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.