Cat Stevens' "Trouble"

Is still the saddest, most heart-wrenching thing I've ever felt/heard.
And I can't take it off repeat.

I'm a tornado.

You are the dust. You're all around, and you're inside.

You are the nature, I'm the roar that comes from you.

I'm a tornado, you are the fences that will fall

But still surround me.

I'm a tornado.
I'm a tornado.
I'm a tornado.

(words by Sharon Van Etten).

Riding for the Feeling.

[thank you, Adam, for giving me something to muse me through my constant separation anxiety with space and relationship. Love ya, Ricky].



It's never easy to say goodbye
To the faces
So rarely do we see another one
So close and so long

I asked the room if I'd said enough
No one really answered
They just said, "Don't go, don't go"
Well all this leaving is neverending

I kept hoping for one more question
Or for someone to say,
"Who do you think you are?"
So I could tell them

With intensity, the drop evaporates by law
In conclusion, leaving is easy
When you've got some place you need to be
I'm giving up this gig for another seaon

With the TV on mute
I'm listening back to the tapes
On the hotel bed
My my my apocalypse

I realized I had said very little about ways or wheels
Or riding for the feeling
Riding for the feeling
Is the fastest way to reach the shore

On water or land
Riding for the feeling

What if I had stood there at the end
And said again and again and again and again and again
An answer to every question
Riding for the feeling

Would that have been a suitable goodbye?

after a long cry/I feel.

Winter in Gold River
by Catie Rosemurgy

Pretty girl. The weather has knocked her down again

and given her to the lake to wear as a skin.

Why am I always being the weather?
There were days in the winter

when her smile was so lovely I felt

the breathing of my own goodness,

though it remained fetal and separate.

I was a scavenger who survives

with a sling and stones, but whose god

nonetheless invents the first small bright bird.

And it was like flight to bring food to her lips

with a skeletal hand. But now she will always

be naked and sad. She will be what happens

to lake water that is loved and is also

shallow enough. The thickening, the slowing,

the black blood of it, the check opened

to reveal the inevitable heart attack.

God, the silence of the chamber

we watch from. What happens to water

that isn't loved? It undergoes processes.

It freezes beside traffic.

But the reaching out to all sides at once,

the wet closing of what was open?
That is a beautiful woman.

So of course I stand and stare, never able

to pinpoint the exact moment I killed her.

floating? falling?

1. Fear of trapped.
2. Fear of future.
3. Fear of loneliness.
4. Fear of failure.
5. Fear of unconsummated talent.
6. Fear of too much.
7. Fear of not enough.
8. Fear of boxes.
9. Fear of being ripped from boxes.
10. Fear of language.
11. Fear of finality.
12. Fear of change.
13. Fear of rejection.
14. Fear of never-ending tiredness.
15. Fear of peaking.
16. And slipping.
17. And disappointing.
18. And disappearing.
19. Fear of forgetfulness.
20. Fear of losing perspective.
    
21. (Fear of unaware irony).
22. Fear of money.
23. Fear of apocalypse.
24. Fear of mindlessness.
25. Fear of rabbit holes.
    
26. Fear of being too afraid to jump them.
27. Fear of losing agency.
28. Fear of history repeating.
29. Fear of arbitrariness.
30. Fear of being too small.

6 years

today.
breathing.

when you're on the struggle bus.

Blue Sky Blues beats Sky Blue Sky.
Every time.

(Ryan Adams'll get me through; he always gets me through).

And another thing.

"The poet and the dreamer are distinct. Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes. One pours out a balm upon the world, the other vexes it."

FROM John Keats' "The Fall of Hyperion"

----

In his dream, the speaker visits Moneta, the goddess of memory. He swears he's a poet. Oh, and she swears he's wrong.

(I will never be a poet).

----

There are two kinds of chaos: commotion, yes, but also the void. Today concluded with a sinking feeling of the latter. And I know this sadness is temporary, but the realization doesn't seem to be helping, because it's temporary-ness that's making me sad in the first place.

How am I supposed to 'vex' it when my agency's conditional--out of (my) control?

diving for lobsters

relentlessly.
every time.

(Will I ever stop taking myself so seriously?)

photo by Leslie Albanese is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.