alight

and here the ice rattles towards me like a promise. here the tree sparkles its ancient eyes like flecks of gold and silver hulking away from the branch. and here i see you again. and here i see you again. and here the minutes that live inside of my eyes pass like endless webs – like a melody in reverse, back again, back again, the words akimbo, like soft soldiers looking for a war. and here i break towards a new day, towards an endless horizon; here your eyes are like a patchwork of ash and curled nevers; stuck inside the sideways partitions between seats in a row; here you lie inside the little theatre of my heart, forever playing scenes we’ll never write

but the delivery of these half-imagined lines still kills me

DYFS in the dining room. whoever thought my life would get here? whoever thought i would be inside of these kinds of days? whoever thought my life would unfold like this – a bag of marbles and a rolling set of ramps and bridges — i submerge myself in the bathtub, all the way under the water, i know not how this day arrived on my doorstep // i peel back my curtains, i know not what i am supposed to do, but place one foot in front of another forever and ever, thanking each day for each splay of beautiful moments, thanking the light inside Jamie’s eyes for still glowing, thanking my feet for knowing how to walk, feeling my skin getting thicker every year, every day, every crisis / there is always more life coming for you, and there is always more strength within you you haven’t met yet /

i pray to keep you safe, little one, i pray you will not be damaged, you will know wholeness, you will not be afraid, you will not cower, you will not flinch upon approach, i pray you will stay alight through the dark night and all the flames ahead

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the season coming slowly towards

9/8:

I do it to make my heart full ; to make the empty spaces full of light / i do it because i can’t fight the love i have for it – because i feel like a whole person when I’m lost in the rapture of the stage / of movement / of colored lights and measured notes / to feel an organ breathing – a dozen people breathing in time, sculpting over a ball of air ; listening to the sound of the universe, responding with something to say, creating in the air – in the space between air and word and intention and retention and tension of musculature and heart ;; i do it because i ache to do it


the days turned in to battered rainfall, your life kept hiding in pattered wings, fluttering about, we’re all talking to butterflies now, my dear ryan.

your heart peels around mine like a curtain, we make promises to the way humidity feels on our skin, i curl backwards through the trees, the hunger for the sun and season holds fast on the leaves;; we take the reprieve of heat, we bottle it, we keep it tucked in our front pocket, we keep all the other pockets free for leaves and acorn caps and droppings of the season coming slowly towards us.

i call towards creation, i wait in the kitchen for it to hurricane over to me – i inspire myself with the movement of my heart towards words laced in love, i follow myself towards something somewhere that can teach me how to know remember how to let go, to find the answer to the questions of the current unfolding ;; of curious and curiouser – of the moments that don’t seem to make sense at all, at the frustration that boils like a furnace — i try to find the silver lining, to remember to flip the world on its head and shake up the snow globe, let it rain plastic trapped bits of white – i try to remember to flip myself, stop thinking of myself, look at the upside down roots of the tree, find an answer that i can live with ;; i wonder whether i’m creating it out of thin air, or if its sitting there in plain sight and my eyes are too weak and narrow to see it yet, curling into the bark – a few hieroglyphs of untranslated answers — i wonder how it all works – me and the sea and the trees looking back / i wonder how i work; my messy brain that keeps misfiring or re-hiring the old tired managers to come send the old foggy neurons down the wrong paths (the paths of least resistance, those comfy, soggy brain paths) ;; i amaze myself at how easily i forget all the ‘wise’ things i think i know at my clearest moments ;; i amaze myself at how easily emotion rips through the new brain paths i try to forge – a little icepick in my hand and a wall of solid brick in front of me // i keep trying, i will keep trying, i keep trying to stay more and more aware, conscious – light that brain up without fear; a glowing lantern leading the way, healing the fray, resounding towards the new day

october 17 –

Today was one of my all time favorite memories already now crystallizing in the twilight as my brain chews on it / opening the door to the golden house to see little jamie standing at school with his white backpack and his red shoes and white hair and his brilliant smile. Taking his little hand / little heart of mine in his and taking him into the school with me / gazing sidelong at every other little child, saying his full name with a grin and even occasional ‘nice to meet you’ / His little grizzly drizzle smile and his big mouthed baby words

And the chicory and the Queen Anne’s lace and the wild daisies and the orange leaves singed at the edges with red and patches of green not yet turned

Is there a right way to love the world?


october 20 –

walking into that theatre felt like a waft of warm air hitting me in the face. the memories were visceral – right in front of my eyes, twirling and revolving – the things most tactile were of the season – the heat, the junebugs, the sweat, the swarm of flowers and golden shafts of light…and i thought that was funny, considering everything took place inside. inside a dusty old theatre box glowing with life. rattling with laughter. swelling. swollen. it still wrapped itself around the rafters for me. it still clung in the floorboards. and what struck me too, was the fragile speed with which the seasons change. with which this is an entirely different place now. and the trees, barely hanging on to the little leaves that sheltered us. and the air, whipping in the night as we walk brick by brick. how quickly the seasons change, how wildly the people shutter out the doors / and linger in the pipes, and how words still listen in the wings, and how every word spoken still reverberates – sound isn’t lost, it just gets quieter and quieter – soft waves of meaningful noise dissipating forever. if you listen, with the right kind of ears – you can still hear it.


october 29

topsy-turvy world; topsy-turvy month – how have i never had a moment to write? about a new show starting, dance feet aching, old muscles twitching awake. about linger-lacing, finger-dancing dates; about october days twirling in the ache of color. about golden light and warmth of autumn trickling through the trees. about theatre seen and theatres listened to – about laughter captured and lungs filled. about music dribbling; nahko bear and rain-drenched adventures. about jamie learning – going to school – leaps, bounds and buckles. about projects and crafts and thread and wool and breath and school and teacher teaching, bonding burning, friendship rolling, love-lists lengthening, newnesses and newnesses and october settling in the air – cackling. thai food listening and crackle-box curries and molten hot chocolate and yellowed haybales and greened corn maze mystery. and flashlight secrecy – kisses caught on your coat. boots and bumbles and brambles and words. and words. and love. and love. and more love. and light, and life. and october death in the gorgeous grace of gravity.

same canal, but

exhale, little girl, exhale. let the world drain through you / pipe dreams, river songs, musket fire of mosquitos on the lane /

same canal, but the greens have been sapped and the oranges pulled out of luminance – the yellows curl inwards from the edges and miniature piles begin to curdle themselves on the top of the water. things beginning to pool, to flesh themselves out onto the top, to come to fruition and reminisce together. to bask. to release. always, to release.

am i ready for what’s happening in my life? no, almost certainly not. will i rise to meet it? i will try. i will try to release in to it – like the brave piles of leaves that let go.


how can i possibly begin to place these moments in boxes and send them down the river? do i have to? do they flow inwards, towards the ever-present me, perhaps/ and not outwards – endlessly away, as our imagery always seems to say?

the show ended and we hung our coats up and i placed an orange peel on a beige mantel and we peeled our pictures off the mirror (careful not to break the tape) and we wrote out thank you’s scribbled in jibblejargon pen speed and we gave gifts that fit sweet memories and we toasted lines that we were glad to let slip back down our throats and i cherished a few that i loved to spit out of my tongue and little green grapes got gobbled up and bang-crackle doors got closed. and i am grateful once again. grateful for the laughter, for the words, for the challenge, for the spitfire brain focus, for the growth, for the gift. for the gift. always grateful for the gift placed before me.


and michaelmas too – a swing of gravity pulling autumn light towards me – fragile light, dappled, angling, subtle, cool // the marigold dipped silks hanging limp and dancerly on the string tied between two oak trees. the ground splattered in acorn halves, children’s feet and the first few leaves. golden all around, golden all around. and laughter and little eyes clutching at golden light. and apples halves and quartered – and wheat flour floating in petaled clouds under the trees – bread dough rising in the morning – cobwebbed oven burning bright with captured light (fire or glow or autumn heat meeting october in the morning). and child hands rolling balls of dough into beads of bread. and family hands holding graceful lines from sweetness to sweetness. golden light, autumn breath, windly twists of trunks of trees growing tall, little child hands, little child laughter growing tall, little child hearts growing thick with golden light. plant a heart, water it with light, let it turn golden in the oven, let it rise, let the dough rise – do not fear; the days will always glow warm inside the light.

unexpected moments fall into your hands / like little boy in diaper running towards the twilit fountain / like you and i at peace – feet immersed in the water / like a strange sunset today that made nothing matter anymore / all forgiveness water, all painless time gone by / ripples, ripples and out / free from each other / neither bearing grudges, neither salting wounds, neither sharpening knives – just water, water, ripples, and watching little boy laugh in the light of the 9/11 memorial. two pillars of water galloping skybound. reaching. full of peace.

i am what i am what i am.

and what i am is a river.

and i am having trouble letting go again. ticky ocd brain is firing like a strange old ghost, rattling the neuron pipes. too much happening, maybe. twist off the cap again, resonate, sit, keep returning to little poetries you find on the side of the road. get his words out of your head. do not listen to the songs. do not turn on the fire. do not pass go. do not collect 200 dollars. kick it, kick it, keep your head above water. it’s too deep of a dive to take.

release, release. sit in the corner and let your leaves change color. it’s time again.

 

Carry your wound, carry your wound
Bury your wound, bury your wound
be wounded/firelight/capsized ribbon of sin/do not categorize your mud; sink
turn off the light / do not gaze / glaze over
sink

autumn hands

and now the fall crawls towards me ; autumn hands like bedsheets, like linen and ash and muscle contracting. stone bones curl inwards, hurricane eyes flood skeletons of summer hammocks. the sunlight starts to shiver. the weight of color begins to hunger in the green canopies. bumblebees and busy-ness ; the buzz of horizons burning black. embers now, embers now. remember how to shiver ; remember how to clamour for heat. how to tap your feet together like dorothy in the chilled reminiscence of bare feet.

new words take tumorous shape within my brain now. new play to open, new theatre to prowl, to inhabit, to listen to. and moments and mistakes and retakes and gamble feet talking into focus.

new children who gaze at me sidelong and wide-eyed ; infant-handed and perfect-mouthed. little fears tucked behind their ears ; little dresses approaching their scabbed summer knees. little lives splayed out in front of them like a game ; like a memory ; like a toy ; like a play.

and little me and little you, and little story still hammering at my life like a memory ; like a game ; like a play // like a song.

keep singing to me.