8.7.00

I come to believe that if I only go to the water all will be fine and so I go nearly daily and watch the change of seasons seeping into the blue and the surface growing downy in the just barely cooler air. I think I'm fine when I'm by the water's edge, eyes reaching toward the peaks that rise above clinging clouds and riding skyline purple. Purple. And pink. My god. A million fucking things stuffed into this head pinioned equidistant from peak and peak and the tether of a great ship caught fast around our necks and cinching us tight. This snapshot moment evokes a contemplation of the continuum so far. A patchwork of life that is mine alone reminds me of being larger than this, a sum of more than this moment. And this moment is forever, it seems. Yet already gone from here. I really felt that I could hold the tension between the peaks, the ship, and myself for much much longer than I did. I really thought that the blue and gold of this evening like no other steeped a different season of light into the top of my head and to the soles on the ground. And then had to move again; when I started moving again, every single scrap revolved round and round until a pinwheel of sounds, or words, or places I don't know the differences between them but Reykjavik and blue friend Tom others cinder sidewalks January morning bus bus bus monolithic blue of January emanating from frozen concrete and dead grass. Etc. Etc. Etc. Every single thing that was ever perceived is still there. And I am more than this moment, these days, these weeks, these years that pass like lightning. Is my life full? If I look at me without me I see I read what I read, I watch, I move and move I can't not write about movement but too I lie in bed curled sleeping mouse in the smallest corner and still for the swirling thoughts and I write and write and think but not really think like I want to think but I see the azure rising in the sun's absence and feel a centipede of grass blades beneath bare skin on an August night. I cook to feed this body that threatens to expel what I feed it, taking care to make it the way I like it garlic and spice and vegetable sliced just right. Or the bottles aligned carefully in the window waiting for flowers I never bring but caring tenderly for the orchid that grows while I'm away. And making tea every single night because I need the cleansing and the ritual. The cleansing, the creating, the cleansing. Again. Isn't that living? Haven't I been doing that all along? And I put my palms to my warm belly fitful with a mind at rage and feel the infancy and soothe her sweet worry thinking who would not want to put his palm here?

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