation of natural truths into our own contorted justifications. We are distracted and we are blinded by a pulsing white light eminating from our monitors. We are comfortable, controlled, complacent and blind. Instead of using the patchwork web of life to bond us, we use it as a launching pad to progress our own selfish disconnection. Our uniqueness is our justification for the lifestyle that we have become accustomed to and for the very foundation of our belief system and the way we have patriarchally shaped the world. We are singed with starlight and yet we insist on pummeling ourselves into cardboard boxes and plastic furnishings and styrofoam windows and cinder block wheels and peach fuzz ideas of some discarded American dream. And yet we are so deeply and innately connected to this matrix; this interconnected web of organic breathing life.

A more pungent question might lie in- what is it that we need? Certainly we have evolved from this disconnect, and it has acted as a catalyst to allow ourselves to progress with a pace and without a fair amount of guilt. Our Western philosophy has lead the way to technological advancements that indigenous cultures could not achieve. This does not inherently place one in a higher place over the other, it merely begs the question- what do we need? Is it more important for us to be Gods ourselves, or to have a connection to a God outside of ourselves? Is what we are aching for as a unified body more connection, more awareness and more forgiveness?

It seems slightly reductionist and simplistic to simply chalk up the entirety of our human civizilation to being somehow wrong or evil. Certainly, there is a disconnect between humanity and earth and certainly it is pillaging all hope for future sustainability, however can it be said in any conclusive way that our evolution was inherently wrong or did we evolve in the way in which we were bound to evolve? Does the disconnect happen inherently given our natural human qualities? Our embodiment both creates our unique mind and being while at the same time trapping this mind within a space that can only see itself through reflections and mirrors and never truly quite see the whole of a circle. And with the entirety of the world- it’s all speaking. The trees have their message and so do the TV’s. The fault does not lie within the TV- it seems a silly thought to try to find “blame” anywhere within the trajectory. And in fact, Abrham postulates as well that: “The apparently autonomous, mental dimension originally opened by the alphabet- the ability to interact with our own signs in utter abstraction from our earthly surroundings- has today blossomed into a vast cognitive realm, horizonless expanse of virtual interactions and encounters.” (Abram 265) An immensity of beauty, art and wondrous discoveries have been the by product of this inherent disconnect- it is a double edged sword producing poetry and complex human thought, yet at the same time, ripping us away from our place within the stars. Yet, is this the final resting place? Is there not a way to reconnect these seeming disconnect parts of a fratured whole?

Even Abhram is able to suggest, in addition, that an inherent connection to a certain place (in refence to indigenous cultures) is not wholly and perfectly ideal- it does not fully allow for an overwhelming global connection. “Such considerations must lead us to wonder whether the strange sense of human commonality made possible by the spread of formal writing systems is not something very worthy after all. Is there not something terrifically valuable about the modern faith in human equality?” (Abram 270) Yet he follows this by asserting that this faith is merely an idea and it does not consistently change the state of our world. There is so much more connection to find, and so much about our human lifestyle that must be reevaluated if we are to attempt to salvage our humanity. And yet, it does not seem valuable to entirely discredit our humanity- there is some sense of balance that can be achieved. More so, it is most pertinent to learn to decipher what is valuable in our disconnect and what is valuable to reconnect to. Not all is lost just yet. And the the world unfurls, the more this idea permeates that perhaps we are just not sick enough yet. It is not yet bad enough for the symptoms to cripple us. And yet, this remains the crucial time for awakening and for reconnection. Abram suggests: “A civilization that relentlessly destroys the living land it inhabits is not well acquanted with truth, regardless of how many supposed facts it has amassed regarding the calculable properties of its world.” (Abram 264) Truly, this is a vitally important time for the shape of the course of human history and our ability to survive as a species. And yet we are rendered helpless to an onslaught of conditions seemingly overwhelmingly obtrusive to our salvation.

And so where are we left? Somewhere between blameless shame and helpless unawareness? Do we concede defeat to the track of evolution that led us to a space in which we no longer feel anything but the glow of pixels and the shapes of wires binding us to our own robotic downfall? Or perhaps, is there a connection within the disconnection. There is life within our evolution and there is hope within all of our sham and drudgery. We cannot simply be compliant, however, we must actively participate in ‘reinhabitation’ of our land. Abrahm suggests that: “If, however, we simply persist in our reflective cocoon, then all of our abstract ideals and aspirations for a unitary world will prove horribly delusory. If we do not soon remember ourselves to our sensuous surroundings, if we do not reclaim our solidarity with the other sensibilities that inhabit and constitute those surroundings, then the cost of our human commonality may be our common extinction.” (Abram 271) We stand at a crucial precipise, one which has not been confronted in this particular way throughout the entire course of human history and one whose relinquishment is simply not an answer. We are obliged to move, we have no choice but to ignite, and we have every power within us to let go of our bolstered egos and pursue a future full of light, unity and reconnection. We are not inherently lost within our disconnect- we just must now open our eyes and move into the light once more.

We might or might not be unique in this way which we are able to disconnect from our land and our true home, and yet we are rendered sufficiently helpless to our lack of true knowledge. We cannot fully know our own uniqueness, if it exists or why- we can only know where our responsibility lies in a world that is slowly turning the earth to ash. As Socrates suggests that all is in existence, and learning is merely the process of remembering what was lost from the trauma of birth, Abrham suggests as well that we recall our reciprocity with the land and learn to awaken our senses within this alignment of reality. We need not lose all that has been created within the pages and leaflets of history and the volumes of poetry that echo infinite human voices- that has its own power too. However, we must believe, at least in some way, in the ability to connect within the disconnect and to weave ourselves back into the true power that awaits bubbling within the land we trample upon. Our uniqueness cannot be defined or altered by words alone- it is something far beyond a collection of syllables and sounds- it is the very shape of our souls.

I am fucking long winded. 

I believe that yes, we are subject in one way or the other, to our minds. However, our minds are entirely wondrous, magic-making machines. I believe in mind. I believe in the connection between the mind and the brain and I think this connection poetically parallels the connection between God and humanity. They are perhaps one in the same- different in context and shape and form perhaps, yet both part of the same mind field. 

Yes, so it’s all in my brain, but that is in fact, contrary to disappointing- that is MIND BLOWING. That the entirety of my existence can be created within a small lump of matter- what does that suggest about the meaning of matter? How is that not MORE mind blowing than anything else? That something special and unattainable is giving the matter that exists in my brain the ability to create ALL THIS while the matter that is in my liver cannot. What is so MAGICAL about my brain cells that can produce that? Ok ok. So if you tell me that my mind exists in a field outside my own conception or power and that it is part of some cosmic conciousness…then that is fucking cool. And if you tell me that the entirety of my human existence, all of my wildly complex memories and tastes and smells and passions are all stemming from a small sum of cells…WHAT does that say for the power of CELLS? I mean come ON. That’s fucking SICK. Brains are MAGIC makers. Brains are God. The collective unconcious is God. OK! Tell me it’s all in my head I’ll say that’s the MOST insanely magical explanation you could give to this world. My brain is my soul. My soul is my origin. Everything seeps from a spring that is a web of CELLS. So CELLS are CREATING my reality? FUCK YES. That’s fucking unreal. Stop thinking that that is reductionist thinking- that’s fucking magical thinking. Either mind exists or it doesn’t exist and if it does…then holy SHIT aren’t you excited to be alive? To be able to whistle within a web of fucking conciousness? And if mind doesn’t exist…then what the FUCK is going on. And why would you ever WANT to believe that we are just deterministic automotons? What does that do for you? Materialists are pussies.  



And then my Dad showed up. And then I dropped out of outer space and into my own subjective pain. How fucking glorious is it that we can care?

And it never rests. It never quite rests on any one place. I was feeling an infinite number of things coarsing through me. Trying to get out. Trying to get in. Forgiving from above, hating from underneath…staring with my eyes and trying to see someone I knew…trying to recollect ANYTHING and at the same time being FLOODED with memories I had forgotten were ever mine. And you were there and I looked into my green eyes in you. 

And it’s nothing. I keep trying to think of some words to describe this utterly unnameable experience and nothing rests on anything it just keeps moving and pulsing from one feeling to the other. It’s literally everything. I was sitting there and I felt the most surpreme pain and honest healing and wild strength all at the same time. I feel energized. I feel exhausted. I feel like I’m being pulled in all directions at once. I feel emotional. I feel like crying. I can’t stop shaking. I feel whole. I feel one and connected with myself. I feel older. I feel wiser. I feel like a child. I feel like a fourteen year old girl. I feel like everything is ok and I don’t even want it to be okay. 

And everything is so innately wrapped up in what I want the experience to be…what I want to procure from it…how I think I’m supposed to feel…how I remember you once made me feel. 

I feel shaken. I feel not quite alright. I feel like I have not quite arrived in my skin yet. And yet I feel so connected. I feel sick. I feel really sick. 

And I was sitting there looking at you and I thought oh gosh you are such a child. You are a little child in a man’s body. And I don’t recognize you. I don’t recognize you at all. But at the same time I know something SO deep is connected. And I saw DEEP connections I’ve missed and withering loose ends and such SCARS. Such deep SCARS. 

And it was just a life. It wasn’t my whole life and it wasn’t his whole life. It was just this life we had together for this moment. 

And he told me…she isn’t you. I know you think you were replaced…but she’s not you. And he told me she’s sixteen and fucking told me about all her troubles being a teenager and I wanted to scream. How dare you speak to me about getting her ready for her homecoming when you MISSED EVERYTHING. You missed. Everything. And YOU did it on purpose. You chose to leave and NEVER come back and then you try to piece it together by saying oh I’m here for my new daughter, aren’t you proud? That hurts. More than anything. You could ever say. Talk about ANYTHING other than the daughter you replaced me with. How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that? 

He does not heal me. I heal myself. You shake me up and wake me up and I heal. 

And I do not hate you. I forgive you. And I don’t want to. I don’t want to let go of my scar. It’s something that I HAVE. And I get to keep. No one can take it back. No one can heal me. No one knows what it’s like to have MY personal pain. So let me keep myself. And let me give it away. Let me transform the energy into power and use it. 

And it was adolescent pain. And some part of me is over it. And that’s sad too. It’s sad to know you’ve let your pain go. 

At the final moment…it’s a choice to let go of your pain. 

And even now…I’m TRYING to hold on to it. I’m TRYING to make myself feel angry. And I don’t really. Because what are you left with then? I don’t want to just be okay. To just be okay. 

So I have all this boundless, ferocious energy now. And what do I do with it? Which avenue do I take it down? I want to feel it all. I want to feel the rough edges and the anger and the pain and the loss and then I want to let it go. And then I want to funnel it into openness. Into fearlessness. Into forgiveness. And I want it to lead me back into a deeper connection with myself, with the world’s pain and with the stars that surely cry as well. 

And it’s never going to be quite where you want it or how or give you quite what you think you want…it will give you what you need. Because what you need is what exists and what exists exists. 

So okay. Strech out in both directions. Maybe that’s only way to make it grow. 

Let the beast out. 

And if it’s gone then let it be gone. 

And there will never be release from this jar of candied, broken hearts.

Your pain is a gift. Transform…not even just the pain…but the way you see it. My pain is my presence. It is my gift. And it creates me. 

Have all your selves of selves meet each other, shake hands and meld. Sew yourself back together. 

And it’s not about sorry. Sorry does nothing. It’s about acceptance and forgiveness. 

And I could never progress until I ACCEPT and FORGIVE MYSELF. I did something wrong. I did something wrong. 

And nothing can be lost. 

And the image of me falling in my head…I just realized…is not about loss. Falling from grace. It’s about LETTING GO. Falling and trusting the air to make you fly within your liberating FREE FALL. 

I feel clear again. Weightless. 

I just screamed and yelled and cried and stamped the floor and went running and I purged and purged and purged and felt things flying out of me. 

And now I am all of me. Every bit of everything I am. A child. A poor human. Someone falling through space, suspended. 

And when I forgive myself I get closer to Forgiveness itself and I can then forgive everyone else. See myself in every one else. 

There is no formula for healing or dealing with anything as wild and untameable as a human heart. It is an element of fire. It is an element of all elementals. It is the source of the source. The piece of our brain that is untouchable by logic. It is guarded with boundless flames and flowing tendrils of garden gnomes that keep this one piece of your mind utterly impassioned. It is the piece of the piece of the mouth of the river. The whole and the part and the objective of the subjective. My heart is my soul is my brain is my mind and they are ALL words and metaphors for the SAME unattainable syllable. I can never find the word for what I am. 

Now stop postulating and go ENJOY your life. 

Let go of it ALL and see what is left. 

And oh fuck he called me honey and I wanted to slap him. 

And there was this moment where he said he was living in Arizona and I said oh I had no idea and he said…isn’t that sad? Isn’t that sad you have no idea where I live? That’s sad isn’t it, how disconnected we are. And I couldn’t do anything but hold back tears.  

I am growing a great orb within my chest that speaks all languages and all of them come from the same place and return to the same place and it is an ocean of love. 

I exist within a styrofoam box and dormlife dreariness and arcadia sweatshirts and sheets over couches to decorate the hard wood seats and moldy microwaves and something of nothing.  

It never quite moves from the origin and it never quite comes back to the point of departure. The universe is expanding outwards and time is shrinking back in on itself and I find myself living backwards from the bottom up and with the insides of my heart draped like war paint over the sinews of my synapses. You can see right into my head when you look through my navel. You can charge right through my skin when you touch my soul. If I ever find the right word for what it is I’m never trying to say, I think I’ll finally cease to be. I’m dissolving into matter. I matter in my mind. My mind matters within the scope of matter. And I find always within the confines of forever. Those words touch each other in the darkness. All this robust wood carries my name in its letters and says take my reflections of light and cast them back on your Christmas tree. Light it up with pieces of me and cartridges of you. And what a family should be. And what a family was. And what the FUCK does that word even mean family. What a fucking construct. What a fucking piece of the American dream. 

We create these hoops so that we can measure ourselves so that we can know whether or not we made it. We painted this idea of family so that we have a marker. We either make it or we don’t. But NO ONE makes it. The image is a faded photograph and we are not painted faces we are embodied children that grew up to find Santa Claus was never real. Give me love and give me family but take away the words and pictures. My dad never loved me enough to call me his daughter so let me have Christmas but let me drape a real tree in my divine light. Not a plastic shrub in store bought fantasies. Give me love don’t give me presents wrapped in bows. Everything looks too nice nothing feels too weighty. The presents are just empty boxes. Give me your presence not your pretense.

How would you like it if I rolled you up in wrapping paper and gave you back your plastic heart?

It feels good to shred you again and again and all your money clips and scoundrel skin and dirty laundry but I cannot get rid of your eyes. These green eyes. The only thing you ever gave me and they see you in vicious technicolor. This year though, these green eyes are turning gold at the center. They are mine not yours. 

You with your perfect bag of gold and clanking sin. Pirate plunders and seafoam restlessness. You go because you do not know how to breathe. You move because you have no bone structure. Your spine is made of twine and you speak rumblings of a dirty dishwasher cleaning nothing but your own shallow running shoes. Keep running. Let me know when you find you’re not going anywhere. I never said goodbye dad.

I think you might just not exist.

I am full bodied nothingness. 

Yeah yeah. There is no truth. I know I know. I get it I got it I have it. There is no truth. We are subjective beings in a pool of mindpuddle. Give me a paddle I’m rowing towards existing. 

And all I can say is…my life happened once.

Yeah yeah yeah get the words out.

And in the drifting trailing shadows of color I find myself never knowing. 

I don’t belong here. I am cracking within these splinter cells. 

I keep arriving from all places in time and space. Understand this place in time and space. 

Everything is coming to fruition. And I don’t have any words left. Things that matter in the darkness. 

I see dancing shadows and chunks of skin moving around shifting colors and it is simply beyond words. It is wordless. 

It’s a being. It’s a with. A sense of being. 

Keep staring. Eventually he’ll look like a stranger. 

All moments exist. It’s a gravity to your life. 

What do I even want to say to you? 

I don’t think I believe time exists anymore. I think we are caught in the eternity and the illusion is of something linear that lines itself up within the universe to make us feel secure and satiated within a story. There is no trajectory. Just moments and moments of moments and I will always be running to you on Valentine’s Day in a white dress. I’ll always be in a lacy white dress. Nothing dissipates. 

And I think I have to travel down all these tiny paths of explanation just to arrive at what happened. Happened. And nothing needs to balance out in order to equate…the equivocation is in the wind. It balances all by itself and it makes sense within the mess of nonsense. 

4 parts reality, 1 part magic, 2 parts lost in space. The rest is dark matter. 

These are all the illusions. All of these spaces where we meet in social situations when everyone else seems to be a ghost and all the laughter little bits of loneliness. 

Disconnected AND connected at the same time. Get the words out. Get ALL the words out and see which ones stick. Fuck presence it binds me to something linear and makes me convinved that I am not just as much here as I was there as I was running to you in a white dress. Fuck connection…we are just as disconnected as we are connected. But both exist in the same space. Together. 

There is much more within this air than we can even percieve. We just live on the scruffy, surface crust of the earth. 

Love is the highest power and I bow down shamelessly in wonder at her ferocious, lacy wafts of blissful war. 

Let the words coral you. Let love have her way with you. If she gets in, you have everything. If she takes away, then fly within the release. This painful reminder of you is a gift of love. More love. Heartbreaking love. Love with her head turned away, asleep on a glass pillow. Love with a shovel and a blade of steel. Love is a monster and love is a terrifying angel. Save me. Save me by destroying me. 

My reality is full of shattered, eternal colors that never begin or end. They just breathe. 

People just drift within the illumination of stage lights. The universe lives within the holy walls of theatres. Dark abysses. Black holes of imagination and power. And stolen souls. Lots of stolen souls. 

The universe might really just be mindthoughtmatter. And we might just be subject to our own mind power- the lack of control and the blissful creative power. And we all meet here on this plane to greet each other and feel each other’s poetry wash our slimy sins away. 

You’d think I’d eventually run out of tears but it just keeps coming and coming from this place that seems like eternal sorrow. It doesn’t end it just keeps getting deeper and deeper and more connected and more illuminating. Your soul takes you. And your soul is part and parcel of the ineffable, inescapable, indiscriminate, eternally beautiful sorrow. 

Pain begets pain. 

I think in terms of how I’m going to remember or paint or describe this day instead of just living WHATEVER the fuck is coming. Don’t manipulate yourself to fit your own idea of what you want your story to be. Just be. 

I’m depressed ok? Let me be depressed. 

Because poetry is so much more beautiful than this wordmess we live in.  

And let him have his time. 

And I’d like to live my life like this. Hibernating within a theatre. Always and always these have always been the best days of my life. Theatres cradle me. At a certain period of time a theatre really begins to take you. Take me. Into the foreverspace.

My sinews are strapping themselves to the side of a formless shape.

And what will come will come will come. And it will arrive. Once you’ve gathered all your organic material and shredded your fears and ripped open your rip cage to get to your truest heart…it will just arrive. 

I feel good in a way that I haven’t felt in MONTHS. And actually maybe not ever. I FINALLY feel as if my life has connected together into one. I feel in my body. I remember I remember now…I can see myself and I can see it all happening. Maybe that’s what happens in end. Maybe the dust is finally clearing and I’m finally able to see this year as a year and not just a series of seasons ravaging me uncontrollably. And I can see myself and all the things I’ve wanted and how they’re real and why. 

Clarity, clarity. That’s what I’m after. Not simple joy…I want depth. Not perfection…I want presence. Not release from you or some way of discarding you…I want to let you live, let you go and I want to feel all the curvature of missing you and how you rest in me because it awakens my deep longing. And from this deepness I can travel more acutely into myself. And connection. I’m looking for connection. 

And I’m grounded now in a way I’ve never been before. 

And loss has its own presence. It is not an absence…but its own presence. And such illumination. 

And death I think is a final freedom. I’d like to believe that I’ll finally become infinite in death. 

And the air is so PALPABLE. I love that about winter. God shows himself so clearly in the air. The atmosphere cannot be avoided…the air is clear and bright and white. And it keeps waking you up. You can’t be sleepy in the cold. It jolts you into presence. 

And the funny feeling is when I feel this is just the beginning. Just the tip of an iceberg of awakening that is going to ravage the entirety of my life. Other times I think this must just be the end of my life. It’s too intense. Either I will pass through to a new realm after new realm…or this is just the end of my life. I’ve always, always felt as if I was going to die tragically young. Maybe that’s wrapped up in these overly romantic ideals of my life and my story…but this year has just been too much. I don’t know how to ever ever follow it up. Being alive…EVERY day…is SO intense for me. Walking down the street…I have vision upon vision…everything is VISCERAL in a way I could never explain. I can cry at any moment or experience wild bliss. I am attentive to a point of nonsense and everything HITS me with such passion and presence…I could honestly probably make myself orgasm at any moment. I mean seriously. It’s that intense. There is NO way to explain it other than I am either LOSING MY MIND or I am seriously awakening or I am just an incredibly sensitive person. 

And yeah. I almost burst into tears just being around you. What the fuck. I think we are becoming one and bonded even deeper in our shared sorrow and deep confusion. Neither of has an answer…neither of us has a release…and we’re both still stuck on each other. It’s sort of beautiful that even when we try to force ourselves out we are still so innately bonded. 

Do you secretly want me to fight for you? Is that hidden somewhere in there?

Maybe things would be easier if we could get away from blame. Stop pretending like you broke me or like there’s some justification for any of this because of what you think I did or like it would all just be simple if one of us was wrong and one of us was hurt and one of us was flying around moving on at the speed of light. This seems quite right actually. I always knew this would never end simply. I remember sitting there in January and hearing the way you talked about Dana and Carrie and, well, firstly thinking “red flag!” but also thinking…This is not going to end well. But we brush these things off over and over…because we are artists and sculptors and we try to create the perfect love. And that is not WRONG. We just lose sight so quickly. But I mean of course it wouldn’t end well…how could a love like that ever just end with a handshake and a hug and pleasant conversation. It’s what we get. 

At some point you have to let go, clear the way, not get cynical…and learn to see those red flags. And next time I fall in love I will speak up and call out the red flags. I will say whoa whoa whoa. Because all the problems in both Adam and Peter were obvious within those first few weeks and we brush them off that’s what we do that’s what we have to do. Peter showed very quickly that he was immensely depressed and unable to take care of himself let alone another person. But that STUPID idea that he can change or you can change him or even that it’s not that bad creeps in and then you are never quite anything but blind. And Adam showed so very quickly how unforgiving and harsh he was on Dana and Carrie. So unforgiving. 

And maybe there are just people who work well together in relationships…which is noble in its own right…and then there are people who find magiclovefire for brief shooting stars amongst a mess of ruble and poetry. I don’t think I would trade any of what we had for some stagnant, stable relationship that begins and ends in cardboard rooms painted white and labeled with cliche photographs of smiling faces and yes and thank you I loved you safely. I want to love dangerously and in the mud. 

And no. Maybe I’m not ready to find the one yet. I think I expressed that to him at some point…but I mean really. We’re so young. Let me flap my careless wings around for a couple more minutes. And if you ARE the one…then you will be the one. And that cannot be changed like this situation cannot be changed. 

And how can I ever think that he doesn’t care? How do I actually trick myself into thinking he really doesn’t care? It’s because he puts on quite the show.

And what word can you absolutely not disprove? Belief. Because everything is belief.


And I don’t know where you went when you left me but
Says here in the water you must be gone by now
I can tell somehow
One hand on the trigger of a telephone
Wondering when the call comes
Where you say it’s alright
You got your heart right

Maybe I’ll sleep inside my coat and
Wait on the porch ’til you come back home
Oh, right
I can’t find a flight

We share the sadness
Split screen sadness

All you need is love is a lie cause
We had love but we still said goodbye
Now we’re tired, battered fighters

And it stings when it’s nobody’s fault
Cause there’s nothing to blame at the drop of your name
It’s only the air you took and the breath you left

 So I’ll check the weather wherever you are
Cause I wanna know if you can see the stars tonight
It might be my only right

I called 
I just
Need to feel you on the line
Don’t hang up this time
And I know it was me who called it over but
I still wish you’d fought me ’til your dying day
Don’t let me get away

Cause I can’t wait to figure out what’s wrong with me
So I can say this is the way that I used to be
There’s no substitute for time
Or for the sadness
Split screen sadness
We share the sadness