and all shall break…the golden embers of the fading day…the last remnants of the sunset glowing like edgeless reunions of space and time. 

Today we scaled the source of beauty…pulled back its thousand layers…sucked up gallons of pure, sweet, mountain air and filled our cells with everything called faith. Today we breathed and believed and flew. 

Australia is a wilderness.

So here I am. New place. Too many clothes, somehow impossibly messy, somehow impossibly happy, indefinitely in pain. In pain. In disappointment. In the magic. In the dream. Living the dream I clung to so tightly and effortlessly last year. Exhausted. Wild. Fervent. Youthful. Adventuresome. Alive. Awake. Aware. In love. And so utterly and insatiably frustrated. Alive, alive alive…that’s what I have to remember. Alive. And how am I transforming now and into what and where and why. Life is so much more than passive. Life is golden. Life is coming and coming and coming. And somehow, at the end of the world…life is screaming. I am screaming. Always into the endless void…let there be no more, no less than this. Let this be life. 

I make a wish and the wish is for magic. 


I can feel the past creeping up on me like light, like endless ageless rays of everything I am, have been, could be, will be. Have to keep saying will be, will be, will be. 


“So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old.”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Let this day, and all other days before and below me…remind me that I am alive. That I am weak and querulous and incomprehensible from all angles save one. Let wind rip through my window and tear through my trees and get to the sinews and roots that tie me to my flesh. Life is always and ever more blending and rebirthing. 

Australia is a strange place. Wonderful and bright and fervent with energy and sunlight. Australia does not droop, does not dawdle, does not whine. Australia sits silently at the edge of the world and contemplates what it is to be alone. To be terribly small, terribly large and terribly light. Australia has tiny problems and big appetites. Australians smile through the back of their teeth and grind their voices at the shuddering hills. Australians wonder what it is to be other than themselves…when truly they are so akin to everyone. 

Look, I’m sorry to say. But there is no Australian culture. There is no Australian society. At least not one that is markedly different from other English speaking countries. Canada has its own unique climate to adjust to…a history with France and a fascinating indigenous history. England and all of the UK have a wild and dominating history…and while America’s history is not particularly long- our bold, brash personality is real. Is vibrant. Is a force of the universe. America vibrates at a tightrope frequency so loudly and voraciously the continent might just tip over and leave us all swimming out to sea. Australia is pastel. Australia causes no harm, does no damage, lights no fires. There is no beat drumming under the current of the culture. Everyone is happy, everyone is clothed (in the newest and most expensive fashions), everyone is dewy with the golden drops of sunlight they’ve just come from bathing in. Everything is Australia is just. Fine. And it’s just about enough to drive me insane. 

No. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE Australia. I am involved in a tempestuous love affair with Australia. I will love this magnificent country until the day I die and will probably never be satisfied that there isn’t a brief and and simple bridge walk from LA to Sydney. I will probably never be fully happy wherever else I go because I’ll ache for the sight and sound of gum trees in the backyard. HOWEVER. There are some things that I ache for. History. A sense of cultural identity. A burning. And something to fight for. Something to breathe towards.

And here comes the world, all bright and vivid and singing its own true song. And here comes another day, and another day, and another beauty. And another moment to run towards the mother…those great blue arms slapping against the rocks of the shore. 

Today I dragged my body through the winding streets of Sydney…slurping down chunks of coffee and bowls of muesli. 

Today I slept through stardust and waded into that deep pool of sanity- the bright blue ocean. Today I met people…looked them in the eye and talked to the sides of their faces and knew they were me. Today I sat huddled on park benches and squeezed into sides of buses. I slept on the bus laying across the aisle in the backrow of the bus from Seaforth to Wynyard. The buses here are like a dream. Clean and bright and newly upholstered. Everyone has all their teeth and sits quietly and calmly in their own bus world. I ride them for hours like a little amusement park through the sprawling suburbs of Sydney. Through the bright checkered rooftops accentuated with the great breaths of trees that wind up and down sparks of hills and splashes of the sea cutting into the hills like puzzle pieces. Sydney sprawls for what seems like days…talks to itself and names itself nearly every 5 blocks. Suddenly we’re in a new town. Suddenly we’re in a new suburb. The names don’t mean anything and the places all look the same…but the wilderness of names itself excites me. 

Life curls around me and keeps me safe. Life jiggles the keys and slides up the bannister. Life is low and lost and lingering and I am falling into a puddle of poetry with every lost word that whistles at me from above and below. I want to take the sea with me. I want to see the soul of the land. I want to run fire, hot spring step and golden into the breathless air of wind. Into the country that knows me. I want to dissolve all borders. The world is the world is the world and I can see that clearly now. 

I miss those states. Those dustbowl wind chimes of land marks bunched together like homes. I miss the terribly tragedy of America and the fine threads we all cling to that say something like “Freedom, Liberty and Just us.” I miss my brother’s music laugh and Josh’s soggy body that seems like slide like a worm after you. I miss my mother’s raucous love, her mysterious patterns and her bright halo that dances above her head. I miss Will’s incomparable voice, his boy scout jokes, his faith. I miss faith. I ache for it. 

So I guess that’s it isn’t it…no one WANTS to think about it. No one WANTS to confront it. So we sit before our demons and we bow down helplessly as if this is the only possible way that time could flow. As if we have chained ourselves to our own indescressions and it is impossible to step out of the game and look at our reflections. 

Well fine…maybe it’s inconvenient for you..but someone has to raise the flag. Someone has to sit in revolution and someone has to pound their fist on the table. Some change has to happen. There is SO much work to be done. Endless, endless work. Endless ages of plodding towards a better future…and most people do not even want to admit that there is anything wrong. I judge things primarily on whether or not they help us forward to where we want to go or not. And of course, who am I to declare where we need to go and why. No one. But the vision is simple and the vision is general and the vision is based on goodness. A future where we can live peacefully with the earth and with ourselves. Where we can focus on other human frailties and weaknesses and we don’t have to struggle for the very right to be alive. 

It’s true…it’s true…I don’t even know where to begin to begin to begin. But I have hope. I have fire. I have voice and I have reason. I have trust and I am going to SCREAM for this earth until my blood burns hot. And slowly, slowly, slowly…they will begin to listen. And we will begin the great mending. And we will begin. Together. 


And I will keep repeating. And I will keep repeating. Until the breath is sucked from my bones…we are more than this…we are more than this. We can fly, we can fly. We are magic. We are magic. Yes. Yes. We can be whole. We can be even just a step above what we are now. We can be galaxies further than what we are now. We have to start believing in ourselves. 


So. I am growing, developing. I feel more connected. I feel more patient. I feel more willing. Bright and fierce with energy. I want so much. I want so much. My dreams are the highest they can be. 


“You know this rock. You know it in a way that has nothing to do with calendars and the covers of souvenir books. Your knowledge of this rock is grounded in something much more elemental. In some odd way that you don’t understand and can’t begin to articulate you feel an acquaintance with it- a familiarity on an unfamiliar level. Somewhere in the deep sediment of your being some long-dormant fragment of primordial memory, some little severed tail of DNA, has twitched or stirred. It is a motion much too faint to be understood or interpreted, but somehow you feel certain that this large, brooding, hypnotic presence has an importance to you at the species level- perhaps even at a sort of tadpole level-and that in some way your visit here is more than happenstance. I’m not saying that any of this is so. I’m just saying that this is how you feel.” – Bill Bryson on Uluru

Well surely, today happened at least. And if for one moment I stand on the precipise and call out to the wind and shout my name to the reverberate hills…that might be enough for me. That might be enough for me.

Life wraps around me like mrrning dew and stuffs me inside of my pockets…life spins me round with querilous indecision. Life is small hands and bright courage. Life is today and today is a series of shouts and sighs. Life is grieving for all those too awake to be called simply alive. Life is the most wonderful gift of all and I am at the center of a hurricane, watching it all spin out from under me. 
I am thankful for so much. For so many graces.
I promise to my feet to walk farther than I ever thought was possible. I promise to my bones to live closer to heaven and earth than I ever thought was possible. I promise to strength and grace and truth that we have many more miles to go…and many more worlds to see…and many more fears to conquer. I am only a beginning. A seed of a seed of a root called life in a distant dream named Australia. The trees go for miles and all I can see are questions and answers without words. The meaning in the forest is so deep, so wide, so honest…I can barely hear a whisper of the name. Life barrels on like a bird brain, like a two-toned slice of hope. Life carols and sings and sweetens and hope hollows holes in the depths of your light.
I will keep following the curves and sweeps of mother nature…trying to find the beginning and end to her body. Trying to speak to the ground, to touch through the solid square nostrils of reality. 

I am running again. I am almost certain of it. Uphill, both ways, sideways and through. I am spinning in circles and dancing in dreams. I am courage and capsized and all but nearly myself. And I love the ferns outside of m window fathering sunlight like grace I love the calls of windless birds that cackle at the morning as if the air was seeping out jokes only they could hear. I love the silent sweet surrender of my body to the day…how the clouds roll over with white indecision and how Sydney calls again…once more against the bleating heart of the day. I love the bones in my feet that smile together, bending like mindless branches in a tree of certainty. Here we are, here we are. Once more again beating our hearts against the din of the day. Here we are, here we are, the light glows courage and my feet babble your name to the grand mutterings of the hills. Well dig in, dig in, dig in, Slide out. Let’s get grounded, let’s get rooted, let’s get miles and miles of movement between our toes. And maybe…things will stay like this forever. 

I feel much nearer to my heart…but less afraid to slide through time…much more constant in the waves and curves of my body…I feel, I feel…I kneel before the light of day and I say…this is it. This is time. This is grace. And this is me. And this is life.

Here we fly.

No, no. It doesn’t seem like we’re really here after all. It doesn’t seem like anything at all. It seems like soft gentle rain through the sunbliss…it seems like wide warm hands of God and glistening sweat and sweetness. It feels like memories. It always feels like memories…these sublime Sydney mornings. It feels like here and there mixed up in the wind and tossed out in the sea. Scrambled and slammed and sliced. In the city….no time seems to pass…the seasons bleed into one another like broken cement stones and clash and crash like white wisdom teeth. The streets gnaw and grind like molars and still and still…nothing stands still…nothing moves toward. Paint chips, windows glaze over…and yet…time sticks to the roof of the sky and sits blankly. As if morningnoonevening were a word you could pronounce with one mouth. As if fallwinterspring were a moment in time unwrapped. Out in the land, out in the country, out in the insect swell, time is a compass pointing towards the ever approaching horizon. There is no horizon in the city. There is no horizon in the city. Just uncharted waters and graphed out locations. Saying, saying, always always: I am here. Where are you?

Back home in the nowhereland. Where the time of day is setting. Surrounding. Where the time of day is chasing you down the freeway. 

Back home where home means more than a word. Back home where the time between here and now dissolves. Back home where a storm shakes the foundations of town. Back home. Brown teeth, wide roads, open trees splintered towards the sky…even in the dead of winter. Especially in the dead of winter. Back home where Nassau Street glows with its own solemn music. 

We were always inside of the world, outside of time. Inside of breath, outside of fear, of freedom, of depth. We were always floating along the sidewalk swept silver string of soothing sound. We were always and always something that was made out of a thousand nevers. This moment I am here I am trying to capture it. I am trying to tie it down to a series of adjectives and nouns that are always just a little bit more and a little bit less than the truth of what it actually is. This moment in time is taken up by the aching feeling from my muscles pulling away from one another with too much exhaustion. This moment is trust and fearlessness and bliss. This moment is silky black coffee and slimy hot oats. This moment is musical mornings from the window in Paddington and small white feelings of faith growing deeply within the bulk of my chest. This is my breath and this is my life and this is where I have come to bundle up my strife. I am here and I am thankful. I am here and I am anxious and exhausted. I am here and I am loving and impatient. I am here and I am growing, gasping and guttering for new life. For new life. For new life. 

Somethings are still in the making it seems. It seems I cling and I cling with all my might to this great anxious bliss on the horizon that seems so near I can hold it in my fluttering fingertips…and yet. Is so violently far that even to speak its name sends shivers down the length of my silver spine. I am lost in the middle land. The place with no name but every intention. I am not in Australia. I want to see the land…stretching under my feet like strips of silent razors ready to splice the sky in two. I want to want to want to say I am what I am what I am. 

I am swirling around the tip of my own tongue, tasting memories as they reflect and refract on the back of my bird boned brain. I am small and lifeless and starting to fill up like a balloon with wet hot soul. I am learning my own name, how to walk with my own feet and how to feed this particular ball of bones which is my stomach. I am learning always how to appease this great wind which rules my body. No one, I can say..knows any more or any less than everything that has ever existed. No one knows the way the light of the moon glistens….the way the subtle stinging songs of crickets pierce the veritable silence in your own eyes. I am silence and sweetness and I am ready to keep existing for many more. 



many more, many less…i’ve sank my seat into the finality of diress. this this this, this is how i want to live. with poetry coming out of my ears.