i step through the hazy angle of a cloud shadow
and out from the safety of the sun,
into the murky half-dark
that milky ecliptic light
settling in uneasily all around me–
pooling into crevices and caressing startled surfaces
like an icky cling film shrinking and tightening
on all of us, every thing

(if you could measure the temperature this light would be tepid)

my boots rush and whoosh through the lengthening grass
hurry, now
can’t escape this chalky, opaque light
the wateriness gently chokes me
i swim, while drowning.

Hickory dickory dock

There was once a lengthy period of my life during which i always existed twenty minutes ahead, in the future.

i was late a lot. (Well, we were late a lot.) We knew we would always be late. So why was it so hard to move faster, or start earlier, and thereby fix the problem? Seemed insurmountable as obstacles go. So one day we set out to trick ourselves. First it was five, then ten, and before long every clock in the apartment was set twenty minutes fast. (why did we stop there? no one knows.) Bathroom, bedroom, microwave, living room... our computer and mp3 players were normal time zones, so there really wasn't very much temporal continuity. When i would get to work (sometimes still, late) the clock there did not match my iPod's.

How does anyone ever really know what time it is?

(Airplanes are full of time-travelers.)

Alphabetical

an actual angel arrived.

besotted, billy bowed

clarions clamoring,

din developed...

everyone else elbowed

for first–

groping, groveling.



his heart hastened,

ichor ischemic.

jubilance jettisoned.



kids kicking

lapsed, lulled.

massive mountains moaned–

near & 'neath nebulous

old oak outcried of

protest; portentous paroxysms

quickly & quietly quelled.



rather rapacious realities rested.

so senses shook

truly to the taproot, & tempered

unrest, upheaval underneath

vast, verdant valleys.



well worn, we waited

extemporaneous, xeric.

you, youth–

zealous zoomorphs

Totall recall

Do oil painters remember each stroke, each independent mix of colors, each region of each canvas? The time they pressed hard enough for some of the pain to wrap around the edge of the canvas, or the time they didn't lay enough paint down but left it that way?

More urgently to me just now is: do authors remember all of their prose?

A few years ago i read a book that was written by a fond acquaintance of mine. She was kind enough to send me a copy with a personal handwritten note in the front jacket. It was an enjoyable read, and felt more than a little autobiographical (hey– write what you know, right?). There was a cold grey Northern California beach, a teacher, and a murder. The one thing i remember most about it, though, was this phrase: 'concrete apron'. As in, 'he looked out across the concrete apron of his driveway to the street beyond'. i immediately felt a small thrill; i was thirty years old and an avid reader, but had never once heard the word 'apron' used that way.

Five years later, i still remember this phrase. It pops into my head every so often and i marvel at it, turning it around to look at it from every angle. And i always remember the story (it was early in the book, too– first chapter even, maybe), and then the girl who wrote it. But then one day i wondered:

Does she remember it?

Does she remember writing it? Did it pop into her head randomly one day while out driving, or did she crack open a thesaurus some rainy afternoon while writing her rough draft and hunt for a synonym to the word 'driveway'? Or did she perhaps know someone who laid concrete for a living and heard them use the word in passing while discussing a recent job site? Does she even remember that it is in there? i don't know why these thoughts obsess me. i could easily send her a message on Facebook and ask her about those two little words... but then, if she had forgotten them, i would be making her once again privy to my own little secret pleasure.

Although if we're being honest, she is the one who gave me that treasure in the first place– i may as well hand it back to her.

______________________________


And speaking of handing back: i woke up the other day with the phrase 'Mrs. Jessop handed her the pen' ringing in my brain; to my knowledge i did not read it anywhere and it was just some random unique string of words that coalesced in the folds of my brain for some reason. i immediately pictured some beautiful old drawing room, with portraits on the wall and ferns everywhere, dust motes falling gently through the sunlight streaming in that breaks up the darkness. Mrs. Jessop has her hair up in a large loose poofy bun and is wearing Victorian clothing. Her face is hurried and shows a bit of distaste as she hands the pen off to [        ], who i am drawing a complete blank on. Funny how that works.

_______________________________


A super creepy dream i woke from about four mornings ago:
i was explaining to someone, 'here is what happens when i blink:' [i somehow illustrate/convey to them the idea of an afterimage] '...it has a history of sadness in Sweden.'

Yes, yes of course. The Swedes. They would totally find afterimages melancholy. ?!?

It should also be mentioned that just before i went to sleep i was lying on my bed staring at the light on the ceiling (had thrown my back out and was trying to stretch it) and kept zoning out on it for too long then tearing my eyes away abruptly to the clean slate of the ceiling only to see the inverse-color version of the light fixture. This happened over and over again. Enough, apparently, to burn deep into my psyche (and, likely, my retinas).

_______________________________


Lost two of my absolute favorite buttons in 2014 (the first one just this most recent new year's eve):

i'd open up my heart, but then all of the hostile undertones would escape

and

i've stopped worrying... and that has me worried!

...of course i want to try and find replacements but then it occurred to me: as hilarious as these sentiments are, maybe i lost them for a reason. (Is it possible to read too much into the reading into of things? Lordy.) Let 2015 be better. Please, please let it be better. It is already too much and it's not even February yet.

present

When you wake up from the many sleeping bouts of the day, and you sit outside in the very-warm sunshine, looking to the utmost tops of the trees (which seem almost to reach its very source), and tiny winged things buzz around gently alone, in carefully chaotic groups, turning this way and that, blinding-white in the bright light. And here are many puffs, in all of their crystalline urchin shapes; they twirl and tumble and pinwheel down, slowly and in great long zig-zagging lines which no one can really predict (where will they end up?). Your gaze catches a quick shimmering rope of silver and your heart becomes giddy to imagine the leaping spider from the bough, taking such brave and ardent advantage of its altitude. And here is a crow, flying yet higher above with some great urgency, blackest black with a blanket of hot light slicking off its back, spurring it onwards (is its destination yet known?). A heavy blue dragonfly, brutish and clumsy, mills around in the air looking for something, anything. Your eyes look past the trees in the yard and see the trees in the next, and beyond that the trees on the hill further still. You recall a time when it was snowing here, and you sat in this same heavenly spot; someone pointed out to you that, look: the snow in the distance falls slower, even more quietly somehow. You see that she is right. Your eyes focus back and forth from here to there, noting the different speeds, and you wonder... what is it that tells my eyes where to rest? You see the snowfall so very clearly, both here and there, but what about all of the inbetween (and beyond, behind)? Would it simply be too much to take it all in, to know all of it? For now you are quite content with these two distances. But one day you hope to see more, to see the entirety of all possible depths, infinite focal planes. Until then, you can breathe. This is enjoyment, and you are content, and it is all enough.