"When you record the moment, you record the death of the moment." -D.C.

Where am I at? And how do I feel? Such complicated questions, every time. Easier to talk shit on paper/in person than it is to cop to the fact that we'd really rather not know.

But know we do! Can't not. Still, "don't waste your worry on me, I always find what I need. Come and go as I please -- I've got my skeleton key." -D

Stuck in this tight spot between wantingwantingwanting and utterly unwilling to give any more than I'm given. Not sure if I should get over this, or just hone it down keenly into the sharpest of survival skills -- exploited in every sense of the word. Follow myself into the foolish fellowship of the fallen, rather than picking myself up again and moving the fuck on? It's only that I'd like to learn to keep still; to cease with the ceaseless motion that's haunted my movements for years now. Learn to sit with it.

"'I miss being strong,' she told me, and leaned down to give me her lips. We went on, reaching out toward bliss & contrition -- but really, it ended there."

Well, well then. And even so. Every minute of every day has a place to be; a person to see; a date to keep. I look around sometimes in wonder, wondering how I made it here with everywhere I've been before. They say hindsight is 20/20; it all looks like a big freakin' mess back there to me. Deductive reasoning be damned!

"I left through her big oak-black front door, seen only in the brief dark of the evening before, and didn't intend to enter through it again."

-L (7/29/13)

"Swing Lo, Oh Magellan"

Day after my 29th birthday, and despite the fact of having spent it entirely at the beach, not a lick of sunburn on my skinny-skin-skin. Most likely had something to do with the overcast weather, and the sun not even peeping out from behind its cover of clouds -- but I'd like to fancy folks a little charmed on their birthdays, too.

So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?

The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.

Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.

-L (7/22/13)


cowgirl-urban punctuated woman,
straw-weaved hat smiling the warmth of the sun.
saunters beside her buttoned-up boyfriend.
pauses when the pit
bends to sniff her boots,
and recalls to memory her scent from before.

beyond another moment, beneath the obvious sky --
between two sets of eyes, seeking.
the brevity of event, curiously concludes.
trail-less, girl walks on
grin-traces fading.
dog circles twice, to lay itself down again.

Red-brick silences.

As a matter of fact, I am tired. And my cat nestles snuggled underneath my pyramid bent knees and blankets. I didn't realize it before, but now I see.

First week full-time at my firm. Utter amazingness, the rate at which everything might suddenly come together. I can hear hawks and parrots and airplanes and AC units and rustled, muffled wild animalsounds -- all from the comfort of my own bedroom.

Tomorrow, I'll need to get out of here early to go see a person later that I hardly know, but would like to know less-hardly. In the mean time, I'd like to learn to say: "You shouldn't have called, you know... If you've already decided to be bored."

But not delicate -- not now, you'll notice. (And so on and so forth, before falling asleep.)

-L (7/8/13)

What is it to be afraid of Nothing? How blind must we be? And to what?

Staying put... it's such a magical thing. (Or some Magi's cheap trick?)

There are words everywhere, and people ever there to say them! This hiking trail sign must see gazillions of eyes upon it each decade or so. It does not stand in for every group's discussion on where next to go, but its presence might represent their voices for us.

I am here & now, every here & now! All there is to me scurries behind mine eyes. So much more than immediate, all my thoughts and experiences and plans. And the congenitally accidental truths to my life are timeless -- not before or after or even now, but present. Solid and intrinsic -- not capable of coming and going, for their definition disallows this.

Do we ever describe instances? Or rather, instant states of eternal being?

....why are you? Here?

-L (7/1/13)