the heart may freeze
or it can burn
the pain will ease
if i can learn

there is no future
there is no past
i live this moment
as my last

there's only us
there's only this
forget regret
or life is yours to miss

no other road
no other way
no day but today


there's only yes
only tonight
we must let go
to know what's right

no other course
no other way
no day but today

there's only now
there's only here
give in to love
or live in fear

no other path
no other way
no day but today

don't stop believing

there are not many kingdoms left, my heart said.
but do not worry,
when i crown you wisdom in the next open field, there will be a throne and there will be a castle

the throne made of collected wrinkly sheets of music, the kind that my fingers have composed upon the roughness of your absence
the castle built of stones created from vats of water, the salty kind that falls from my eyes that i cannot bear to term tears

i believe in the disappearance of concrete, even as it pours from your mouth and your eyes

my kingdom is invaded,
but the invasion is not permanent
it lasts a long time,
perhaps an indelible impression
like the ghosts of trees we saw in new mexico from a fire long past

but there is green everywhere surrounding
hills, and dust, and sand,
creeks albeit manmade
cows albeit man fed

i am ready for the green
the sheets of music to be clean

our veins to be separate, a heart quietly beating out the songs of the past
so that i can move on to the lyric i will compose tomorrow

this is freedom, i believe.

to s.

i would kiss your hands
if i could

i steal horses in my sleep
chasing fields and fences in the dark, you know, hurdles that i don't remember in the morning

the early hours are hazy because you are absent even when you are near

and you don't understand distance unless it's physical, and even when it's physical

we are writing eulogies.


Carrie bullets out the things she want(ed) to spend less time doing.
"On the periphery of shallow time with people I wanted to know deeply"


She writes down what she believe(d).
- in feeling how you feel
- however much you need, that's enough
- a good friend cares more about the well being of the friend than the pleasantness of the friendship
- widening perspective
- in embracing the innocent that allows for bold hope
- in chasing the experiences that deepen real wisdom
- altruism with examined motives

... among other things

i have created my own mythology
haven't we all?
what are the gods and goddesses of our fate?
how many arms do they have, and how do we see them? how do we worship them, and what do we sacrifice in order to appease them?

the field below is far but soon
and i will fall in clovers and dew

the sky lingers above us
the grass beneath us
losing balance but holding at the same time
onto a truth and a peace that only within one's body can be felt
for external to us we have no ability to control peace

this is the time for exploration, i know
the places i feel safe
are not always what they appear to be

this is an exercise in growth, in understanding my vulnerabilities
that the reason why i can't let you go is because of these vulnerabilities

that in the night
at the darkest hour,
i think perhaps i am mistaken

that the only way to ever really know
is to let you go
and it will all fall away
no dew is left
and we are here, eye to eye
you to me
we to i.

i turn on NPR in the mornings and sometimes they do a report on China. in the background there are the murmurings of a language that i grew up with- heard in the womb, learned as my first language, travelled in China to chase in earnest.

i hear the familiar accents and tones but don't always comprehend. i think about flowers for algernon, and how similar i feel when i realize that my grasp of a language has slipped without my noticing.

it's such a strange feeling, to look back on theses and papers and letters that i wrote with my own words, but not be able to understand them.

i'm sure i could write more elaborately on this. but it's just a thought.

hellooo, nurse!

when silence is deafening, i like to put your hand to my mouth, to give it a reason to be so thunderous. i think about crouching under your eyelashes, and wonder if they would shield me from the rain. they say i laugh too loudly, but i retort, isn't it better than how they don't laugh at all?

she told me about how in this little town in the middle-of-nowhere-Texas, there are 2 cemeteries. there is one cemetery for the "white" people and a separate one for the hispanic people. her husband is from this little town, and she is from Mexico City. so she asked him once, when we die, do i have to stay over on this other cemetery, or can i stay with you? and he said, since you want to be cremated, i'll just tuck all of you under my arm right here and you can stay there forever.

without you i am nothing, and everything.

Carrie asked me if I was going to write about Colombia. She talked to me about being wary about starting a journal because she was afraid it'd be too direct of a line into her heart, being, and thoughts. I feel a little the same way. That something like this cannot be written.

She asked me what I remembered.

I remember the clouds. They were heavy, yet hovering, like the most tangible air, the most touchable nothing. The shadows on the bellies of each, the sunlight illuminating their torsos. I remember that they meant rain, or sunset, or dawn. They laid billowing against the horizon, never thin enough to hide, always coming in or leaving. They left their footprints on the sunlight, and the sailboats wandered around in their wake.

I remember the smell. It didn't smell humid, it smelled fresh like the sea and the jungle. and the mountains. I remember the smell of corn cooking. I remember the scent of seafood and of traffic and of laughter. The slowing of time.

I remember the wind, and the motortaxis, and walking barefoot on the sand. I remember the hotness of being burned, of flesh on fire and dancing to the cool safety of the ocean. I remember how the skirts flew, how our hearts fluttered and turned. I remember how the ocean soaks up anger, how the salt dries and hides tears and wandering fingers. How only joy exists in the water, and it is more difficult to keep joy away when you feel the sea chasing you. I remember the waves bringing sand into my swimsuit, I remember the sand pouring out from under us.

I remember the water. I remember the water seeping into the cracks of my skin, the space between us, my eyes and ears and nose. I remember how to float on my back, and how the ocean sounds when my ears are swimming in it. I remember the exhaustion of racing in the waves, swimming with exhilaration alongside an old man who swam with such tranquility.

I remember the old men, the little children, the tents, the hammocks, and the dogs.

I remember the rain in my face.

I remember the burn of walking up mountains. I remember the heat on the buses. I remember the density of patience and friendship. I remember the colors.

I remember how they dance for passion there. I remember how they step together because it's what they feel, not what they want to show off. I remember the music. I remember being held captive by movement, which is a curious feeling,

,because the only risk of going there is wanting to stay.

"A moment or two in each day which there is no Doubt."

1) when Sarah S. called me
2) when my coworker did the Robot to greet me

"simultaneously more and less fragile than you think"

NPR's 3 minute fiction is amazing.



I read this piece yesterday.

It Used To Mean The World To Me
by Alec Schoenfeld

The nurse left work at five o'clock.

I had written that on my place mat and you asked if it was code and I said no, it was what I planned on calling my first detective novel.

We were in our booth at the diner. I had finished my omelet and you were still working on your turkey club. It must've been late October or early November. By Thanksgiving you had gone vegetarian.

You remember this, don't you? We had just finished running in place for two and a half miles on machines at the gym. The country was at war but we hardly noticed. We knew nothing of monetary policy, nothing of the new Iranian government, nothing about Darfur except the green wristbands and that it was a grave injustice. We hung out on Facebook, at independent movie houses and corporate coffee shops. In theory, we were suspicious of big business. We checked our e-mail too frequently. Twitter hadn't happened yet, and the towers were still gone.

But we were smart in surprising ways. You knew a lot about medieval literature and Shakespeare because you naturally enjoyed them. You had played the flute in high school, had been quite good actually, and as of that day at the diner, hadn't regressed much. You had retained a good bit of your Honors French. I think you had just taken up knitting.

I had a passing familiarity with architecture and environmental issues and could intelligently discuss each for about 15 minutes. I could identify the names of several contemporary poets, and I had, earlier that fall, written a nuanced blog entry on immigration that I was still proud of. I was able to name all of the American presidents in order of service. This last talent, I decided, was the result of a plastic place mat of presidents I'd had as a child.

That day at the diner, I told you about the presidential place mat and asked if you wanted to hear me list the presidents. You asked me what I had been like in elementary school, and I wondered if you had worn pigtails and how often.

Is any of this jogging your memory? Can't you remember the hours we spent fighting boredom, trying to fashion new and exciting selves, trying to forget that — for everything we knew — we were mostly ignorant? We were ignorant of mortgages, of insurance, and of that subtle independence that comes from paying your own cell phone bill. Most of all, though, we were ignorant of the future. We knew nothing of how it would end, except that it would.

A day, a month, a year, who knew? I had a vision of you getting older without me but still calling from time to time. I knew it was a silly dream but wasn't sure why.
We couldn't hold each other tight enough to avoid it; couldn't hide under the covers and hope no one was seeking. We were young, so, so young, no matter how old we felt going out to bars and rock shows, no matter that we went out to dinners and paid with our parents' credit cards, no matter that we were already able to look at our childhoods — and each other — with regret.

That night, we walked back from the diner in the sunset, knowing our best defenses weren't enough. It wasn't five yet, but the nurse had already begun to gather her things.

someone used "eerie tranquility" to describe her photos.

since all i seem good for lately are reposts, quotes, Yelp reviews and one-liners, i thought i'd post Yokoo's interview as a featured seller on Etsy.


Tell us a bit about yourself name, location, affiliations, personal stuff.

I don’t mean to scare anyone here, but, to be honest, I spent a larger part of my childhood preparing for this question. I used to dream of being on Nighttime Talk Shows and having a host lean in and say, “tell everybody about yourself.” My father said that it was the type of question that meant you had finally become someone of note.

Ingrid Bergman was someone of note and would always poise when answering this question. I would poise, too. I would try, but I probably wouldn’t make it far. I would end up jack-laughing throughout the entire first segment. Catching the Giggles. I’d try focusing on the bridge of my nose to keep from laughing. My father said all Nighttime talk show hosts have miniature buttons in their desk to cue commercials when guests weren’t working out so well. I imagine my persona being very button friendly. And it would be pushed.

And there I’d sit. I would have blown it. Now the entire world would join me in knowing that I was not the type of person that entertains such questions. I wasn’t Ingrid Bergman, or Simone De Beauvoir. And I was in nobody’s note. I was Yokoo, and I made scarves, some of which were chunky.

Apart from creating things, what do you do?

Oh, I imagine I’m just like everyone else. I check pockets. I roll socks . I give tips. I skip pages. I fall asleep. I turn it off. I give directions. I scroll down. I make sure its even. I leave it out. I lock eyes. I write it down. I say thank you. I walk away. I pretend laugh. I for real cry. I say I voted. I wonder if he really loves me.

What first made you want to become an artist?

Strangely enough, artists don’t become. They either are or are something different. I imagine there are people somewhere in the world that see something extraordinary then shrug their shoulders and continue eating or whatever it is that they’re doing.

Sometimes I wish I was capable of being more like this. But artists are jealous enthusiasts. We are privately vain depressants. If we see something admirable, we feel rather overwhelmed to take some sort of action against it. Be it productive or barren.

Please describe your creative process how, when, materials, etc.

Well, Im not going to lie to you. A healthy dose of plagiarism never hurt anybody. When that falls flat, I find that taking my consciousness off of the process altogether really allows the problem to figure itself out.

Opening refrigerator doors does wonders for the dormant mind. I would bet that there must be a sort of creative composite in coolant. I find that staring blankly into the back of the refrigerator wall usually releases a couple of pinned ideas to rub softly on the forefront of my head.

What handmade possession do you most cherish?

Eating-out is one experience I have to be duped into to doing. Not only do I usually find the food less than appetizing, but it lacks intimacy and space. Making supper from scratch for the Mr. and I will forever be some of the fondest memories of being young, creative, and full of love/hope.


What advice would you give to artists who are new to Etsy?

If you don’t take yourself seriously, then neither will I.

it's raining outside, but i'm happy inside.

and i hope that someday,
you find that escape
that you're always wishing for.

so, recently, jeff luker's photography has had an impact on me. i think it's one of those things i was talking about just the other day, how nowadays there is some sort of reaction against how the digital era has created these "perfect" images. where's the human in the people?

i still adore fresh bokeh, as trite as bokeh has gotten to be. but i've always searched for the moment that makes us intensely human, and inherently vulnerable.

maybe because that's the place i've always been.

here are some from last weekend. at a very interesting wedding. i was wearing a hawaiian dress and a lei while taking these.

last night, i dreamt about playing the piano.

i love being in the passenger seat of a car
what does that say about me?

we chase cures for our embroidered hearts
blaming hormones, using needles, blaming seas
i think the frothy whiteness of the salt will find us soon,
and make us thirsty for regret
but somehow the heart continues to reach
for a sail, for a line, for a paddle,
i don't know in what color hearts do dream,
but i know that at the bottom of the water you'll find me still
holding my breath, too soon it seems

if you leave, could you just leave me with the sky?

it is motion that i crave

perhaps i believe that it will inspire creation in me, or at least, movement from within.

some things can't be scripted

this is my 100th post in this new place.

your hands plunge 100 stories down into somewhere, maybe my heart, maybe my throat, maybe my canal-like veins. it's like Venice out here, dirty and old and romantic. and full of water. what things carry water?
your eyes, when you try not to cry.

i like it when you try not to cry. i feel like i'm looking in a mirror, except your tears are falling out of MY eyes.

jump start my sorrow because when you turn your fingers in me, my ignition alights in your hair
you hold me like you hold your breath when you try to touch your toes, it's like this stretchy tension that still feels stiff inside

we're lucky, i guess, when our eyelids flutter with the same intent or purpose, when the saxophone actually big bands our hands.

the summer wounds our ability to stay wrapped up in cocoons, and instead we sweat out succulent desire, or maybe it's forced desire that acts and tastes succulent, i can't tell any more, but is there really a difference?
i think about jumping you or you jumping me in train stations, maybe an alleyway or two. jack and the beanstalk just can't take the magic anymore, but you can't take the magic out of me.

...bring may flowers.

april showers...

i told jorge that i was going to sing karaoke last night. i ran through a list of my typical favorites to sing at karaoke.
i got a great text message from him just before midnight-

"time after time..."

i definitely wish someone had been there to sing Shania Twain and Dashboard Confessional with me.
that's a confession in itself.

what if i fail as a mother
because i do not know how to sew?
what if i fail as a mother
because my hands are not warm to the touch?
what if i fail as a mother
because i do not know how to braid hair?
what if i fail as a mother
because i do not know the rules of soccer?
what if i fail as a mother
because i am terrible at arithmetic?

what if i fail as a mother
because i'd love my children too much?

what if i succeed as a mother
because i'd love my children too much?

wind in my hair
harley ride at lunch time

the sun sure makes a mark on that leather jacket

i realized that i think i write about myself, but i really don't.
i'm not honest to myself.
i need to write about jealousy, about insecurity. about why i feel the way i feel. about the past and its ugly stains, the kind that you wash again and again and they don't come out.

i need to write about being a twin, and being compared. about needing to be more than, or better than.

competitiveness lies in me not as a tool but as a weakness, where i avoid that which i feel competitive with.

“Hover between hope and fear.”

- Virgil

this is a tenacious morning, sticky with wetness like the words that slid out of their mouths last night
five point five is what they noted in their grandfather clocks and iPhone calendars
but numbers don't matter in this life,
not by a long shot
togetherness is not togetherness until you are apart, and the ocean of what it meant to be close hits you. you're soaked and you're awake now, awake after all of the tendrils of tenderness have wilted away, and you're harsh now. the colors have changed now, grey, slate grey.

the blue awaits.

"I dream. Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do."
— Haruki Murakami

she chased the light as it zig zagged across cheeks and police cars

the nights do not intimidate her,
it is your unhappiness that makes her recoil

I have a friend who made a joke once about the difference between men and women. I think he might have seen this in a movie once.

If a woman and a man are sitting on a couch, and the woman says "I'm thirsty," the man will get up and get her a class of water.

The woman might look confused and asked, "Why did you get me a glass of water?"
The man might say, "Um... because you said you were thirsty."
The woman might respond, "But honey, I didn't want you to get me a glass of water. I just wanted you to tell me that you, too, have known what it's like to thirst."


Men want to solve problems.
And that's great.
Women sometimes just need validation, or to voice a feeling they have and receive an acknowledgment.

Coming from different planets, it doesn't work all the time. It can't.

But you're still the yin to my yang, and my vulnerability is my own. I shouldn't rely on you to erase it.

i guess in the end it's not that there is a fire, it's how well you walk through the fire

"One of the answers is Ginga - an almost indefinable, mystical quality of movement and attitude possessed only by Brazilians and evident in everything they do. The way they walk, talk, dance and approach everything in their lives."

eric's wife said, speaking in Portuguese, that i have Ginga.
maybe i should move to brazil.

"waking up the morning in my own body"
- tm


dammit, i can't help but quote talented people.

touching strangers

this is weird, but i almost cried when i looked at these photographs. just because it's so powerful to touch. touch is so powerful.

Renaldi's "Touching"

her neck is most important, you decide
and this, with the meeting of the veins,
you play on violins

my writing is all the same.

my thoughts provide armour against sleep
but what, but your arms, could be armour for the sleeping?
and what turtle shells we crawl through
could feel the same as armour while we are asleep?

a friend asked me what i saw in shanghai. do you see shanghai in harsh tones?

i don't think so. i think i see the vibrancy in life. i remember the contradictory elements of the city- the gleaming, glittering, almost embarrassingly flashy skyscrapers.

And in shocking yet quiet juxtaposition, i remember the streets of clotheslines and trashbins, bicycles and mopeds, street vendors, noise and chaos. Though I will never claim to know China, or any country for that matter, this is the China I know.








He told me that for some reason, my photographs mostly make him sad. They feel lonely.
I told him he was perceptive, because I think I have a very prominent theme
throughout my art
That's why I latched onto the Midair concept
my screenname became rose in midair
someone asked why
and I think it's because I always feel between things
I'm floating in between sadness and joy, between coming and going,
but it's an observant place, it's rarely a negative thing

This is a place where i can see the inherent loneliness in man, his detachment, maybe-despite being surrounded by constant stimuli. This is the realness of our independence and humanity, isn't it?

when chance meets effort

do we outgrow love, like other things?

the more i see as the years go by, the more i am convinced that life is there as a veil, as a diversion. i see Life breaking and chipping away at my friends' creativity, their souls.

creativity and imagination are somewhat associated with youthful hunger, with exploration, with opportunity. do those things decrease as we get older and more set on a singular path? i don't know. i think outlets and channels for curiosity may change.

i'm not sure if i am just a bit crazier than most. some behaviors and events in my personal life might dictate that i am.

but is it better to be passionate, or live an even-keel, consistent life?

i don't know that, either.

i know i've tasted comfort, the kind of comfort that cocoons you, that separates you from your feelings so that you are numb with feeling but full of freedom and comfort.

passion can become shackles if you allow it to be.

we have this inherent desire to CONTROL things. but things we are passionate about cannot necessarily be controlled.

this post is a circular reference.

"Where, why and for whom we are vulnerable are some of the most perpetual questions.
They are also some of my favorites.

It's important to learn things about yourself."

- tm

no, her name was kim

i evolve when tendrils of history come to find me. the edges of its feet find me, toe me around, but i will not stand for it. i will parada it in its face, if it had a face, where the toes actually belong.

i sound like flamenco against glass when you find me again,
and i will not move,
i'm like Frank Sinatra's song,
but actually immovable and unstoppable
simultaneously,
at the same time.

His hello was the end of her endings,
Her laugh was their first step down the aisle.
His hand would be hers to hold forever,
His forever was as simple as her smile.

An ocean couldn’t prevent it.
A New York minute wouldn’t let it pass.
Does the universe decide for us,
Which love will fade and which will last.

He said she was what was missing.
She said she instantly knew.
She was a question to be answered.
And his answer was “I do.”


SATC carrie bradshaw
the wedding poem.

we greeted each other with our averting eyes
and you stood by the doorway
with a mug in your hand
drinking your coffee
black, that's the way i like things

and sitting beside me now, with a whispered palm
we dance like protection would feel, the type against a windstorm
or a windshield, perhaps.

yoga class again.


Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

Mary Oliver

加油

jia you.
my tears spill and i say,
a friend told me that one day, i will run out of tears.

i hope it happens soon.

my fingers brush over tinsel
the texture surprising your lips

i think about how it might be that you were in prison once

i think about how you interpret it when i say your skin smells like rain

I watched the gold paint on the ceiling.
the minutes sweating out from the air,
the Metro bus passing every 15 minutes or so. or at least it seemed like it.

i could feel the wetness of the Houston day, seeping into (out of) the hardwood floors.

my toes gripped the ground
my mind gripped you.


First Lesson


Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man's float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.

Philip Booth

some people always make you feel lonely
when you are with them

some people always make you feel lonely
so you want to go back to them

i could photograph the sky for the rest of my life
over
and over
and over

we stand in the center of the bridge, raising Montrose over 59.
i'm on your shoulders, singing songs in Spanish and waking the neighbors.

you let me press my thighs against your neck, your cheeks
(it's not the first time)
you let my voice raise upwards, my hands rest on your thick black hair.

cars race beneath us in oblivion, and we're holding our breath still.
it's a funny thing, relationships,
as each day goes past, it's easier to see beauty as ordinary
and "day to day" becomes this vacuum for the beauty of this chaos.

but to this day my tongue craves the salt of your skin, and
to this day, in self preservation, we hold up our walls of pride and speculation,
we act like we are in transience even when lying still
only thing i hear is your breath, moving through the curtains like freefalling light.

outside there is a man playing piano, and he has composed our sonatas of bee stings and serenades of loneliness

you are the kite flyer,
and you roll up my string carefully, delicately
and more often than not, you release me to the wind

i find my bliss
and i shall not be cold
for inside me is the sun.

on valentine's day, the air was cold. i could feel the asphalt beneath us curling beneath its skin, holding its breath. the wind crept between the windows and left its fingerprints on my cheeks.

you took me out, hoping to get on a ferris wheel.

and there was glass on the cold asphalt, protesting under your tires,
there was a phone call and i listened to your patience thinning below your voice.

but you took me anyways,
and we watched the fish, and the water, and the cheesy jazz duo,
we slowed down
i could feel the ordinary
its breath on our neck
its delight in my chest

and today, i strengthen my eyes and cheekbones against the palate of your hands


perhaps when we sleep our souls heave out their anxiety and sigh out their fears. my dreams stitch together with wants and desperations

i miss that which has not appeared
you hold me closer in the mornings, but i'm not sure if it's out of cold or out of love.

sometimes we drink in architecture while walking under arches of light

"I give away moments of my body or my heart each day.
And yet there are pieces of me I have never, ever let go.

It's the second realization, not the first, that makes me vulnerable."

- tm

"I don't need a synagogue," you said, "I can pray inside my body." You slept without covering yourself. I couldn't tell departure from arrival. You spoke inside my twice averted words -- you yelled when you opened the doors, and opened each door in silence.

Someone else is on this page, writing. I attempt to move my fingers faster than she.


-Ilya Kaminsky

i've had nightmares recently

i wake up crying, but not sweating.

it's a weird transition to the Awake world. i'm not sure if i'm living it or dreaming it either.

i had lunch with phil today, and i asked him, how do you know if he's the One?

he said something like the following:

"
well, love is like all things in life. the hardest thing to do is to Keep It Simple, even though it's the best thing for it. it's so easy for love to get complicated, when really we should focus on keeping it simple.

you know the person is the One if you want to be around them all the time. if, when they aren't there, you say to yourself, "this would be much better if he were around." if they are there, they make things so much more fun.

i have a friend who always goes on and on about how unsure she is about the man she is with. he's somewhere, she is elsewhere, and neither of them want to move. they both come up with excuses, like, no, i need to be here because of X, Y, and Z, why don't YOU come here?

and in the end, if he and she were the Ones for each other, the answer would be simple. nothing is more important than that love they have for each other. nothing would stand in the way. it'd be simple, I would be wherever You are.

that's how you know you've met the One.
"

that thing you do that bothers me, i wonder why you do it, because we see each other all the time

same as that thing i need (writing to me), you wonder why i need it, because we see each other all the time

boy and girl
that's what we are

i will move through you like wildfire through the trees

email to S, january 8th 2010

-


today i'm a melon, ripe and brewing
dressed in rind of golden beige

i feel cold, and refrigerated, but sweet on the inside

seeds still inside, rock hard and soft at the same exact time
turning and teething and hopeful and young, innocent like the flesh that digs into my tongue

i feel my entire body condense
in shades of purple and awareness
release, release like cables
and strung along like the cars along them

what's appreciation anyways? october anniversaries and wintry embraces,

i know who we are deep inside, we're old enough to know now but not too old to change

pick me, pick me
i'm ripening still

phil says,
there's a very easy way to tell if you are meant to do something. if, during and after you do it, you feel more energized, then it was meant to be. if you feel the opposite, then your heart is not in the right place and you should not be doing the thing you're doing.

sometimes i inhale more deeply in hopes of locking in the memory of the moment

So this was the happy ending to all the difficult times I had been through, and whenever I remembered my life in Europe, I would end with the story of a man passionately in love with me, and who would always be mine, because I had visited his soul.

Ah, Ralf, you have no idea how much I love you. I think that perhaps we always fall in love the very first instant we see the man of our dreams, even though, at the time, reason may be telling us otherwise, and we may fight against that instinct, hoping against hope that we won’t win, until there comes a point when we allow ourselves to be vanquished by our feelings. That happened on the night when I walked barefoot in the park, cold and in pain, but knowing how much you loved me.

Yes, I love you very much, as I have never loved another man, and that is precisely why I am leaving, because, if I stayed, the dream would become reality, the desire to possess, to want your life to be mine…in short, all the things that transform love into slavery. It’s best left like this–a dream.

–From Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coehlo

there are so many ways to know you are loved

why do we look for just those few?

I HAVE TO BE OKAY WITH ERASING BEFORE I CAN BEGIN WRITING AGAIN

"I admitted a lot of my own hidden secrets to myself this year.
I think light has filled in all those volcanic gashes." - traci