Oasis of Foam and Blankets

I am in my bed and it is as soft as one hundred bottles of bubbles. It's an island of mohair, sheets, mostly clean laundry, a few belts, my one attempt at a quilted duvet, and a spider that jumps sideways and is the size of a quarter that was smashed on the tracks. It's all splendid, true luxury.

I've been spending a fair amount of my sleep time in a hammock, at the studio, drinking micro-batch coffee, reading, painting, dreaming. It's domain; and it's mine, I want to say hungrily, only that would be fibbing as it is not mine. Nothing really is, not even these bones are really mine. I come from and return to a concept I cannot comprehend. This in the contemporary manifests in building something with someone. Together, we are an odd mix of perfection that I does not cease to amaze me. So I've been a bit absent and timid (here, of all places. ).

In the meantime, I am sleeping in a hammock, showering as infrequently as the public allows, living off hints, hunches, and hope. That's the real kicker that last one there. It's the one that lets me be gracious and fall in love with the simplicity of all of it. I have never been happier than this morning when the outside sink got a stand built for it. It utilizes a garden hose and two five-gallon buckets. This means capturing a small amount of grey water after I wash my hands, teeth, mug. This means civilized. It's a different sort of thing than I ever done before. Fall in love with someone, having known them well first. I find myself terrified to speak, at times, as I am.

I strap on my skates, I step my leg over the bar of my bicycle, I feel my body in motion, become more specifically aware of gravity's influence. I like the feeling of supported free fall. Like a bike down a steep hill, you've got powerful legs and years of experience; it is nothing; wind and whir and confidence combine into a moment of transparent awareness before back in here down here.

May Hope Keep

Without even a small window I can still see the stars when I shut my eyes

Radical Means Root

I did it again: heated a horseshoe nail on the electric stove, cozier between the base and the coils, the meat between the bread, and grasping the tiny dagger with a pair of wire-handled pliers held the brand in my left hand heating the air that sits all over my flesh like a second skin. 

And I felt my flesh stir. I can't say if it was toward or away from it; that's so simplistic and binary. I have often found myself outside the hegemony, observing and synthesizing simultaioniously. 

That, at least is what I tell myself. 

Current History

The boxes of history are being packed
Books, sorted and boxed by genre: art, to the studio; healing, horses, herbs; journals and sketchbooks, of which there are two

I am a loss for memories

I have been so many things in this lifetime, the thread of similarities run deep
looking, longing, expressing the hidden knowing

I am a being without beginning

***

I want these days, nothing more than to put all of it right, in order, logically and methodically buttress myself against the chaos of life

The refrigerator's hum is constant