November 2

Without hesitation, he is concerned with where he will be tomorrow, where the rain will be, and mudslides, and making a way out there to get to a place that makes meditation on the heart rate easy. A serene lake, he thinks. Somewhere with reflective surfaces and distance. Somewhere with old trees to keep out of the rain. Rivers overflowing. Or flowing low or spitting out salmon, don’t remember what happens when you lose three seasons after intending “maybe August” and letting that go, letting the dream of backpacking the Olympics lost, making the music no one asked for and wondering, in this age of wonder, where and when it can all find outlet. Go out and make it to the ocean, lovely human, your body is not lost on you, it is waiting for you to make up your mind on how to fix what is tense, smart, spelled, and coming after you with the chemical make up of invisible threats or serotonin bombs, the fireworks when you are happy, sad duds, the rain picks up I can feel it in my spine and my 1st system edges toward and away from the sound of the guitar music and the old rain. Dry tones with open chord changes, as everything changes, “unbroken for one hundred years in a constantly changing world” and wondering what watch on what wrist can keep me locked away in some false resemblance of time spent hovering away from who you are, barely hiding the taste of the spirits (self-critique squeezing back in) “days are fine, nights are unbearable” and let me tell you about familiar feelings. I feel tired and sore with scratched and stabbed hands a weighted chest with some guilt spiral and some vicious words from a bereaved and November already I lost everything this year, it is all gone and from its absence, this new canvas, I can move away from hating imagining your body and settle back into the flowers, where the haunt is, the rain on feedback loop, the goings on in the night. Nothing makes sense. Let time pass and let yourself feel back inside the body you live in. No abstractions in that. Commit to the body you’ve been given. Its limitations and experiences and vaunt over the depressions with new experiencing conscious art racing heart tracing mountain yodel gallop wild horse kind of sound of the heart beat in the bath tub too small for that same body, the little pump staying regularly heated in the tension and letting itself fizzle down, spark up, and flash red lights to his submerged toes. I am watching this happen from above, as steam rising off a body picking out warm from one source and dispersing it into the room, but is it cold, and why have I acted on such little positive forethought, all a kind of rushed emotion, signifying nothing.

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