Chopin & Vaporized Wine

At night, alive in the room, there’s a dark blue feeling coming over me – it is here I make myself overwhelmed. Oh, my. You still haven’t shared any of your photos of Friday Harbor with the Others. You’ve yet to share enough of yourself. You still haven’t opened. Listen to Chopin and cry your lower back out of alignment. Continue reading

Advertisements

making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by ┬ábeard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.

Repeat.

I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

Mossy Knoll Hangover

I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. Though my body has taken all day to recover from sleeping in my car, 50 yards away from a rented bed. I had no desire to drunken stumble into the shared closet, waking up others. My mind was gone and it’s okay, the graduate students were on a fisheries weekend retreat, bitching me out.

Okay then. Walking in a stupor. It is 4 pm and my stomach is sour. I napped on a mossy knoll, as advised through devious teeth. Hey I’m having fun with my words, letting them fall out unfiltered. Is it approaching the flow state? Where the valve is cranked open and the steamy water starts shooting out galaxies? Anyway, unique universe is the term to cherish, to hold as your only object.

Continue reading