yet

I was on the yet and thinking of you before we even met, and you let me down when I met you. Beware of bold imagination, I promised myself, before meeting me where I was, the only place I could be, many years after a lifeless rehearsal of life.

headlines. worrylines

Being rather tired I forgot where I was going and lost my way, and tasted the tongue of confusion, pitched along to suspension like seeds in a raspberry jam,  a name stained by headlines,  a lengthy thoughtful smoke. They would never find me here. The worry lines began to disappear. No use frettin on gettin nowhere when there was a fire to be made to boil water over, and keep warm by. I mapped my memory tracing lines of your facade with the heel of my boot, in the shadow of a hanging falcon's talons. They scratched below the eyelids shutting out the light to protect us. We would find a plot of land and marvel at the countryside. When clashing on the ground in the air in the water under the earth, your mouth might betray you. Best to stay silent and wait. Still, you're too much, you know. A little south and uncoordinated, so near, so dear to me. Sweet like sugar.  - Katya

Journal #03.22.15

I am not even close. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. Tonight I work in silence. I wonder about this fleeting sense of power, the delusion of self. I do not mind it anymore. Worry and anger and fear get us nowhere. Pain and the effort to feel and transform it. These are my tasks. Forgive my always anti-social media. I would that we were closer. I see you in my mind. Smiles. Meaningful connection. The ones who ignore me tell me as much about myself as those who meet my gaze. Purple frosty haze and lemon peel. To feel those feelings I would not feel. I searched the swirling seas for you. Through volumes and volumes thrashing. The truth would not lie still. I wanted to believe in what you said. In your words, in those books I read. I began to move and be moved. The mountains entertained the sun, one slope at a time. We raced our minds and won. Solitaire was King. Derrieres did swing. The hydraulics in the bus felt good under us, and the windshield wipers washed away everything. The nose was born to bleed. The harvest came of seed. The dogs and cats at best were friends, the mice we did not need. Times were rough of an industrial age. We raced the clock and lost. Turn the page. Come now to middle age. Cellular floors kept clean by the slaving macrophage. My work begins today, in middle earth. Accompanied by an orchestrated abandonment of fear, worry, and anger. I am getting closer now. I must be still healing. Please forgive me. The static waves of radio fill my head. I will always be grateful for you. Endless life.

Journal # 03.06.15

We suffer the same as they suffered before us.  As we suffered before us. We are of the same. What I see in the eyes of the century preceding, I see in the eyes walking the streets tonight. Under another full moon. My eyes see the same they saw in the night. The way we relate, they relate. Arthritis in the joints. Dancing just the same. Minds plagued by worry and fear. Delighted by children at play. Fascinated by technology. Frightened by industry. Dreaming just the same. Lighting a taper. Lighting a stove. Samovar for tea with you. And me. Knowing no more and no less of a God.

the author at home. madness. 2015

 If time folded back on itself, and I found myself there, I would look into your eyes and you mine, and sashay on up to the guillotine we would,  the Place de la Concorde, where we pop popcorn and toast almonds and smoke our fags in the clear, together over wooden shoes, fin de siecle, talk of the American Revolution n'est-ce pas? Just the same. And then a collective pause and a gasp and a shout.  I turn my head into your shirt, when off with the head of Louis XVI. We will not sleep tonight! None of us. Everything has changed, just the same. Life. An amazement.