This is where I am: biking down a mountain, redwood leaves falling on me like hard rain, pedaling through the flat parts with a smile on my face.
In my bag: a sweater, a knit hat, a large book, some salve I made myself, a few plants I have collected, six nice writing pens, a journal that I made myself and two knitting projects.
My destination: the rocks overlooking the ocean, the backyard of a friend’s house where I will climb a tree, a friend’s front porch filled with sun, a coffee shop, or a date to watch the sealions with my three-year old friend.
What I’m thinking about: a cultural critique, a way to pay rent without getting a full-time job, my next knitting project, a poem I read, something delicious I will cook later, the moon, traditional uses for plants, how to make something, a song.
What I want: to have made or altered every article of clothing I own, to live on land with sheep and chickens, to build a shack with a lot of bookshelves and windows, to garden, a warm jacket with pockets that packs small and looks good on me, a skirt with pockets that I can climb trees in, to know how to make everything, enough of one kind of yarn to make a huge sweater, some french fries.
It is indeed winter in southern California, the sun low and blinding though warm and bright. My companions laugh; this resembles nothing of their winters, this farcical spring in a land that never pales. There are no seasons here, they complain. They hate this place. They don’t see what I see, [...]
November 4, 2008 – 1:45 am
[cue lights]
There’s a planet to the left of the moon and on some nights, like all the stars, it seems almost close enough to touch.
There are other worlds, but that is all so far away and really I only have this one to live in and to hold. And while sometimes I think it is [...]
October 11, 2008 – 8:12 pm
Dear Wes,
Being in LA always makes me want to write, and since the last thing you said to me as I walked out the door was “write me a letter” I am addressing these scattered thoughts to you.
Riding a bus over a long distance is always interesting to me, even if I spend most of [...]
September 30, 2008 – 5:08 am
In memory of Sally.
I knew a strong woman with an infectious laugh and a shining smile. She was murdered. When I picture her face, it is full of life, of fun. When I think of her last moments, I see it filled with pain and terror. This is obscene.
And we are left to cope, to [...]
September 21, 2008 – 5:07 pm
It is hard to watch someone die.
If your pulse drops below 20, your kidneys are producing nothing but blood clots, and you have a DNR order, you will probably die within a few days. Unless, apparently, you have a chronic, debilitating neurological disorder, like my dad does. My dad lays in a hospital bed, pale [...]
September 8, 2008 – 8:08 pm
There is a fire burning in the mountains. The smoke covers the sun and the light looks like the end of the world. Even the birds are crying… the plaintive sound of wild turkeys the backdrop of our final farewell.
I walked through the forest alone and disoriented. As always, I could not [...]
August 27, 2008 – 5:56 pm
There are sounds we cannot speak
only listen to silently,
clinging to despair like an old friend
and imagining away the distance.
The lonesome call of a train whistle sounds through
the valley like an old friend.
The solitude I sought was always waiting for me,
here, right in front of my eyes so blurred with tears
I could not see it.
You said [...]
August 25, 2008 – 4:59 am
I feel like you see me as though you are looking at a photograph taken of me taken on a drizzly November evening under the light of a streetlamp, one twenty-fourth of a second, captured in a neat four-by-six frame, slightly blurry. You keep staring at this picture and you like what you [...]
