the point of the thing to play

The point of the thing to play, of course; the point of the thing is to play — to discover; to experience; to taste / we are the universe experiencing itself, how many times do I have to tell you // we are experience machines — so experience: don’t categorize and don’t be afraid and don’t be afraid of sadness and don’t be afraid of sorrow and do not pride a lack of emotional life is somehow trouncing your human condition ; experience your human condition and love it and enjoy it and feel it all; That is the play of it all ; Separate yourself from the strange mysterious unfolding of life just far enough to see that and then dive back in to the dream // But grow emotional intelligence like weeds, hear what their roots tell you and watch what you learn from what grows and what stays and what is useless in this day and age and what is still meaningful and feel all the courage and connections and corners and spectrums ;; maybe we’re all on different spectrums of monogamy and traditional relationships and unconventional ones just the way we’re on a spectrum of gender and accept that different people want different things for different reasons and different conditioning and some of it’s logical and some of it’s illogical and some of it can be talked out and transformed and some of it is beautiful and some of it is deeply wired and deeply profound to your person-hood (or not) or your identity or guise of an identity // and do not burn yourself but let yourself burn, and do not learn the dogma but let yourself yearn, and walk not the straight and narrow, but tend the healthy garden that minds its own criss-cross neuron roots; let it be healthy ; Let yourself be healthy and catastrophic and a mess and a bundle of missfiring wires and scars and misinterpreted emotions and resolute consciousness towards becoming more conscious ;; towards becoming a better version of yourself ; towards becoming your whole self ; towards creating your whole self ; Towards forgetting identity ; towards letting go of ego ; towards living past the need to hold on to your ego ; towards acknowledging the beauty of existing inside of a form and creating an identity and create a piece of art and creating a self but also letting go of yourself but letting yourself let go of the world and letting the world create you and letting creation be your master and your masterpiece and your existence and your nothingness

Drive till you run out of fear ;; run till you walk yourself out of your patterns / sleep till you find no need to escape the illusion inside evolution inside the illustration of the dream of awakening ; life full of summer roses and June air breath –  Be an escaped moment inside of a visionary animal ;; Be an animal ; be a creature ; be a stalk of corn ; be a human ; be a consciousness and the dream of an illusion of a consciousness that finds juggled up puzzles and maps and questions and answers and congratulate yourself if you can understand you understand anything at all ;; the blessing of consciousness ; the blessing of being intelligent enough to understand intelligence — how much deeper and richer life with knowledge, with questions ;; congratulate yourself if you are moving outside of the vicious cycles that have perpetuated and perpetuated ; bless the hard road of creating the new road ;  The blessing of getting to be aware — all the agony ; all the vision ; all the tragedy ; all the creation ; all the courage ; all the fearlessness ; all the blame ; all the wonder that lies on the edge of sleeping and awake // be grateful for the opportunity to come awake / to see the world in 10,000 more dimensions and to understand how complicated and riddled with words and weary worry it is / to be able to understand that you understand more than you ever thought you would / to be walking-running down the path that is taking you where your parents never went; where your grandparents never went ; to be carving out the evolved, the emotionally intelligent, the progessive, the patient, the compassionate, the open, the aware, the conscious, the new path — that is flying you faster and farther than your feet were ever taught to run // the strange baffling courage of walking the new terrifying path towards the full-bodied Full-Life ; to be following consciousness to the edge of the water — and starting to swim

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.

a poem regarding my anticipation of your coming comment upon my work

do I hide in my words /
do I rest on tropes /are the tropes that I rest on words that seem out of reach or splicing / do I splice myself?
Do I show enough of myself (a comment I was recently given by the aunt) (but what of that comment truly) / am I supposed to show more of myself in my work?
How about this true fear – that if I am to peel too deeply and critique my own process too profoundly that the process itself will walk away from me like an old lover I have only just begun to learn how to lie next to?

Do I feel comfortable with the process processing me – fear not of the ‘you’ processing me – but with my own capturing of the process in my own butterfly net /
is it ephemeral /
is it based on my own strange conscious concoction /
is that why I dropped out of poetry classes in college where I was going to have to stand up and read my work in front of the class / do I believe it is a strange shadow in the corner that comes right through me?
Do I believe that I write or that words just funnel / do I rest on tropes / can there be any tropes after all

This is not to say I feel uncomfortable about the coming words / this is to say – can I make your uncomfortable more comfortable by starting somewhere first / by saying what I think I run away from in my own words /

is it true that you have to pain your way through the process?

Is it organic – the process that I am?