Feed the soul.

What to say? I'm waiting for Geico to jumpstart my car while I jumpstart my life? There's a battery that runs in the soul...feed it ladies and gents. After a year of throwing myself into an MFA program in New York while continuing with the last bouts of my PhD Program in Chicago and at the start of the summer looking at my dissertation and hiding in a hibernatory depression of terror I've re-emerged. It's all good. I'm ready to re-believe that.
I'll follow a mantra or make a new one as time goes on. I'll keep trying to meditate which is in so many ways what meditation and life is: continuing to try try, try. That's the important thing they say. Bring your mind back. Don't fret.
I've brought my mind back to this little junkyard of thoughts where a few lost internet lonelies see them on occasion. Don't take it personally. I appreciate your readership and it's smallness. This is probably the closest to an open-hearted post I've written and it's still got all kinds of shadows that distort the fullness that I save for poems or fictional characters.
I'm wearing a swimsuit under my dress, that's a good sign yes? Today I'll frolick and in another I'll plunge into work hoping to be free of it at some point? Our chosen prisons and liberations. And hopefully room to breathe

January is for climbing metaphorical mountains

I'm drinking coffee in bed...wondering where it'll all go next. I love that my life is this adventure spiral but sometimes it's overwhelming. I have to step back and rethink, reorganize...prioritize. Things feel wonderfully promising and at times totally terrifying because they're so wonderfully promising. That's when you keep climbing that mountain of success or happiness or love or whatever actualizing mountain of modern westernness you're climbing. The drive to climb is strong as is the fear that one might fall. Keep climbing little one. Keep on climbin' 

The So-Called Fake Relationship

Apparently there's a trend now to talk about relationships that never came to full fruition or that never achieved something or other as "fake." Maybe it would be better to call it the "almost-relationship?" Isn't it a little callous, a little sad to talk about ourselves as utterly detached as "fake" implies? It's all so black and white, all or nothing apparently--a dichotomy of being. But when you're in it, (it being a new something with someone,) you're in a sea of gray, of getting to know, of possible becoming. We live in a reality of almosts. Of possibles. Of maybes. There are no signed contracts or even verbal agreements of belonging and expectation. No strict social rules regulating our conduct. All you can do is swim through a sea of uncertainty and hope to come out alive? Thriving if you're lucky but often a little bit broken, jaded, sad. There used to be calling cards, agreements between families to even say hello and now there is very little that regulates relationship. If you're lucky, they're a good person who will at least try to be honest with you whether it's "working out" towards the desired societal outcome of unified baby-making or unified consensual bliss til rigor mortis do you part (or whatever your shared ideal is) or not. If you're lucky, their own values regulate them to be decent, to be kind, to think of your feelings, to take the time to talk things out. It's a brutal time to date. It can be lovely but it can be totally horrible. An oscillation of all the unknown heart and hormonal strings with very little understanding of where it's all going. Find your own road and pave it in yellow and hope, hope, hope to find the wizard.

Re York

I'm giving into the reality that a city is only as exciting as the love that it could be. When a potential romance dies, the spark that lit up that glow dims too. I wish it weren't so but that's who I am. I live for love. I write love. I create with it, against it, for it, around it, thanks to it always in endless repulsion and adoration.

I write in love with word that makes love. Love makes the word. The pulsation of my heart to the keyboard tap tap beat beat. Word, word. The beloved object between us, us the word. The beloved linguistic bliss. Or the utter lack of words and just the non-words issued by eyes and hands. A beautiful face that no amount of words could summarize. Only your eyes. Only your glorious eyes in mine. That's hardly a word. That's a perfect heartbeat. Beat. Beat.

Don't forget me forever. Sing me when you're older and you've realized that you've let us slip into a pointless lacuna. When we are more lacuna than present then perhaps we simply aren't anyway.
Aren't. Yet around all the gaps a piece of me will long to keep adoring those moments when we were blissful somebodies. Some body day I'll see you heart heart heart. Is it the you or the deepest of wishes to feel that way? How to separate the blissful being from the inspirer of such feeling? We try to extricate the essence so that perhaps it could be again.

Swish heart into place and adore the everything space that fills the lungs of a dinosaur in a fantasy novel about robots. Non sense permeates the desire to uplift so that it's ok that nothing makes sense exactly sometimes.

=

Being a woman is everlastingly the weirdest and most wonderful place in which I could have landed as a soul. It's horrible, because the objectification continues in a myriad of hidden, perverse, twisted and unexpected ways. It's wonderful, because the power that lies within the conundrum of being a coveted yet all-encompassing societal object is vast, deep, never fully exploited in magnitude.
The innocence the power. The sheep in wolf's clothing. The man in woman's. The power in innocence. The breasts that clothe the power. This costume, this entrenchment of baby hormones, this wonderful cultural masquerade, this incredible depth of feeling and exquisite strength. Empathy as strong as the pull of moon beams.

Take me as a soul object.
Place me in biological and culturally constructed Woman.
=

Ebbs and...

Today after an incredibly successful week, an incredibly productive couple months, I woke up feeling like a broken little piece of glass someone accidentally found in the sand. Sometimes consciousness has to be recollected like a lost fragment. Recollect how it got here to this non-place and this everything place.

I wish washed over myself in a worry of drownings. Always the fear of drowning. Except for literal drowning: the ocean is exquisite. Water calms and soothes, Lake Michigan can do this for me as well. A few days ago I walked out onto the beach which was a frozen-over glacial tundra, icy blue hills and valleys with brown sand peeping out in clumps. The water impossible dark blue behind the tundra hills. My soul was calmed immediately like a baby returning to the breast.

Memory foam

All these words to say to you apparently but they melt into the skin upon contact. The voids allow for words to become the material of contact. Later they can barely keep up with the impulse to kiss. Speaking is lost under kissing, touch itself confirms the word. The word is to be touched in my mouth, hands, between my legs the word begs to be spoken. The deep, aping word of the flower petals opening and begging. Speak body, the openings phrases for you to read, this braille we read in the flesh, flex with the tissue between sentences, comma, kiss.
"I need to reform myself to the mattress."
"Reform yourself to my body." 
Open the eyes or close them and the knowledge is the same. He/she will not disappear.

It was like that reassurance I felt last time after seeing my former (tragedy-inclined) chess partner. The feelings brought on by him had inspired this sense of self, this continuous sense, knowing that I'm still here, with or without him I'm here and somehow the reassurance wasn't that he was the same but that I was the same and would remain so upon leaving. I refound myself in a bleak little room despite the defiant air with which we said goodbye I was saying hello to myself. It was only a beginning in my relationship with myself.

So now upon knowing that I'm here, the knowledge of non-disappearances. Despite mortality, the knowing that all will continue to be and be. Even the seeming permanence of the stars is non-permanent, is old light. We look at ancient history when we look at the sky at night. Who knows what quickens the pulse of the universe thousands of light years away? What word chimes between her legs? Maybe she lays clocks like a hen, alternate realities ticking inside.

I'm hatching a few.

Object permanence is a constant concept to re-evaluate. All life long. If I close my eyes will you still exist? The young child doesn't know yet, mother leaves into a realm of non-existence. Mother reappears and she is reborn. The mind is remade every time mother appears and reappears. Birth and rebirth is introduced. Attachment is a series of relationship births and deaths over and over again. A constant reincarnation of the self and the other and the other and the self and the mirror that comes back come back to the mirror look at yourself, smile, hopefully. Smile. The grin on that face that's your grin to have and keep it's probably not permanent but you know that you could make it again it's yours to make. Smile, melt into the word and the skin the word the skin that makes the word.