where the sky meets the horizon

we are always infinite, and it is a tragedy that we live in a state of constant forgetting. infinite love, infinite imagination. firelight and wilderness.

the snow curled summit of the season keeps swirling around me – sanitized eyes and lacewig goodbyes. i keep dancing – hitting the stage and hoping the moves will move through me. i keep burning beeswax, failing to be my best self, learning through words, wrapping up pieces of myself and sending them away on the digital ocean and knowing nothing at all. believing almost anything at all. inhaling, exhaling, reaching in towards the lit furnace – jostling about my worst monsters and handing fear to the daylight. for safe keeping. for stale cleansing. for stark communication. i keep finding new ways to love my little boy, to stare into his eyes and to keep the moments frozen in time. i keep inventing new ways to breath oxygen into my body and i keep wishing my mind was a little quieter, a little gentler.

we are always infinite, and it is a tragedy we do not live where the sky meets the horizon. live in the state of rain freezing to snow – endless transformation; courage; magic. let us blanket the earth in our everythingrememberance.

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ash to charcoal

strange growths in strange places / like unaccustomed travelers to my mind – how to shut it off, how to breathe out, how to remember who i was when i was barefoot and running across a bridge in Australia without a care in the world (and how to stop romanticizing the past)

new hallows now – cold bitter feet; wrapped, warped, bound, zippered, bundled bits of skin and shovels, harken the grey – harken the invisible sunset at 3:30pm where the sky just fades from ash to charcoal without a whimper or a sign to the birds. release me from this frozen tundra, let my skin feel the whip and lash of the sea once more.

slowly, brazenly, haphazardly, we bumble around our four-walled rooms, raging at the confinement of the season. slowly, humbly, mumbly, I curl myself inside out – swollen, molasses-fingered, reticent, fearless and fearful all at the same time.

white to white, the snow centers on our foreheads and presses inwards. white to white, it whirling dervishes around me – a bomb cyclone, a frozen apiary, a burned wish floating, a hungry season rotating towards the sun. white to white, we feel the color in all its everythinghue and silence. white to white – if it’s cold enough, the silence will sing.

2018

and is not the wild world calling? and is not the blue moon heralding – the call of ancient whispers turned anew / is not the world still spinning forward – and will the spring greet you again on the banks of a muddy stream – this is not a question, this is a reply. send yourself out, grow yourself wide, honor yourself truly. be honest. be clear. be productive. but be slow. be slow. be careful. own your shit. fess up, let go of being right. be grateful, be real, be giving. give more. give more. connect always. to the small and the minute. to the wide and the riverless. get oceanic. be wild, be free, don’t fear. hack at your best self with a pickaxe and don’t stop climbing. but climb slowly, consciously. pay attention. pay homage. stay focused. grow up. own up. be fearless. forgive yourself. forgive others. find hope.

2017

2017. And of course you come to my mind. And you. And you. And you too. And the rapturous hands, the wild-eyed stares, the firmament of dreams dizzying into space. And life splayed out in hues and tones – learning and listening and loving and losing and lingering. The fizzle and the pop. I rang it in with Dan and Rose at a Chalk and the Beige concert at Social. I fumbled and fizzed, got my first book published just 2 weeks into the new year. The news just tipped into my e-mail inbox like a little whisper. We marched and we watched the strange man take the strange office on a strange day in January. Then we flew to New Orleans – dancing about the candy-cane streets and soaking up coffee bean trills and trails of haunted alleyways, dissonant paintings, twirling saxophone solos into the night sky. Then to Key West, rising with the sun out across the horizon of the Gulf in the morning as Jamie ran about the porch and gazed over the ocean. And the rage I had at the world, at the news, at the amount of political information I was consuming. I was consumed. We came home to a new home and tried to unpack. Tried to unravel. And unravel we did. And learn about Kindergarten. And sink my feet in, my toes, my hands. And one day, somehow, I thought to show up to little old church in Newtown, and read a part with a man I didn’t know. And we walked to our cars under the little town streetlights and wished each other good luck. And we all laughed our way through the Philadelphia Story. Howling and calling for line and rolling funny words through funny accents in our mouths. The spring burst through the muddy earth – all tulip-tailed and bright-eyed wailing at the moon. The divorce gavel clung and bellowed and we built a garden together. And Jamie and I planted new seeds, and learned how to care for them, what to give them. The season spread and sang and sweltered, we played out our merry play. I found myself in passing memories, sleeping in the sweat of the porch on the couch, every night – just to gather the insect sounds into my brain. I ran about the streets of Yardley, I played on hollowed stumps. I laughed with you, I drank cider down, we curled out memories about the midnight bells of clanging little town curfews. I sang, you sang. I listened to you sing to me all the way home. All the way to your home. I hungered through visions. I kept your heart on repeat. I flew to Florida, I frolicked about with my cousin, we danced daisy-dreams and kept our inner children alive and well-fed. I choreographed Spring Awakening. Guzzling dregs of coffee and sweltering in the sun-fed grass. I drove hours and hours on the turnpike to Wilmington and back – as the summer sun set on the horizon and the toxic glow of heat haze settled around all that traffic-frozen metal. The skyline of Philadelphia in the mid-July heat, from the highway, all plentiful and reflective. I sat next to the cello in the orchestra pit which was 30 feet in the air on the catwalk in a big, resonant theatre in Delaware and felt my heart pound of my chest with this music. This ever-singing music. I remembered to be grateful. I drove myself home one final time and started again. In a little old theatre in a green, lush state park. With one man and one director. With two friends. And one stage. And we walked it, back and forth and back and forth. Getting the words into our mouths, getting our mouths into the space. And we laughed and we read aloud and we sang out loud and we joked our way into relationship. We bounched and lurched to through Ohio, Missouri, Arkansas. I tumbled my way about San Diego and Minneapolis. I pearled my way through the mountains of Pennsylvannia to Gettysburg and beyond. The summer stretched out like a violin – music on every whispered turn. And the leaves turned ashen and blood red, the world darkened with a breeze and a chill, and the yellows and browns came out of hiding. The world kept spinning, the breezes filled with applecrisp and wanderfeet. I found my dancing feet again, I met new people, I twirled about in mystery and confusion. I took new jobs, I shot so many pictures. I loved without abandon.

And here’s to you. And here’s to you. And here’s to standing in the middle of the street under the June moon in Newtown. And here’s to watching The Office on a twin sized bed with no sheets. And here’s to Jamie’s cracked open smile, his wide-lipped words, his knatted hair that dreds and knows nothing but wilderness. Here’s to cobble headed words and stagelights drenching makeup and tights and highheels and fake pearls and trenchcoats and wobble-dresses and fishnets and boots. Here’s to wind in your hair. To Mohonk Mountain and to fresh water spilling forth free-swimming fish. Here’s to roadtripping half-way across America to be able to spend some time with my glorious and gracious grandfather. Here’s to cooking, to making, to painting. To listening. To Nahko. To sweatlodge. To riding roller coasters in 19 degree weather. To fumbling for fingertips interlaced. To kissing on stage. To kissing in cars. To my own book in my own hands. To the snap and click of the camera. To the rage and reticence of never knowing. To the wonder of wishing. To the firmness of time, passing around me like a dream. Like a memory worth having. Like a June worth tasting. Like a December worth letting go.

My life is anonymous. My moments happen on a little street in a little town. My memories are my own. My moments are my own. But they are rich and lush and golden and textured and hued and my life is full of magic and growth and vision and sight and color and solitude and crowds and courage and breath and ferocity and love. And love. And love.

And the world spins on, and my heart furls outwards, and love buries me in a cocoon. And the snow drenches the sidewalk, and the sun searches for surrender, and the earth does her funny dance. I know you now, and I know you now. And I know you now. And I know more of myself, more of the earth, more of this wild unfolding. I don’t know how to unknow you now. I am grateful to know you now. To feel you always in my heart.

And the new year. We all need this, so profoundly. To be able to psychologically start over. It’s a profoundly meaningful ritual for me, and I am grateful we have an arbitrarily agreed upon restart date. For rebirth, for renewal, for release. This ritual is probably the most meaningful holiday we celebrate as a society, for me. Our consciousness matters, and is affected by the silly arbitrations we put on our psychological boxes. The dates, the months, the years. The strange ticking of an artificial clock. Our coding, our ways of compartmentalization and measuring up a life. It matters, it all matters. And I am grateful for the circle, for the cycle, and for the moment in between all moments – to reflect, to honor, to release and to begin again. To try to attempt to do better. To more magic. To all magic. To everyday magic. Always.

And always know that yes, without a doubt, and without a regret: you mattered to me. And you mattered to me. And you mattered to me. And we existed. We all existed together.

And everything always matters.

Everything.

wide-angle

mother and mother and i am always searching for land. for something to dig my soul into.

i walk across the canal – now, a bundle of frozen clay earth and a dimpling frozen waterbed. i catch my eyes on color – i recognize the season’s hues – the reds showing themselves in roots and shoots, the green holly leaves still clinging to branch, the red twinkle berries still round – nothing else abounds. the greens and reds, occasional – markedly hued against the backdrop of brown and greys. i hunt for my footsteps; my footsteps hunt for me.

I think about how badly I want to photograph the moment / I think about focus; about dilation; framing; I think about the shot; I think about my eyes like raptors; I think about the camera angle wrapping around my skin like a pair of claws ; following me / I sit with the desire to document the moment in a way beyond my eyes.  I sit against the canal, back against the woodline ; face against the ice ;  A man walks by with a huge dog on a leash – he makes a passing comment that I am little red riding hood, and he, the wolf.  I laugh / eyelash / I find folk tale tremors on my lips, in the ice in the melted bits of water / are they melted or did they never freeze /  Have they not yet frozen will the Winter freeze them will I be there to see it —  I think of the fairy tales following me; of the toxic romance that gave me a sick and weak heart –  I think about how important the stories are that we tell; how we must find better ones / I think about the reflection of the branch in the icicle spine that is cracking in the ice

And the Sun still warms ;; well not warmth, but light
the light stratifies every plant, every strand of golden hair rising from the earthsoil; the light hits with a different glaze; a different gaze; Winterises my polarized eyes
the cold codifies
the solstice light sinks closer to the horizon – looks for comfort in the mother – tries to cling close to the skirts of the solid – the sun holds fast, dips quickly, fearlessly, runs to the other side of the world – lights up my beautiful Australia with dripping season of color and fragrance – tips the balance, curls the scales, swells mangoes to fall off the branch. the sun plays with me, with the body of the earth dancing slowly; i remember there is no objective horizon, just the closer and closer from the further and further ; just the memory of an edge of a manufactured boundary ; a trick of sight ; a trick of being a flat vision on a round bauble ; of being a tricked one – an audience member — the show is grand; grandiose; full of grandeur. the show keeps spinning – the curtains hold back the tricks – so we can feel the magic. so we can believe in the magic. the funny sideways horizon line – the trick of objectivity, of subjectivity. it’s summer over there, don’t you know – just behind the curtain. this winter spell is a scene. is a song. this cool and icy distance is just a dance. one pirouette away from the swelter of summer. and all its realities. and the earth is dancing the other way round right now – showering my Australia with late afternoon swims and 9pm sunsets and twirling vistas that glitter with warm blankets of starlight. and here i pluck around the reeds and bones of plants gone dry and try find anything that isn’t a casket. and the showmanship of the horizon keeps glaring at me like a finality – like a rule. but i know it’s only the edge of the frame. the wide-angle camera shot set on a tripod, low to the ground, high shutter speed. i know it’s only the shot – the simple, cheap one-camera set-up. the room is round, honey, and let’s not forget that we’re spinning.
let’s keep spinning forward.
“the world is round, and a messy mortal is my friend. Come walk with me in the mud.”

i hollow towards the light

i, rabbit horn, sea monster, rattle death – i call sadness into my ribcage to light fire to my heart. i mourn the afternoons bathed in autumn light through the rose curtains. i mourn the ring of singing voices in hollowed tree stumps. i fear the bones of winter crackling towards the sky without relent. i fear the branches; the harness of the sky to the earth. i fear myself. i search myself. i become more of myself. i grow in to being a teacher – giving strength, welling patience, harnessing words. i hark to the light. to the purpose that petals my feet forward. i hollow towards the light. i hear my own whispers; i repeat action and action and action and i rest not wearily enough. i hunger, i rattle, i raise. i reach towards the light – i keep reaching.

rattle

rattle frames – art museum condenses me into hue – into paint and form / radiance and reflection // little boy rattles the air with laughter, grandfather sits with wise blue eyes, smiling softly, curling hands, 2 flannel shirts stacked on top of one another – warm bones. mama takes our legs through unbuilt houses – heaps of wood and thin board, rattling together like skeletons – november wind whipping through strange windows of rolling plastic sheets: my childhood comes back in an instant – all the half-finished crater houses spelunk-ed in our rapshackle, ticky-tacky development – the only tradition my family had. the only pastime. we’d hobble along the cul-de-sac and curbed, mowed fences to a shamble of bones lying wasted in the winter air – a house being constructed — unstable, something that would rattle in the wind


and here december turns ash of our flame / i was walking up a creaky set of stairs and i fell back in love instantly / and my hands ring around the rosie, and my pockets are full of gaseous and nosey words, and my heart is full of window panes and light-rivers / my school chatters and sings, bulges at the walls and sews together little bits of things lost and remembered / my heart pounds and dashes, dots, dots, dots along the path


and the smell of burning rocks – rocks with fire twisted up inside them / water steaming life from life / words pounded into drums, drums pounded into hearts, bodies swollen with honesty, feet trenched in mud and vulnerability / and the full moon glazing, and the full fire blazing, and the hollow of a hut holding sixteen people tight – and the mountain of song spilling out, and the cheer of bones against muscle, and the sweat – the sweat – the sweat dripping off every curve, every hollow / and the spill of water into pit, into steam, into conscious breath, into no breath possible, into breath into a sweater and stay low to the ground, stick your finger out of the tiny hole in the hut, gulp the winter air onto your skin and the heat – the heat – the heat / and the release – the gash of air tunneling your body, finally, finally – heart melting / exposed, ravenous / blanketed on leaves, naked skin against winter dirtearth – leaf bed, full moon canopy of black-branched labyrinth streaming towards the sky – streaming towards the sky – steaming towards surrender – and the surrender, the surrender, the surrender – the will power, the achievement, the strength – the release of ego – the release – the sweat, the swell, the season, the surrender, the sublime, the sacred, the sanctuary, the summit; the sound of everything

november wind

scoop me up, november wind. tussle me around like these burnt, brown leaves. leave me alone, big wind. leave me alone, biting chill, hungry coats, scratchy hats, bottomed out boots and swollen socks. leave me alone, coming cold and bottle necked branch billow breezes

saddle me with love – love the backsides of my knees, the places where my skin curls into freckle, the turn at the base of my skull where hair meets air. and i too, love the minutiae of waking up – of turning on the cellular limitations of liminal space, of devoting myself to loving every day, everyday. to at least attempt to find the glow of love at least momentarily – everyday.


I don’t mind the Instagram-ed glorification and beautification of life (if done right) because it is precisely feeding a hunger our society needs – the sacred versus profane – crossing the liminal space to the magic realism of everyday – providing perspective to the mundane moments of our life – honoring aesthetic everywhere – honoring the beauty of our lives everywhere – finding the sacred in the profane and lifting it up – elevating moments of life that otherwise slip by – consciously cultivating an awareness and reverence towards the formed beauty of our lives splayed out – dabbing art here and there – crossing the boundary lines between prose and poetry; between the pastoral and the profound daily. a meditation, a practice, a transformative tool for creating guerrilla art in everyone’s hands (just please don’t waste it only on selfies, dear friends and lovers)

show me how to show up

just show me the way. just show me the way. show me what matters to me, how to attain it – show me what i am – how to be it, how to find it. how to hang holly above the door and bless a space. show me what sacred space is, how to make room for it. show me where my soul is – how to poke it with a stick. show me what i love, how to love it. how to honor it. how to feel it beating inside my chest. how to stay organized, clear, resonant. how to light a candle and let it burn. how to be patient with children who have chaos in their bones. how to quell, how to find that meaningful. how to show that. how to show up, everyday. how to be more of myself. to find more of myself. to not be afraid. show me what i love and how to share it. how to give it. how to become more of myself.

madison avenue you are a bore

What a strange cobble-ball of a city / a wide jackal bitter of swelling concrete and steel – habits of skeleton and rock hewn together like braces / like an orthodontic fracture of an island / Cold now the November street funneling back pumpkin spice latte cups trashed like ashen words Tossed flippantly fluidly flagrantly / Graffiti-Tongued and loud-mouthed rapturous

I think about things I don’t need and then I think about it the sickness in my stomach that will not quell / I think about capitalism bubbling like a cystic tick burrowed in our Flesh / I think about what would possibly motivate me to want to wander haphazardly into Macy’s / to purchase a fluttering dress with a price tag higher than my IQ / The artificial flavors retching themselves from the cupcake corners, from the hot dog hollows
I think about all this sensory information coded in my brain like zeroes and ones and all the things that are not numbers; but are visions, but are colors, but are electricity, but are human strange ticking boxes ticking around me / the excess – Tell me something that isn’t a cliche, right?
Madison Avenue you are a bore / And the steam rises from the underbelly of the city, the steam flows hot tipped and cranking Even on to your prettiest of streets Even on to your glassiest of facades / Everything reflects everything here – just mirrors of Mirrors – shines back Not the sky just itself – just it’s own glass reflection Looking for itself In the mirror
I happen across the Empire state building / I find the word Empire is not misplaced
I write as I walk / each word finding more meaning to my senses then the street does / The task of documenting it a more thrilling task then living it / I hate this city, it’s true, but the city hates me as well – hates my lawless my freedom
What is necessarily the purpose of creating a magnificent space if it’s just for yourself
isn’t it supposed to be shared
What’s the point

The wound from which all other wounds source