"Let it all hang out. Throw the dice and your head back, have a long adjective laugh. Eat too much or too little and dance to something you love. To something that pierces your defenses and threatens to dull all the silences in your life with its diamond point. Sleep with vigor.

Buy all the things at the grocery store. Buy cheese and fragile cauliflower hybrids. The most colorful assortments and shapes in a cart. A plate bursting with life, a kitchen heated and shiny and full. Knives glistening with beets of(...) "

Just discovered this in my drafts. Wish I had finished it a little more to remember what I was thinking... They must have been nice thoughts.


little practice

The mountains appeared in the sky. Car doors slammed shut and birds flew from their nests. Steadily, a purr of automobile engines eclipsed the lapping of water. The asphalt on the freeway began to roar.
The air hung like wet sheets between a current of children, sagging slowly then interrupted in bursts. 

I'm still listening to that recording

Can you see me now? All wrapped in wool and denim. Perched on rattan, socks swinging. Staring at an apple in low light, glancing at a phone. Hair tied in knots and belly full of yesterday.

The hum of the refrigerator keeps me company between key strokes. I long to smoke inside but drink water instead. It isn't cold out, I'm just too damn comfortable in my lucid procrastinations. I should sleep but I rather write and listen. I feel like this is a step up from yesterday. At least I find myself finding myself on a stairway.

There's an embossed silver watering can to the right of my right hand. It's inexplicable visual proximity to jewelery is absurd. I use it almost every day and still, can't help but imagine where it came from as it floats from mother in law's tongues to jades.

I'm still listening to that recording. And the fridge. I listen to the fridge everyday. Trapped in a happy melancholia. I'm batting the inevitable. Holding on to the repetitions. I don't want to escape this feeling. I want to unravel it forever. Lost in someone else's thoughts.

That last bit, the whole bit: I'm unfounded and cranky and unpolished. But I'd rather be here, listening and listening and listening to this terrible recording and writing horribly boring prose than anywhere else.   

there is no thing but friend ship

I'm lucky to be sitting here. And I feel that. My phone is playing a terrible home recording. The heat has just turned off. I can smell the bananas ripening in the bowl. Motorcycles grumble in the yard. A girlfriend is bringing me cigarettes. My husband is out for a swim. I am alone, listening to a Delean sing a song, called "Joel."And my heart is lifting right out of this bar stool.

I feel so close to them. Years and years, hundreds of kilometers away, but right now, they are in my dinning room. Spilling into the kitchen, serenading my plants, annoying my neighbors. I'm so happy I could cry. I adore this melancholia.

I wish that they were here. I'm happier that they aren't. Happiest that I recorded this the last time I saw her, that I can't remember the last time I emailed him. That they are busy, buried in their pasts. That I have this, whatever it is, to remember them with.

Delean fucks up, "Oh god it's so hard to pick chords when they mean so much to you."

Ain't that the truth?

I miss you so terribly. My eyes prick. I rub my nose. I keep writing cause it feels so good to look back and read me remembering you. The tremor in my tummy, I hold on to and would prostrate myself on dusty wooden floors that slope like crazy, in a home that is not my house to say, thank you for this. I can hear our stories intertwining even now.