What I know

What I know about this moccasin:

. Found on a Sunday evening before the rainstorm

. Lost in the sand lot by the dam

. Survived at least one winter in the North Country

. No mate to be found

. Small, maybe belonged to a small person
. Not authentic: plastic beads and material

. With a Cyanotype filter it looks tragic

Conversations not to be lost

[A weekend of words.]

. He wore a sombrero and stood in the corner of the elevator. “I don’t know how to work this thing,” he told us. “I’m lost and I don’t know where to go.” The key in his hand said 932, so we took him to the 9^th floor. When the doors opened he said, “I don’t want to go back. This is my home now.” He lied down in the elevator and fell asleep, sombrero titled over his face.  

. A man came up to us on the street, he had bagpipes strapped across his chest. We’d been walking a while, heels in hand, tired and lost. "I'll play you a song if you can give me directions," he said. We told him that we were lost, too, and he played for us anyway. I wondered who was waiting for him, whose song we were listening to.

. Our cab driver was Haitian and had a smile so handsome I couldn’t help but blush a little. His family kept all of their money in a safe box under the house, but it is buried now under the earth. “The house is gone,” he told us, “but you can rebuild a house. You can’t rebuild the people you love.” 

. “We came into a bit of money,” she said. “Now we’ve got our own business, we provide tents for festivals and events.” They bought the tent for their ceremony and they will be the ones to set it up on their wedding day. Just the two of them.

. The ocean past midnight is louder, you can hear it wailing and groaning and singing and sighing and roaring. We wail and groan and sigh and sing and roar with it, together, maybe for the last time. “It’s so hard to say goodbye,” I said. “That’s why you NEVER say goodbye, my love…” she wrote.

. She got tears in her eyes when she talked about the baby. “We’ll never know,” she said quietly. “We’ll never know.” She’s got so much love inside her, and it is heartbreaking when a piece of it is taken away. I want to help, I want to fix her, but nothing is broken. No one could stop her from loving so much.

. “We’re in it together. It’s up to us. We’ll save the world with books and words.” We looked out over the cigarette smoke and into the dark night.

Lykke Li & Bon Iver doing 'Dance Dance Dance' in L.A

Don't...

Some well-intended (but unwelcomed) advice I received: Don't get a 9-to-5. Don't become one of them. Don't let them take advantage of you. Don't forget you are an artist. Don't sell out.


Some happened-upon, unexpected wisdom: Don't let anyone ever make you feel like you don't deserve what you want.

For The Widows In Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti

Peace

We walk by you some afternoons, to get away from chaos and monotony. To find a place to breathe. This time, it's raining and I keep my hands in my pockets. My nose gets cold even though it's May.

I wonder what it's like to be frozen and unfrozen, year after year. I wonder what it's like to die and bloom. To be struck by lightning and drowned. You hear the train whistle and you breathe in the exhaust. You let the quiet woman push the sad man's wheelchair beside you and you feel the ash drifting from their roaches.

I like to think that, really, you are at peace.

I cannot want you with all my heart

i
"How rarely do we see people living, or for that matter, creating by them."

.Yellow walls, purple curtains, red couch. Knowing there are cities and stories there, somewhere. Holding on to the days we live. The days we really live. Fighting to never forget them.

ii
"What are the best things and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting about them?"

.The worst: wanting, failing, losing what you loved, isolation, wondering why they don't care to listen anymore. The best: laughter, kindness, family, beauty in the unexpected, comfort and strength in being alone.
.WHISPERING. shouting.

iii
"What do you love most in the world? The big and little things, I mean. A trolley car, a pair of tennis shoes? These, at one time when we were children, were invested with magic for us."

.The smell of an old book, a favorite baseball glove, sharing a blanket and a room and a story, grapefruit at night, the lake in the morning before everyone else is awake, the air in Pompeii, the rooftops in Venice, the rocks at Zion, the spices in New Orleans, listening to a life-changing song with someone who understands.

iv
"What do you want more than anything else in the world? What do you love, or what do you hate? Find a character, like yourself, who will want something or not want something, with all his heart."

.He wants to be the music that makes people breathe slower, makes them remember. She wants to save the people around her again, she wants to be hope. He loves to hate. She hates to love. He wants to pull fame out from the elementary school hallways and shake it out. She doesn't want to believe in ghosts forever, she wants to live.

[Quotes from Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury]

3:02 - 4:35

Fear; revisited.

A year ago, I was on top of the world. It was all possibilities and late nights and awards and love. Now, it's stagnancy and shaky hope and confronting my fears (not because I want to, but because I have to.)

My fears have been showing up almost every day now, always new and more intimidating. Some people say that's life, they say it'll never end. I hope it's making me stronger and that I won't be afraid forever.

I met one fear when I opened that first letter: now I can move on. I met one at an afternoon party and introduced myself: now I'm not tormented. I met one when I felt that pain in my chest: now I can breathe. I met one late at night dreaming beside me: now I can sleep.

A year ago, I was terrified. Of losing my world, my foundation, my future. Now, I realize that I can have everything that matters, I just can't stop fighting for it. I never considered myself much of a fighter, but I can be. Now I've got to be.

Quieted

We saw an old man in an old church talk about writing last night. He was famous, accomplished, but when it came down to it, he was really just a man. A chapel full of readers and writers and I think, at times, none of us had anything to say. It wasn't the actual man we were captured by, in his button-down shirt and worn baseball cap, it was his words and the memories they evoked.

A conversation in the last pew; A conversation during a funeral

."I'm the only one left now. Soon no one will remember us."

-"You've got Sue."

."No one should have to bury their little sister. Or their little brother. I'm the only one left."

-"They lived good lives."

."Did they? How can you tell?"

-"They had people who loved them."

."I don't know if that matters."

-"It matters. Besides, you've still got Sue."

."We buried her a long time ago. I'm the only one left."

A whole world

There's a whole world out there, he told me. There's a whole world and we're gonna see it, he told me.

One day

The windows are all open so it feels like spring. There's blue paint on the side of the court, little boys with signatures that will outlast their youth.

There's a woman dressed in layers, tending to her garden of broken objects. Spoons and tin cans hang from a tree and she's maybe what you would call "an artist", or maybe what neighbors would call "eclectic".

The India House has been closed for years, but the sign and menu are still up. The sun shines on the windows like the lights are still on, and I'm sure when people walk by, they smell the spices.

There are buildings, four stories high, where the refugees live with prayer flags hanging from porches. In dorm rooms and hippie chicks' bedrooms, the flags are just a passing notion. Here, they represent a past, a life, a memory, a future, a need.

On Cold Nights

The space heater by my feet has got an orange light and it makes a tick, tick, tick sound every now and then. When I hear that sound and see that light, I feel warm again.

The tip of my nose is cold and when you touch the back of my neck, I get goosebumps. I eat soup and curl my body around the bowl, sucking life out of the steam.

I'm under down blankets and the feathers sometime poke out and stick in my hair. I'll pull one leg out from the warmth we've created and let the cold settle on me.

When it is cold and the moon is out, I look around the world and think, I belong here. But I may never come back.

Antifreeze

He looked at me and said, "tell me something I don't know about you."
So I told him about the time my cat died when I was eight.

The look in his eyes, the smell of his fur.
Cross-legged, enveloping him.
The antifreeze he'd been poisoned with, the neighbor kid who did it.
The first time I saw anything die: the air changed and my fingertips tingled.
The first time I understood there was cruelty in the world.
But kindness, too. Cross-legged, enveloping him.

He looked at me and said, "I've already heard that story."
But he hadn't. I'd only ever told him I was eight, the cat died, antifreeze.

Profoundly sad

Sometimes I read her words and think I don't understand love. I think that, maybe, I missed something. I think that, maybe, I've been too cynical. Sometimes I wish I had that in me, that love, like sadness, that can seep into everything if you let it. And I wonder if I'll ever change.

Then I think about love, and I think of the smell of sawdust and snow. Opening that door with the three little window panes. Sharing a bedroom and talking in the dark. Patchouli and spices. Guitars and champagne. Watching those memories, packed so tight, escape slowly and finally find a place to sleep. Hidden pictures of skinny dipping and late night road trips. Canyons, castles, cities. The feeling of saying goodbye. Marking time by moments apart, not calendars. Quilts folded on couches. There are tears sometimes, screaming sometimes, but why waste your sometimes?

My love isn't better, it isn't as consuming. It's not that can't-breathe, got-fire-and-butterflies-in-your-stomach, cry-all-night-'cause-you-can't-live-without-each other kind of love. I couldn't live that way. My love is a quieter thing, melancholy at times, but usually, it's right where it needs to be.

Quiet stories

Sometimes you find stories in the most unlikely places.

"I knew it was over when Mom had me try on her wedding dress. I was five and it was Halloween and I stood on a stool while she cut off the bottom so I could wear it. Dad walked in the room and saw me and Mom with the dress and I knew it was over. They're still together, but the dress is gone and I'm still waiting for him to leave."

"So we were driving across town, right? We had this big U-Haul with everything he ever owned it in. We've only been together three months now, but we've been living together for two. It was weird that day when we were moving because he was driving the truck and I was sitting beside him with his dog's ashes in my lap and his ex-girlfriend's engagement ring on a chain around my neck. They were up front with us because they were the most important things he owned. His girlfriend cheated on him before he could give her the ring -- his grandmother's, re-sized to fit the girlfriend -- and now he doesn't know what to do with it. He won't give it to me, but he wanted me to keep it safe while we drove across town."

Not to be confused with

You can tell by the paint on the walls that they've got money, which most of us confuse with class. Rich colors; New England colors; reds and yellows and golds. You can tell by the beers in their hands, brown bottles with local brewery labels, and the tables with trays of steaming food. They've got nice smiles and all is well.

In our pictures, we've got old barns with Christmas lights and people sitting in heaps on the floor. We've got boxes of wine and bowls of Chex Mix and people dancing. We wonder what people will confuse us with.

Masking tape names

He got it in Rio De Janeiro, he said, but it's got pictures of his trip to Antarctica. When most people say they've been there, you don't believe them. But he's got the pictures to prove it.

He was handsome back then and was the only one on the ship with the camera. It's a waste now, he says, but I thought it'd mean something someday. Just like he thought he'd always be handsome. Some things don't last forever.

He wrapped us up in his mother's furs 'cause it's the only way he can keep us warm. We won't wear them. One of us is allergic, one is vegan, and one lives in Florida. But it's nice to be warm for a few moments on that cold night.

He wants us to put our names on the things we want, 'cause he knows that he'll die someday. He knows that his things aren't safe with anyone and might as well give it all away 'cause he can't keep the thieves out of the attic.

what's under your pavement

we used to slide back there. it seemed like miles. we'd get a running start and hit the ice and our boots were like skates and we'd go all the way to the end, where the river cut the field in half and was still runnin even on the coldest days. sometimes we'd jump it and get our boots wet and knew we were in trouble. frostbite happens, especially out here, mom always said. so we'd carry the person with the icy boot back home like they were already dead and get into the house with yellow warm lights and mom would pick the burrs out of our mittens and wrap up the icy foot.

daddy knew we'd outgrown our backyard when i bust the seams in my baseball. he made us these bats out of the spare wood in the garage and they were the most beautiful things in the world, smooth and the perfect weight and size, just for us. well one day i hit a pitch so hard it landed in the drop off behind our apartment, with the old rusted fridge and broken glass and tangles of thorns. daddy said then, we have to find a new place to practice. so he took us out to the field and we made a baseball diamond with some of daddy's old shirts as bases. the ground was uneven and there were burrs everywhere, but we could hit the ball as hard as we wanted. i hit those pitches so hard i cracked my bat and my dad never looked so proud.

there was this time i was all wrapped up in something, 'cause my friend kissed the boy i loved, so i went out there to the field. it became this place that i could go and it felt like it was mine, even though it never really belonged to me. i found this old broken down barn under layers of yellow grass and got these pieces of coal and metal and kept them in my pocket. i went to the tree on the other side of the river, the tree that grew sideways. i tried to climb it but couldn't so instead i just sat under it and watched my house. it looked so different from the back, lined up with the other townhouses like big, quiet people just waiting for something to happen.

Late night thoughts in the Vineyard

I can hear the ocean through my window and my skin's got sand inside it now. I'm on someone else's vacation, in a house that no one ever lives in. There are natives and vacationers and workers and I'm a little bit of all of them.

No return

I'll send you letters without return addresses. And you'll open them, one by one, and wonder who in the world could love you so much. You won't know it's me, and it's better that way.

people don't smile much anymore

"to the pretty brunette at the bagel market in essex: your friendly smile brightened my gray vermont day. thanks."

It's people like this that make me realize everything will be okay.

Listen

I want to write you back, but I'm not going to. I have a lot to say, but you wouldn't listen.

sincerity

Funny how I don’t even know if I was sincere. Sometime I’ll be able to talk again; sometime my voice won’t catch in my throat. Trying didn’t get us anywhere so we’ll sit back and watch now. We can’t make the world happy, baby.

It’s days like these that I remember you can only ever count on yourself. Cheers, friend.

nights with

It's the nights with poetry that I don't want to think about deadlines. It's the nights with artists that I don't want to look for tomorrows. It's the nights I'm already looking back on and realized I took for granted.

It's the days I wake up not knowing what's going to happen next. It's paralysis and freedom and what now?

Letter to no one; Letter to everyone

Someday, I hope you'll understand. I promise I won't wince when you smoke your cigarettes. I'll be honest and you won't put your hands over your ears. We'll look through all those pencil markings on yellow paper and know we've found something.

Someday, I'll let it all go. I promise I won't hold on forever so you won't have to be so sad. We'll stop walking in those circles and catch a boat over the Atlantic. We'll drink and eat strange foods and I'll throw my arms into the wind and everything will be right.

Someday, I'll understand why you love me. I promise I'll believe you and you'll stop worrying like I know you do when no one is looking. We'll do everything we always wanted and you'll let me go and I'll stop pretending like I'm cut out for this.

Life & Art

Even if I don't like their styles, Man Ray and Dali maybe had the right idea.

If life doesn't make sense, why should art?

an old response to an old beatnik

i watched my grandmother die
in the yellow room
next to the man who masturbated with the door open.
while she asked for her “damn cigarettes” he was
coming on his hospital sheets
for me to see and the nurses to clean.

my father’s face is clay now,
the kind crumbled at the bottom of the craft bag
and you can only think about how many guys i blew
before you.

i have your voice in my phone, save it for 21 days,
there’s ink on my sheets and
i only miss you because i haven’t eaten and
right now i’d lick the chicken grease from your lips.

i went back to that place where i live
with a lost soul on my mind and
old man semen under my fingernails
and you wanted me to cry with you over
the sounds and smoke through the window
through my walls
through my door.

it’s early in november and again i taste snow,
but you look away like we,
we were never naïve.
i remember when we could change things,
but our new found intellect tells us that we’re,
we’re too good to use our minds anymore.

i missed her by half an hour
and i’ll never forgive myself
for the hours wasted
watching them play activist, play revolutionist,
when we all knew they just wanted to hear
their voices in the stars.

you told me to hold on tight or i’d lose my way,
you told me, baby, it’s a wild world.
our words have been falling into the ocean and someday
they’ll wash on shore and
everybody will know but, baby,
i can’t fight your wars.
i’ll draw my way with sharpies on maps and never forget
the nights i remembered why i’m alive.

i watched my grandmother die
in the yellow room
full of cigarettes and words that i wrote on my hand
and the illusion of companionship was gone with her
and the ink washed away but the words are still there,
old words, real words, a lifetime of words,
and this is how we die.

summer nights

i remember driving to find the sunrise.
i remember nights that taste like storm.
i remember laughter and tears in the dark and warm stars and cold water.
i remember thinking that anything was possible, that we'd always have each other.
i remember you whispering that everything was changing, that things would never be the same.
i remember sleeping in the backseat and knowing that someday we'd find what we were looking for.

green boat

There’s this green boat and it’s tied to the shore with a double knot. There’s paint on the floors and a hole in the side and it’s sinking slowly. I ran to it when no one was looking.
I didn’t cry tonight for money or love, I cried for independence. I didn’t cry for my generation or my causes, I cried for my freedom.
It’s the one thing I’ve always had and the one thing I fight for the hardest. I’m afraid of what it means and need everything it is.
I will never be able to describe the sinking, desperate feeling I get when I realize I’m tied and double knotted. I will never be able to describe how beautiful it is to fight for my life.

forever

Yesterday I walked by the room she died in and I saw that my whispers are still under the bed.

And now I'm leaving more whispers, placing them carefully, the I love yous and the remember whens. I don't want this room to become a memory, too. But we all know that this is the last summer.
I try to find the compassion and sweetness everyone says I inherited from her, but it's been missing. I try to find that place where I'm strong, but that's missing, too. I try to tell them what I'm feeling, but my words are wrong.

I just want to know that goodbye doesn't mean forever.

honesty

It's funny that I can call myself a grown woman. I have to now, if I want to claim everything I've done as my own.
And it's funny, that as a grown woman, I still can't seem to be honest. It was always easy to convince myself that if maybe I just told the truth, I'd be an honest person. But that's not honesty.
Instead of facing the frightening or uncomfortable things in life, I've learned to evade it all and stay withdrawn. In some ways it's become easier. The distance helps. In other ways, I wonder how I've maintained relationships this long.
I could say everything. I feel the honesty in my mouth sometimes, but my voice carries it away with sarcasm or roughness or dismissal.
To me, honest people are the bravest people in the world.

don't you let me go tonight

sometimes i wish romance wasn't so foreign to me.

love, to me, isn't something precious and fragile. or even beautiful. to me, it's strength and trust and and comfort and honesty, visited with nice moments. normally i don't mind my rough version of love, but there are some nights when i wish i understood romance and that i could handle the delicate nature of it.

it's songs like "tonight" by lykke li that make me want that. don't you let me go, let me go tonight. don't you let me go, let me go tonight. god, it's passionate and sad and fragile and beautiful. but sometimes i wonder if that type of love doesn't exist unless it's pushed by sadness. it's that epic love, that fighting-together-forever, that is born from tragedy. when you're in love, the smallest things can become tragedies, and somehow, that's beautiful.

so i suppose i don't want to understand romance. i just want to know that love can exist without the constant sorrow and pain that seems to glamorize it.

bring me here

it's that sawdusted spirit, those cigarette breaths, that sun-dried skin that brought me here. it's that simple passion, those story-telling eyes, that stormy laughter that keep me alive.
and sometimes all i can do is smile and walk away even when no one else will stay.