Once upon a time, in a land where archetypes dwell…
I knew
Fingers tighten on the notion of a pen with a nib like a barb that snags aching flesh to bleed onto paper.
I knew a woman
Once upon a time a story’s sharp, pristine acid is immutable, the barest etch an exhalation of a truth to be found and a truth in the finding.
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones
“Writing things down doesn’t make them true though.”
And yet…
And yet.
I knew a woman I knew a woman I—
I strain to hear into the silence. The subtext is there, waiting to be parsed.
(I’m martyr to a motion not my own…)*













*poem by Theodore Roethke

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An Alchemy of Transcendence

All the new thinking is about loss.

In this it resembles all the old thinking.

The idea, for example, that each particular erases

the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-

faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk

of that black birch is, by his presence,

some tragic falling off from a first world

of undivided light. Or the other notion that,

because there is in this world no one thing

to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,

a word is elegy to what it signifies.

We talked about it late last night and in the voice

of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone

almost querulous. After a while I understood that,

talking this way, everything dissolves: justice, pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman

I made love to and I remembered how, holding

her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,

I felt a violent wonder at her presence

like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river

with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,

muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish

called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.

Longing, we say, because desire is full

of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.

But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,

the thing her father said that hurt her, what

she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous

as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.

Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,

saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.

 

- Meditations at Lagunitas by Robert Hass

 

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In transit

"Tell me now about entanglement."
“Einstein’s spooky action at a distance.”
“Is it related to quantum theory?”
“No. I mean it’s not a theory. It’s proven.”
“How is it all again?”
“When you separate an entwined particle and move both parts away from the other, even at opposite ends of the universe, if you alter or affect one, the other will be identically altered or affected.”
“Spooky. Even at opposite ends of the universe?”
“Yeah.”

- O>L>L>A
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Malta, 3:00 am

 ”People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces. Little things we can’t quite account for. Faces in photographs, luggage, half-eaten meals. Rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely. And if something can be remembered, it can come back.”
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Kingdom come

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Almost narrative

I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.

And I will not be afraid
of your scars.

I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.

― Clementine von Radics
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St. Petersburg, 4:15 pm

  “For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else.

And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!”

 quoted from Dostoevsky's "White Nights"
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Icarus

I tried a-beggin' on the cabin floor
But the churches have run out of candles
Turn one day in the cathedral
I finally lit you a candle
And all along the vaulted halls
The virgins did smile from their mantles


"I keep thinking, you know, that we'd have so much more to say to each other. But this isn't the way to do it. Here, come closer. Why don't we count to ten, love, while the sky is falling."

The brightness outside grew and spread. And screamed.

"I just thought we'd save each other."

"We did, darling, we did."

It's always just that little bit more
That doesn't get you what you're looking for
But gets you where you need to go
But the churches have run out of candles.
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somnium

 
a voice came and went, a sensation unto itself, slow and rough

breath ghosting across her wrist

glancing and white silences when her skin was awake

it hurt

in her mind's eye, every touch, all at once clumsy and graceful, was a memory,

that mocked as much as gave,

Dangerous,

(no, never that)

beloved



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V. 2.0

embracing rain
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*facepalm*

The shelving units have been ready all summer, but I still prefer to sit in the middle of piled-up paperwork, curled-up Post-Its, CD covers and photographs bound in twine that formed a curious barricade on one side of my room.

And whenever someone asks when I'd get around to organizing stuff, I just tell them that there are things that simply can't get done for shit. That answer, coupled with a broody undertone, somehow gives me the sinking feeling that I'm trying to talk about something other than the sudden loss of my compulsive urge to tidy up.

At some point it's going to be just a little bit rude to leave things as they are, cuz after all, he lives here too. Right now, he's lost in a shuffle of his own messy bits in the downstairs anteroom, but sooner or later he's gonna pick up on my slack - and it would only be when he'd start getting curious that I'd wrinkle my nose at the idea of conformity and begin throwing words out like standards (and probably something stupid like boundaries); then he'll tell me to do whatever the hell I want since I can't deal--

Oh.

Oh.
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Confessional

I planned on doing a cover of Empire of the Sun's Walking on a Dream in Amsterdam (maybe I still will); this version by Kate Miller-Heidke just knocked my socks off. A great interpretation with soul, baby.



Walking on a dream
How can I explain
Talking to myself
Will I see again

We are always running for the thrill of it thrill of it
Always pushing up the hill searching for the thrill of it
On and on and on we are calling out and out again
Never looking down Im just in awe of whats in front of me

Is it real now
When two people become one
I can feel it
When two people become one

Thought Id never see
The love you found in me
Now its changing all the time
Living in a rhythm where the minutes working overtime

Catch me Im falling down
Catch me Im falling down

Dont stop just keep going on
Im your shoulder lean upon
So come on deliver from inside
All we got is tonight that is right till first light
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twice upon a time

While others find their strength in holding on, your strength comes from letting go.

As if it had taken far too much giving to be this empty. I can only take.

(But this is the part I don't say out loud.)

When lives are forged upon lives, our parallel stories start anew, and every fragment of ourselves we don't relinquish to the other --

(His stretched-out soul still burned with rancor and desire left over from the storm that all started with her promise, long , long ago.)

"Stay," he almost snarled his plea as he watched her part the ocean and made it run in streams, taking her further and further away. "It's me."

He gorged on her insolence, and let it turn him into something shrouded and cold (and just as scary.)

(And so when he saw her walking towards him where he sat staring at the water, he was unimpressed.)

He knew he reflected in her glasslike eyes the acrimony, the eternal hurt.

She tipped his chin and smiled. "Cheer up some. One of us shouldn't spend a lifetime mourning something we can't define."

He drew his face away.

"Another waits for you." She glanced back at the water, her expression strangely impassive. "But you won't find her here. You have to leave this place."

"Will she live forever?" His voice, unused for so long, came out as an angry, cynical bark. It startled him.

She placed a hand over his arm, daring him to shake her off. "No, but once you find her, you'll have your humanity back. Consider it a gift."

"I was never angry with you," he lied, partly because he felt afraid again. "I was just sad because I thought you've lost your way."

"I'm here," she replied simply.

(He knew better than to look further. The promise of the morning was about as far as they got.)

He sighed, his gaze drawn to the mass of loose waves and tendrils that cascaded halfway down her back, gleaming chestnut in the dying sun.

Unbidden, he reached out. "In my dreams, you wore your hair like this."

She leaned into this touch, to the flowing warmth that pulsed from his palm, and pretended that she was living too.

("...let me become the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand...")
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fashion statement

"So what do you think eh?"

"Riigghhttt."

"C'mon, who doesn't want a touch of irony here and there?"

"The only place that's touched by any kind of irony is your head."

"What?"

"Ok, but not when we're out in public together."

"Aww, where's the fun in that?"

"You know, I think you're having way too much fun with this."

Well, he did agree to be the straight man to my riot act (shrugs)

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This got me

I started crying around 0:50.

What moves me so deeply about this sleeping little prince is his loyalty to a flower--the image of a rose shining within him like a flame within a lamp, even when he's asleep... And I realized he was even more fragile than I thought. Lamps must be protected. A gust of wind can blow them out.

-A. de Saint-Exupery, from The Little Prince

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First Dance ( the beginning of us )

Only Alive
by Jars of Clay

I'm a fair weather friend
I'm a colorless view but I'm willin' to make a deal
If you think you can make some faith here inside
I'll drive off and marry you

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you

You're a sight for sore eyes and a newborn cry
In a year where there are so few
If you throw me a line, I'll show you in time
I'm fallin' in love with you

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you

Though my heart has been torn by loves I have worn
And I'm tempted by them ever still
I tremble inside when you walk in the room
You hold my affections at will

I'm only alive with you
I can't get by and I won't get through
So put me in the river and let me say I do
I'm only alive with you
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Lucky

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Moving in

"I'm off the clock for a half day. Do you need a hand in unpacking the remaining crates in the garage?"

"I'd honestly want to spare you, but if you can handle hauling up some of the pretty heavy antiques we'll get a good head start before the movers come around later today."

"So they're all the old stuff you -- whoa, you didn't tell me you'd bring in your whole collection!"

"Relax. Just think of them as metaphors of my French adventure. I thought I'd do a bit of redecorating before we go off the marketplace together as one tight knit power couple."

"What's this thing near the bureau?"

"It's a 15th century writing desk I bought from a monastery up at --"

"It's hideous. You couldn't possibly have picked out a more damaged one."

"Eloquent piece isn't it? The dings and stains give it a lot of character. It compliments your bureau very nicely too."

"Not so sure about that. How about putting it in a less conspicuous -- hey, don't look at me like that."

"I say, it's staying right where it is."

"Fine. It's just the most unfortunate looking thing you've had to drag home. Oh wait, I still haven't seen the others."

"It doesn't look like much to you now but it'll grow on ya, I promise."

"Sounds like a metaphor for the whole redecorating jag you're on. One that involves shooting down any hint of opposition."

"Accept or deviate. There's no need to oppose."

"Is that your way of saying that our life together won't ever be dull or that you're simply insufferable?"

"Yeah."
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They're telling our story...

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this.




When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.

Like this.




from Like This by Jalaluddin Rumi



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I hold with those who favor fire

If she leant forward, just a little, she would find his hand. She'd twine their fingers until his were curved tightly over the bank of hers. He was so near. It would be enough, and it would be nothing.

She struggled now to be content with her place. It hadn't been so hard in the beginning. The healer was needed, not the girl. It was what she expected. It was all she'd known.

In a few more days, he wouldn't need her assistance to remember. He'd already begun recalling pieces of his life with joy, his eyes alive with it.

She knew it was only a matter of time before he didn't need her at all...

The thought sent her to her feet, the suddenness startling her. She would learn yet. It was her fault, after all, letting her mind wander indiscriminately during his illness, taking liberties in the maudlin silence. None of them were real, not the soft raspiness of his voice nor the hammering of her heart.

Tomorrow I will forget. But just for a moment tonight, let me look at you, longingly and with no shame.

Memories are such volatile things, but he wasn't in the least bit intimidated. He was lucky. She would be happy for him, even as she fought to hear him in her mind, fought to hear those words that will never cross his lips.




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