once life has finished with me and my many parts,
it will turn me back into the mush of matter, dissolve me back into the dissolution of evolution and i will float. i will flip and fold back into the folds of time i will absorb and absolve my absolution into an absolute zero. i will look through the cracks in time and space and fit my nubs of fingers and toes through the betweens and the belows. i will bellow to the stars and all our mothers and fathers  cackling through the void- HONEY I’M HOME. The sun will be made of honey and decadence and life will dance out streams of sentimentality. my prayers will form a great orb about me and i will orbit myself with all my withouts and i will finally forget the need to remember anything (especially my name). then all i at once i will know nothing and feel everything.

there’s no way for me to explain this. for me to speak my story when my language is not even human. i speak to the stars, i shriek to the sounds of streams billowing. my spine is made out of tree bark and my methodology is more math than mayhem, more chaos than creation, more moreness than lessness and no one knows what it feels like to stand and feel your body in 12 places at once. no one knows what it means to gasp a lung full of air and feel each and every one of your cells gutter out at the same moment.

so what can i tell you? what do i have to say? what do i have to say seems to be the thing i’ve been asking myself for the whole of my life. i have to say feel the world. don’t be afraid to feel every slicing, splicing, cocked head, chaos contorted moment of creation. i have to say go. run to the edge of visible light, turn back around and stand in the shadow of your former life. i have to say get inside the microscopic taste of the tongue of the sky and look over yourself from a hawk’s beak with a talon clutching the one last thread of yourself you can call your own. stop. stop listening to the posters plastered on Elementary school walls about punctuation rules and poetic fools. stop trying to rhyme every beautiful thought with the letter no. stop capitalizing on capitalism and dotting your t’s. i’m not saying break the rules, i’m not saying bang your head, i’m saying splice your head open and let the resounding shouts of light all around you seep through the cracks in your skull. i’m saying leave behind all remnant of what you thought you thought you wanted to think because someone told you it would lead you to eventually (with enough proof-reading, rewriting, cement block tied to your feet, editing, editing, re-editing) maybe getting you an A. or a B. or a letter or a number or a space in line to sit and wait through your life while the ocean, meanwhile, gurgles all the answers right under your feet. (6 million years ago, mind you, but still under your feet.)

say yes. say yes to the universe. yes to the glow of lights that flicker through your skin. yes to your path, in your way, in your time for whatever reason your rhyme meets your rhythm. say yes to learning, no to forcing your head into the 8×10 box of a textbook. say yes to stretching, reaching, pushing back and forth out of the gutter of your spine, out of the grime of your gut, out of the spleen of your soul. say yes to being on the edge and pushing forward. say yes to hope, to bliss, to love and to kicking the shit out of anything that stands between you and the glory of being fully alive. i have to say, come alive. come awake. come aware. come and become. come and listen to yourself. come and feel the feeling of feeling the universe. come and be a human. come and be a star. come and be a part of the stardust you can no longer hear, but if you stand close enough to your shadow, you can almost feel the remnant of. dusty and patchwork and spluttering out in little pieces, but that one breath is enough to live your whole life on. come be so much more than you ever imagined.

 

to love to love to limitlessness and all the spaces in between the between and the between. to words that mean nothing and everything and all things in between. to life.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1RAu4C/:EbHJcfjw:ApMueu.6/zze.st/best-ted-talks/

so this is what i’s like it’s like your brain boiling, your skin falling to pieces, your eyes bumping out of their sockets, and all your muscles and all your tissues

 

he’s to the stars, to the start of the start of the beignning of the world. here’s to the essence of emotion, to the energy of truth, to the course of cobwebs, cocked heads and cooking brains. there’s to the madness, to the method, to the mayhem and all the days leading up to Mayday. to mirrors and miracles and magic of myth and mystery. to bliss and boldness and burning vibrations in the sand. to years and years lost under the rug, brushed under the fire, sacred inside the rain, sacrificial inside your insides.

 

stop trying.

well ash and air and limitless hair, hope and holding and hungry great eyes.

It’s a day of spring, the tingling in the leaves that want to burst, that thirst for birth, rebirth and all the sounds of the sun.

it was brown and yellow and there were no colors to describe this sound, this beating drum, this harkening hum, this great wide birth of a girth of grace and the glory of a theatre. of 

it happened in a house, on a quiet little street in Princeton. It happened to us, because we called ourselves a family. It happened to a black box and all the voices that inhabited it. It happened inside my heart and inside my veins, they popped and squealed and surrounded themselves with shelves, selves and ceiling wax. And I think if I closed my eyes hard enough, I could wake up there. I could feel like gravity machine named home welcome me back into her wooden embers. I could run backwards long enough that eventually my feet would meet up with time.
I remember old cotton wax days in that theatre. I remember the golden light, the fragments of flight when we all flapped our wings wide enough to remember how to fly.

it’s all happening its all slapping your hands your eyes your ears and snuggling into the lungs. Things happen in theatres that cannot be written in words. Things happen in theatres that echo and release and wriggle and relinquish. Things happen in theatres that get stuffed under seats and swallowed my curved wrists and that swing like momentum. People get plastered to poetry of words and people start to exist as words escape their mouths. People listen and people repeat and people resonate inside the stones and throbbing cages of characters. Inflictions of inflections dot the surface of sounds and all the sounds swirl into a whirlwind of a window into a world we all imagine. We all imagined this world. We all created it out of thumbtacks, glue, wood, elocution, dedication, elevation, exaggeration and three thousand drops of devotion. Four part force and five parts participation in the presence. It discovers itself and it discovers itself discovering itself. It comes out of the lightness and it ignites the dangerous darkness. It illuminates itself in energy, ignition and intermissions of intention.

And currently we’re drawing on blackboards and boarding up doors and drawing curtains and cobwebs away from our creative minds. We’re dragging and dangling and coming together. We’re in the process of the process and we’re processing our own productivity and performance. We’re making and we’re bleeding and we’re boning our the cracked ribs of what is beginning to cackle. Of how this theatre is beginning to laugh. At us- our small attempts to take ourselves seriously, and with us- at our soothing soft humor that is humbling and fumbling through the hallways of our strength and sanguine serenity.

And there’s direction. Direction in all directions from the voice of a goddess. From the grace of a gravity wanderer.

My character is named Sandra Samia and Alexa Elixer and Elijiah Elation and Juniper Jack and Chez Chaz. And chingling. The downstage upstage centerstage offstage flipside of the wingside of the sweetside.

I was born here. In a little box. In a big theatre. In a series of theatres all named Nameless. Here’s a secret no one and everyone knows but so many forget. Theatres are keepers of souls. Theatres are graveyards for lost words. Theatres are full of the lost boys finding themselves manifested in stories. Souls seep into cement. Souls surrender themselves to sound and pounce out of performance towards the tune of

So let’s take it from there. Let’s transition and listen and linger inside lists of moments of some meaning someone wrote some matter of decades ago. Let’s story our insides and let our outsides reflect the upside of humanity- that we have things to express, vocal chords to press and best of all- people to listen. And for brief moments of moments, we have reasons to glisten. We have marks to wear. We have souls to bear. We have herenesses to burst into therenesses. And nothing and everything exists and resists.

And no one and everyone will ever find me again. I’ll be stuffed inside a sneeze box and swiveled inside a song fox. I’ll be being an I I’ll be seeing an eye I’ll be treeing my ties, my tries, my absolute sighs. All the surrender I have to give back to the world. All the flow I have to forge through. I followed the following until I learned how to lead my own leaning learning. I listened to the lessons until they lessened the blows of the blowing wind. I erased out my race until humanity raced itself back to the beginning. Until we blew embers on the crying child of Creation and renamed her Frankin-sense, Frankstein, Einstein, Myrh, and Gold. Paprika, dillweed, parsley, sage, rosemary and old. Rosemary, Rosalie, Roxie Hart and a heart full of character and connection. Books and bones and all the wings of birds already broken- taken to the hospital for a dose of flying- that’ll fix them right up. Tunes and tones and all the goodbye-ing of good buys, best buys, best friends, book ends and beginnings.

Doesn’t anyone remember memories anymore? Doesn’t anyone remember those lost days sparkling on the sidewalks? Doesn’t anyone remember falling sideways through time when we all.

 

No more words, no more recycled cycles of circles within circles.

 

So yes, I’m leaving. I’m leaving behind the wind and the tall oaks and the chimney sweeps of the castle where I learned how to exist. I’m leaving behind my heart.

today we swallowed the sun. beamed through the meings and we sat picnicking inside of our purposeless afternoon feet. we feeted and footed and tooted our horns. we slapped raspberry kisses on the tops of our truncated Tuesdays and we sang the songs of our nows into the everlasting gobstobber splinter of spring. today a teacher looked me square in the eyes and told me i had eyes that were worth meeting hers. today a group of no name noteworthy newspaper people sat in the grass and stared at the clouds until they began to move, or we began to move as they sat still staring at us or we shaped the cirrus circus of circumfrence of today, which had a date, it had a name, it had a time- it had a saying named April 9 two thousand and twelves, but that wasn’t the place and that wasn’t what the wind felt like and that wasn’t what the trees tasted and that wasn’t what was wasted between what i wanted and what i waded through. that wasn’t the time of day when all day lasted for just one block of eternity blocked out by the clouds. (the clouds are still moving, mind you, they’re just far past us now, in the ocean, i’m sure.)
the day dreamed me in, dropped me out, coddled my corners and gave birth to my bones.

 

lately i’ve been dragging my demons out of the clsoet, painting each one the color of starwberry surrender and then stuffing them back into my backpack, packing them up for lunch for litterbugs for luncheons made out of lunges. 

It was beautiful and ancient and peeling. it was one day or a series of a thousand days slammed into one another, poking and prodding each other and looking for a way out. Looking for the way up. It was Easter and it was brotherhood and sisterhood and all the particles of the sunset swelling into each other, forming the great triangle of trickery and truth. It was today and it was yesterday and nothing I had to be proved could be proven in this language or that one. It was a day and a dream and the place in between the seams where the seemingness of it all swallows itself whole. It was wholly holy and withholding the hornet’s nest of hunger and time. It was buried at the base of the spine of time and it was trickling through the torturous air of anger. I have nothing to write about, it seems. It falls. 

and the truth is, i think about you all the time. in the space between the space between i think about you in forests of green and white i think about you and me dressed in snow and piling through our futurepast.

so splinter your cells and salute your solution to the edge of the world. to the end of liminal space. to the rationality of being a reasonable flash of firelight.

i have wandered through the wonder and i have pounded through the premise. i have funneled through the fundamentality of fortune and i have driven my dreams back through the firelight.

today is a day of brother playing uke, sister playing words on tunes on humming instruments named keyboard- not strings or sounds but words and reflections of rhythms. you remind me of an automatone. you remind me of a magic feather. you remind me of all the memories i fell into.