q&a for a dear friend's MFA thesis project. (their part is the "q", my part is the "a")

Protected: June 22-28, A Wild and Feral B-Sides Kind of Week

The Mixtape: a Field Guide to (Wilderness) Interrogation & (Feral) Appropriation

(**note: images should be sent to winberrl@onid.oregonstate.edu** / all writing should posted below, anonymously, pseudonymously, or otherwise)

Please submit responses, in writing AND in image (photograph or illustration or other), to the following 14-question vertical interrogation:

1. How is it that you have come to breathe?

reply: 

i breathe via community, and hope i will come to stop the same-

the image in a child's mind of the way a game named "light as a feather stiff as a board" should look-

that is how the life stays in me- 

through the love of people, and their figurative fingers-

some who have no idea how brave they are, or how much they hold up-

for this, meditation can be a thousand thank you letters in my mind 

image: 

the dusty pile of unopened letters, tied with twine, in the sunshine beneath a budding Sycamore. a field alongside the tree fills the air with the rich smell of hungrily poised soil. just out of focused sight, a swing hangs untouched by the young love that once moved it, day-in. now it loves in the wind.    

2. In which ocean has your heart landed and how did it get there?

reply:

my heart/soul/spleen/trigonometry-equation is a thing that begs no explanation or parameter-

the thing, its attempts to explain the nature of the unknowable, and it's shape related to a bread box are unknowable in themselves-

its affliction to knowing a home is a question it begs of me and you both-

this knower has landed where it is through opposition and thoughtful miscalculation-

it has never passed a fucking quiz, and can create beautiful pointillism with bubble sheets- 

image:

a vision more like sound. the sound of wind blowing as hard as wind can, through a chain-link-fence

3. How will you let it be different every time?

reply:

the ache would have it no other way-

it will always be different, so long as i act as a subject of my own understanding, upheld by aforementioned fingers-  

refraining form the object of ideal types and gaze and unnecessary judgement- 

image:

a bible with some of the words cut out to reveal a beautiful piece of literature

4. What does underwater smell like?

reply:

 a mixture of fear and fun-

in the best way that can make sense-

image: 

bubbles. lots of them. followed by the sound they make when they reach the waves. 

5. What value do you place on your sacrum?

reply:

enough that i had to look up sacrum when i read this query- 

i cracked it once-

jumped off a rock that was about two-of-me-tall and landed on a rock that was less than a bread box below the water's surface-

i had to walk with a cane and sit on an ass-pillow for several months-

image:

one warn ass-pillow, spinning wildly around a hardwood cane in the air-

6. What does it mean to be made in the image of god?

reply:

regret, ache, heavy guilt, & confusion. not in that order, & with no temporal significance. 

image:

a beautifully veined elderly hand slips gently off a wine glass and lets the liquid fall deep to soil-

dark stained soil-

every onlooker is gaze-locked on the soiled wine-

no one offers a mop, or to fetch more wine 

7. Where do you go when you cannot move?

reply:

when the chain comes off its gear, the air becomes honey, my skin feels dead, i have to walk through chewed bread-

i go to the shadowed forest-

the smell of things dying and growing, all being warmed or rained clean-

that is the closest to a home my heart has ever allowed-

some people are the forest-

the occasional urban tree-

often the desert works well for these things-

first, it is a smell of good dirt-

image:

i am lying under a stand of Bull Pine that i climbed, covered in pitch, sleeping on a giant black Newfoundland puppy.    

8. What is the sex of your language?

reply:

i am hopeful that there is not one for me- 

this is part of my personal ache-

sex/gender/sex are not things i want to be who i am-

i find the identity versions hurtful-

image: 

two bathroom doors-  

9. What do you remember about tomorrow?

reply:

one of my favorite phrases is  to "remember something new"-

this is an entirely secret one, but i will say it fits well as we learn to love our age-

image:

flannel sheets drying in the wind-

young people wiping flowers across the white cotton face-

creating shapes-  

10. What is the meaning of the color of your eyes?

reply:

there are things about myself i don't know, no one tells me about, and no one judges aloud-

i am troubled to find these things feeling good-

when i smile with my eyes they say certain things that work well with strangers-

that means i like to be as kind as possible with people-

image:

just enough water to keep the office plants alive-

no more than the least necessary-

the plants are as beautiful as the people who water them 

11. What are the consequences?

reply: 

how hard do we push, and with what-

truth might keep consequences coming in the warm window-

if it takes anything other than love and honesty i am not buying a ticket-

if the reflection is one of systems on rational vomit, i am staying in for a bit-

telling myself something i know. something i can tell you.

no matter of curtains will cover what comes back, nor need to do so-  

image:

the wizard of oz. some gentle form of naked

12. Who told you it was ok?

reply:

i did not ask-

image: 

a 97 yea old person with one hand on their stalwart hip, and the other fist shaking air in protest-  

13. Where is your impetus?

reply: 

to be with the earth, animals, other things, in the ways they want to be- 

to never not ask, no matter the cost-

to create until it hurts too much, then create harder-

to give, as much or more than feels good, followed by a forest-

my drive is to never stop learning, form the fingers and all others-    

image:

middle aged tattoo artist-

waking on a long winter morning-

covers pulled back just enough-

staring at their toes-

asking for the first time, "who's idea was it?"-

14. How will you continue?

reply:

with the same strong fingers-

& some new ones of varied sturdiness-

beyond that, i hope i don't know-

knowing, planning, scheduling, are things that give me pains in my body and mind-

i have an agreement with me that i will continue, until something gives out-

the momentum i feel is stronger now, but ultimately my compass-rose is playing darts with a borderless map-

image:

a young child wearing engineer-overalls, lying across chilled train-tracks, shoes rest propped on one side, head rests bent on the other-

the neighbor's gifted globe spins round in one hand-

a faint vibration of wonder in both ears-

day after 34

yesterday was largely spent riding old highways in the George, and latter reading Kafka while Penelope danced in sunshine.
before the sun slipped I put an old stove-top-wok on the sidewalk & lit a hot fir fire inside. after stacking chairs around, a bunch of neighbors came by and drank and smoked together. therein are more than three of my favorite things. 

to be had

sleeping and not sleeping are both different when had at the end of county roads. this kind of quiet, framed by birdsong, softened tin roof tapping, allowing insects to sing out, is the best damn quiet necessary. when I was a younger person I slept with my window open most of a year round I could manage, letting in the kind of quiet that happens in the absence of people. the silence and sound of all of the living life that goes on while we intake to industry and sirens. I miss this. 

1981-2015:

as a young growing in rural North Idaho (the ever cold and snowy north) there were as many potential friends as leaves on the flag of our northern neighbours. 

extroverts learned quick-step to any warm corpus, their binary polar reminded that the forest was the place for breathing. 

became season creatures, became alice in dead ways that wrinkled out skin, uncooked. 

running mountains to top out lost, thirteen years of age ago, without fear of coming home for supper. burning things made in coffee makers from chemistry classes we could never pass. 

power in a crochet head scarve. taller and more willing to touch the place my bathing suit covers than another relative or any - - one alive.  

distance gave me a reason to create it, nighttime handed me a love story for beautiful = with-difference. 

these dances ultimately took off their clothes and lied side by side. 

the inclusion survey on policy.

space blanket sleep. 

power

alone

adaptation

strode

close 

when holding still becomes movement

recall the hands that caught a body as it fell in the well
the discussions they had, and too finger printed

monochromatic dresses tell the world that they mean business, pleasure, sorrow, wagon wheels, & sometimes feelings like hate
in most of those minutes - we - build a space in our homes for holding one another
i/we/you construct a thing, utilize it far beyond intention, and entirely negate it the following whatever
the same schism in our bodies somehow looks like ways to squeeze out comfort, and is immediately broken down for recycling
if schisms, built spaces, mouths, love or house-holds were ajar without owners they may fill up with bits of others
spaces expand when the dress is on a floor or a body

in through the nose, out through the mouth, every piece as anthropocentric as this thought & those prior  
the past of wrapping finger prints around things and making them our own, occurs as often as we admit the answer to our existence
from the shoulders of morose giants, shout inquiry, shield an impact, create a list of followers & the litigations therein
distant din of cages closing, reminding us all of love and that we are also animals in these same pages we are described as - their - creators

i have water that dunks my head and allows the baby to be named Cathartic, questioning its -will-
shortly after a screen appears, allowing for the answers, removing the marrow aching tabula rasa
back to shoulders & hips & lips all spilled more breath into things and never poked at where those came or where wind will end
to draw our graphs as circles, weighted in place but not without connection, draw a bath, draw form a snapshot memory
time capsules may not hold fingerprints to the narrative we care to uncover

proof from under the nails, skeletal without withholding, prints long fallen away
a pillar named Catharsis,  supine naked by an empty altar, in all the ways empty can be  

fork it

there is a smell
and i can't smell it, or i can. but i live here, so i have no way of knowing.
the 4k lbs flower on my shoulders looks lovely, and maintains the roads int eh winter so we all can arrive on time.
the knees of these roads are buckling under the salts of Gibraltar, and we stare at the beer signs in the corner and wonder why that smudge never comes clean.
i remember when i learned to spell recall, and was rewarded with a can of lysol and a scrub brush.
more rusty metal in those back yards than a Nash Rambler in 2013, hallways packed with 4k lbs flowers, packed with tape.
as we begin to learn the distinction between words that make similar sounds and shapes we are rewarded with cuts on our elbows, and our first taste of real plumbs form a tree.
some way we thought these things therapeutic, only to retrieve them pedantic, patronizing, and at least a little maze bound.  
we gave our hands over to the past that we write that day, with those droves of fire ants, surplus bags, gumshoes on the concrete, and a buss ticket to some place free of ore.
thanks for the reminder.
black coffee.

s*pace*

Jen doesn't like it when the maids leave any lights on after they have left.
it makes her feel as if someone is there, or as if she can not be certain of the contrary.

she also has her doubts about this new cellular phone, and car.
they could be smaller and more personalized.

she certainly prefers a room cold to warm, and a weekend full to empty.
Jen is an adult, after all.

YOU slow down!

that moment you can no longer find any info about your old band, and there is some other band by a strikingly similar name. that's a squishy one.

time to keep wishing there was time to play music again!

hella lame

negativity. or, with a twist of erudition, call it hyper-critical-thinking.
it' simple.
it takes far less effort than finding positive.
as a good friend called it -> focusing on what is wrong and broken, rather than what is right an worth mending.
& what's more, it does not require you to attach yourself.
if you are only ever on the minus, no one will ever suspect you of actually caring for anything.
you will never have to stick up nor back fill.
you will rarely be challenged, because you simply dislike or are not enticed by.
yup, itsa sickness.
over and over again, this year and that, you try to shake it.
time to find the positive first, you will say.
i just don't want to be so predictable. so cloudy. so negative.
then it creeps back in, like a New Year's Eve drinking resolution.
one glass on the weekend...then the remainder of the bottle.
support groups? naw. there is little cohesion in the clouds.
maybe a role model?
i want to be more like_________
i most certainly do not want to be like_______
it's undoubtedly a fight worth fighting.
beating back the clouds.
mending and righting.    

Q - cubed, or something mathematical.

Q is the space between entering a room, and the realization that it is not invited-
the still confused, expectant little bird-
a brimming second glass of wine
Q is crescendo prior to piano-
a warmth remembered deeper and more visceral than others-
a tent in any forest
Q might pop in at the most uninvited and quiet of moments
amid symphony chorus, a choir clap
whilst everyone is pretending their hardest to be a writer
Q is a variable in a statistical analysis
solved for by children's laughter
separated by an integer greater than 1/3 of a lifetime
Q can only be what it is, and severely never impostor-
through its servitude to impunity, it is excluded from a waining gibbous-
only ever full moon
Q is drawn out by friends when it can
savored by the light of candles and cop cars
held open by irony and recollection, like a door for elderly admittance
Q is romantically, emphatically, unequivocally, the amount of time i/we should smile vs. how often i/we do.
it's me/us at the top of something I/we have not seen since I/we was/were a child/children, too short to reach up there, and ostensibly too young to care

The Geography of Bliss

"Cafes are theaters where the customer is both audience and performer."
~Eric Weiner

all these things are living & not bound by punctuation

her folks named her caribou after the country they longed to wrap themselves in

 pining for any place that requires each other for warmth

born bluer than the earth from a pub's window view on Jupiter, she fought hard for this one 

 said, "ride slowly there are children playin'

right there past the dog that's weary"

 waiting beside a bowl to dine or die

i can not tell if her father passed, or if her lover left and made her cry

 could it have been a past acquaintance kept lit by her young heart's light

all i know for sure is someone should hug her real hard

breathing threw it, the way ancestors had

 the way all animals do

chemical free and bound by possibility 

 leather in the mouth tastes like bark in the hand

if her eyes don't burst, her throat just may

 hands available, this one will fight back hard

in a space that fills the definition of watching and being watched at once

 we all sit and speculate

even caribou knows she doesn't know for sure

 her adjacent friend's empty mouth, brain, tea cup

liquids her past people drank with a variety of dinosaur 

 all i know for sure is caribou is stronger than any one in the joint 

& it's not for a career that holds her from feeling 

 she has been fortunate/unfortunate enough 

to live by the blood or brass ingested

 if that adds to comfort, well it's not in a scuffle with every other day

caribou; a picture of what each of us remembers 

 and the leather we will taste again some day soon 

arrived: the forlorn blossoms of an eggshell

well, we've done it sir.
you and me, and certainly I, have managed to become something no one else would like to be.
be it literal or otherwise, this place is all our own.
we fought so hard for the things we began to believe in our youth, and rejected any alternative.
struggles to free those we have never met from the chains our flighty privilege could see. accept nothing but absolute equality on all fronts. abhorrent equality. confront capitalism in every minutia impossible. bark at the moon while we pray to her in our mind. & potentially estrange one another. odious ideologies that we know can smell like the only answer.
and i am now drunk enough to start rocking to and fro. where is that conviction going?
and this is now the mint green walls of your past musings. dinner plates.
nor is it the drab grey walls. now that line our state's capital.
histories written on narratives we read in classes we never would attend.
i am what you are afraid of. a punk with a motive.
fought so hard we can't even admit we are only talking to ourselves. or am i? you, likely, have moved on from this long ago.
Oh, you've got green eyes
Oh, you've got blue eyes
Oh, you've got grey eyes

gibran kahlil gibran's: dogeared & stapeled

once annually she fights in the face of peace and tranquility to stand up straight and pretend
a beautiful theatric, likened to frying food sounds we all know as if they were our own skin
this battle with the sky, the walls, every old waxy record, and any still living plant
and knowing that others didn't bother, well that certainly will not make her stronger
she is not Catholic, nor any other form of deep ground guilt nor shame
like a Tuesday off from work, she does not see where there would be time

the great contributors to our revolution are those who created these "money on trees theories"
see the devil bleeding in a ditch, every Christian rushing frantically to save the soul of their fallen angel
without someone lying on top she would never be certain that there is a chance she. will. never. get. up.
muscle enough to break her own bones, fortitude is never what she needs

& it's so simple to peer back through the tunnel, before the ceiling dust fell from off her shoulders
that dust will never come clean of her clothes, and to cast them off, so stains pores and pillars
for others, that was the birth canal, otherwise known as their mother: leading from the uterus through the cervix, vagina, and vulva.
no one can see her dust, it is hers to breath

from the ditch she has a lovely view of all the answers to all of the questions that held her in dichotomy 
the sky, the walls, very old waxy records, botany and the like. 
what that means to her is the great western seagull defecating on a bronze bust of everything she ever believed in
she is the gray cloudy walls that wreak of unplayed vinyl and eucalyptus
the dust from from the ceiling is keep care of her
sunlight is the christian in her bleeding ribs   

chrome was once a plastic-some-place

when we awaken to exclaim "today..." what we more-so mean is what's left over.
see, a few years back there was a car down the block that folks slept overnight in regularly.
that car was painted with the wheels and tyres intact.
now, who could say what's become of it.
conceived a few children & possibly a nutrea nest & the usual needle holster & then ten paperbacks from the nearest free-box fantasy.
it made these things.
form the warmest heart of Mexico, & a never sleepy Malaysian capital from whence it came.
those windows held reflections of a visage. a fuselage for sale. again.
the thorax of this thing weeps as well as its midnight song that evening. in the wind. under their bodies.
the sleepy "heart and soul" an artifact of culture that gives it as much as any semaphore under capital statue shadows.
& it is not the ephemeral nature of the thing that makes it ring. that is not the case for any thing these-days.
it's the shine that both knobs of an aged radio could give you, when "something to look at" meant as much to you as hose needles & that baby & rodent resting & discarded novels & Mexico & every square centimeter of Kuala Lumpur.  
& perhaps more.  

Honsetly the way it rains here when it rains makes Portland look like pre school. 
I have never seen so huge rain drops.
                                       ~Johanness Fluvio Weber on Paris downpour

thirty something nothing

on the way home, still frantically tearing off articles of colorless clothing, we decided to go to the place our friend last said "I love it here".
leaves and years cover the footprints we had secretly hoped to locate. and somehow the smells we thought to recall. & somehow we still think about all of those missing bits, possibly more in their absence.
white glints in the water of salmon carcass from this past spring. why have they not been masticated by water or a mouth? why are those the things that managed to stick around. all we wanted was a lousy bottle cap. on the way back to the car you unearthed some red birthday balloon shrapnel.
we found ourselves closer to the sky than we planned and took a slow drive back where we came from.
on the drive we used the "slow moving vehicles lane" as often as possible. people in colorless clothing have no business in cars. particularly no fast ones. and we can not be bothered to adjust to our chromatic thinking selves.
once home we ate everything worth its sugar from the cooler and called it a night. sand still in our shoes, colorless clothes piled high, tears on our sleeves, and some dusty red balloon shrapnel.  

la playa

she wrote: most lakes have a similar shape, when viewed from the shore or center. & maybe that's a little too vague but illustrates the odds that stack and hinder. & the way she looks deep into the water's slow fade, to see one more branch to sunken log. that's not palm frond or sun beam, it's dust in the water.

memo poem mepo

once you lived in Lisbon

so much more than just a summer

built pyramids of pleasures past, and those that did say never

faster, faster, faster cried the waning wake and tether

indicative of folks who study lives and loves of others

& it's not that I keep doing this

over and over

it's that i'm not doing that

over and over

never subverted

over and over

simply not mentioned

i used to be Algerian, from far external texts

stood in the arms of an ocean deeper than what we see here

worked hard for these marks, and never surrender

scathed from bow to stern, & recalling we both were

& the background sounds bleed bigger, awaiting recognition

all our backs bow thicker, stood on by some past conviction

interlocking fingers, as if conscience was cohesive

not building fortress around, rather lush gardens within them

never sure why so sure

somehow you write with so much hope. without a one of your three children. with the faith of a thousand churchless workers. so it's back to Spokane you are, or Georgia, or some place north. there is often someone to help somewhere: possibly a relative, family friend, former forensics. you hold the vial and gloves to cleanse your new life of any connections to its reflection. you know as well as the department of humyn services that they would wait there for you at the hospital, and after birth hand you both back. you to the street, and your letter-named kind to the system that can afford neither sugar nor parking spaces. this is an industry, but no one tells you about anything but you. we also forget that every one of us nearly put ourselves in your bedless. and you wake to the sunshine, some place not so far from a ship's deck, no higher than an apogee. i will practice the piano so we can celebrate, once was a standard to laugh with blood in your fists.

some days ago

i like the way people hold on to things.
not with their hearts, but with their hands.
it's interestingly unique, similar to how we can or can not roll our tongues, wink and blink, or draw realistic trees.
things we believe may have been passed down? maybe not.
i think i would tell you about that.

colonial rule you will not.

i know you want to call it Rhodesia, but you no longer can. it's Zimbabwe, regardless of your rhyme's need for that "sia" sound.
& you ride, headphones at their loudest, this is the busiest street in your city. let them do it. what you can't. if they don't, you will likely recover in a few days and remember what you forgot.
those plates your offspring broke, well they know why you are crying.
when you bought those plates you could not afford the food to fill.
coins counted meticulously, with a knowledge of some future written in breaths on the bus stop window.
you passed that co-worker each day at his bus stop on your way to work. without forethought, today was the day to open the door and chat.
a love that merely could. and maybe did. when we were not looking directly at it.

appendages, apparati, utensil

slag fell splat on ready concrete below & i rolled calmly by. concrete always seems ready to serve us without expectation, and we mostly like that. in a century will be still erect? how much spray-paint?
a new tooth in our city of ribs.
& do you know of the excitement you incite? i think you might.
& mine are changing too.
how are you hands, pen, keys, pad, typewriter, fretboard, color paints, burning implements?
i hear you lay fallow, uneasy with anticipation of new & warm bleeding. fresh spray-paint.
i promise to remind you soon. swear.
i have occupied these cavities with something you, and all aparati for that matter, can not contain nor convey.
& oh, i will introduce you two some time soon. possibly this is your initial greeting.
& no need to be overly gentle here.
play with every tool you have ever created, you will never figure this ball of amazing out.
my advice is simply to enjoy every attempt to describe the weight of things you will never be able to lift.
this place is larger than us both, and we stay/sit in reverence.
not unlike pedestrians, peering, titillated by the concrete's caught slag splatter and dissipation.
we will likely enjoy a great deal of spray-paint.

from a branched bird

no snow on the ground in this north american january, so you mow the lawn. you are hopeful.
that neighbor looks longingly at you. the one you met briefly at another's back yard potluck last august. she's wondering if you have gone mad, or are simply as dissatisfied with things about, as she is.
she is grieving the loss of her partner, as she knows that in a year or two they will move on to another.
the requiem she hears clear is one of the happiest songs she can recall, and she is sobbing controllably. her halcyon dreams are brighter than when they first met.
you know well not to look the way of her window, as she told you: "crying just feels right some times. it's not that i am upset or messed-up". you feel the implications of her words toward the rear of your skull: 'please stop looking at me when i look at you'.
& both understand that the warm belly of a kingfisher is yours, if you could simply stop plugging your ears, eyes, mouth, ducts.
you both found something that feels real in your controlled outlets. in the pockets of the problems of you longest hung winter coats, there were beautiful and useful treasures.

in a bottle

if that exists, i want it to.
if it doesn't, i want it to.

when dragons need a warm fire

in an unfamiliar state that makes all too much sense this morning.
i think these are related to stress and timelines, but i am never quite certain.
looking at tables a bit too long, as if they would tell me where to sit and WHY.
there is a sense inside that the fate i continually refute has a relevance, if only for today...or this second.
i will go to the next floor, despite the open seats here. this seat is the only one i can sit in, so says my gut.
unknowns fashioned sharply by the wit of a strict date.
it trembles the mind of a handy left leaner.
what is off kilter loosens the folds of all these books, and what we mean by their pictures.
THEIR pictures.

t.b.d.

dear dear friend,

thoseareleavesblowingoutsidethewindowinthesunandihopetheymakeyouashappyastheymakeme!

um, yes please. i will commission Oliver and his ilk to read bedtime stories to my friends and i. people should be employed for such things. they truly should.

this is the most beautiful morning i have seen to date. it is nearly hot in temperature, the wind is so strong that it appears as if the world is moving in front and before of my feet. & it's one of those days when you need to remember something or someone who did or did not do something. like starting or stopping life, becoming something new within it, or relating it to someone else in some way that they/i/you really liked. i call them 'traditionally bad days', not because they are bad but because the first time i recognized one of these little internal-holidays it was a bad one.

it gives me the uneasy joy i find in trying to define things like wind. & this morning. defining things that are highly conceptual, and hardly containable by a single definition.

wind/vent/el viento/ве́тер

energy moving through gases. moving how? any kind of gases? should the way wind affects things like leaves, birds' feathers and torn antique tractor-seat-leather be part of the definition? i dunno.

not sure why i need to share these thoughts with you, but i am pretty sure that i do. cause you have ever so much time to read such things.

~g

peripheral, or right here

you know you live in that well nested space below me
why are you coming from down the street to go away today?
and it's a recurrence, as i now see your partner in the same way.
you both gaze my way, with the face a marathon runner gives to afternoon joggers the day after a 42.195 kilometer gallop.
and 'moving again' has less a nice ring to it today. away from you two.
you don't know what it meant to me that i was invited. that i attended. that you cared.
we maintain our perspective with a certain space, and i am letting go of it.
not with such intention, more acknowledgement of what happens and has taken place.
i can say i will remember all the folk music we shared, and the times i was still-single and you two on the morning-couch reminded me that that wasn't okay/so bad.
these narratives we share, you both edify eloquently
call me a function, but i like how these songs have shaped our lives.
even to not believe, they light days as we negate them.
as we attempt to stay us.
& how much for how long can we/i endure.
i think a lot, i feel we've got it, & holding.
& what's that say for all those folks we don't know so swell?
well, i'm not so sure, but isn't that why we keep trying to know them?
why we work diligently to find the ones that fit?
isn't it?

who built this place anyway?

objective facts about left-hand-dominant people:

*we wear watches on our right wrists so that they do not drag the page as we write
*we do not necessarily feel that our advanced sense of aesthetic awareness is due to being left handed
*if you are right handed, we try to sit on your left at a dining table, so you don't accuse us of bumping your elbow throughout the meal
*we are not all anarchists, although some of us are and certainly once were
*we don't find left-handed scissors any more convenient, as we have applied our cutting skills in reverse throughout our entire cutting careers
*we devour life whole, as we have no other choice
*we truly do dislike the mathematics or quantification of most things, although numbers are not so scary
*we make better lovers (for both right and left handed partners, or both)
*we have perfectly good reasons to write only on the backs of pages in spiral-ring-notebooks

look at the lens, and smile! (candidly)

some things i have been doing/feeling/not-doing/not-feeling/etcetera in my life longer than the part of my life that they were not true for. these are the ones i am sorta proud of (these lists are the sort of things we do as we approach thirty years of age.):

*falling more in love with people more than they, or i, are ready for (or may ever be for that matter)
*playing music
*appreciating the way things wear over time
*loving words and the ways things can be put
*making a conscious-effort to be less selfish & more genuinely thankful for how other folks effect my life & visa versa
*reading
*thinking critically
*not eating meat (yes, this has always included fish-flesh)
*cuddling
*feeling romantic about nearly everything (no, not necessarily by the relationship definition)
*accepting that i am pretty rad, and that i can become radder
*riding a bike
*not cuddling with capitalism any more than i fee necessary to get bye
*loving my parents for the different people they are, and not for the people who are just different from me. yay, differences are more fun to learn from!
*embracing & oft enjoying loneliness
*thinking of my lovely sis daily
*traveling as much as possible to learn from other places and peoples
*wanting to spend time helping other people have a better time (and occasionally doing so)
*loving abandoned things,and book smells, and vinyl smells, & a few other objects
*feeling it anti-romantic to quantify nearly anything i actually care about
*being thankful for my stellar friends
*writing
*not editing much of anything, for fear that it could lose its love

these things, along with many others, i have taken on for more years of my life than not (in some instances this may create a double negative. Yeah!). i will be turning thirty years of age some time in the next year, and i kind of want to look back at all this (and that) and think of where i have been & where i might be. not likely to get too far into where i am going, as that is always such a patchwork in progress.

p.s. i believe that 'sun in an empty room', by the Weakerthans, is my favorite song today. i have already listened to it several times this morning. i also enjoy the painting by the same name, by Edward Hopper.

portland summer

good bye until next time old friend. i greatly appreciated every minute of both days we spent together; your glow, the flood of reminiscence you bring to me, the way you lit every room, gave reason to awaken, left early a set of darker pictures on floors in rooms long left vacancies. over and over i have pined for you, and our tryst will be missed.
until your perennial bloom...

train tracks skit-scat

the rhythm is dissimilar, yet invokes similarly staunch breaths.
expectation of perfections all on strong fear foundation.
we begin these things in weeks, then months, then we hope to remember.
effortless balance at first, we think of jumping at the totter.
same perception that it all should stay the same.
& there's spray-paint all over this thing.
thorax to toes and back again.
literally covering the hull and bow are tags older than us both.
and we wish to sail it until they fade or are scathed from our understanding.
the materials that makeup our movement arrived on different vessels, from disparate lands, with varying degrees of hardness in the scratch-test.
a patchwork of everything our short lives have moved through and beyond today.
we cover and comfort ourselves with the flesh of what we hope to be real.
and hopeful-hearts, however difficult to admit, are that gentle rhythm.

quandary

i once was writing a song, and called the local librarian to settle a dispute between two dictionaries over how to properly spell the word ellipses.
as luck would have it, there are several ways to spell ellipsis.
some may be plural, and other singular, but i was not one to judge such a matter.

Weakerthans v. Astronautalis

"Aside", by the Weakerthans and "My Dinner With Andy" by Astronautalis have some strikingly similar melodic bits. Particularly in their choruses. Check it out! I often wonder how intentional these things are, and on the part of whom? Truthfully, I hope they are always beautiful accidents.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A927zcSSw2s

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YjbRf7g4FGI&feature=related

they both host quite eloquent lyrics to boot!

?
who is being interviewed here?
if it is i, could we trade places of seating?
if it is you, could you please speak into my other side?
& as for this room, did they paint and & then knock holes in the walls?
is it all to remind this place what it was and what we want it to be simultaneously?
is it all too soon to run screaming and wonder what would have been, had I not?
were there once decorations where there now are notations of accomplishment?
& if walls truly do recall, will you please ask them again to name a favorite song?
these hands, head shaking, uncontrollable smile, where do I put them?
do we know , though no one else knows, that this is in fact happening?
& when the water rushes in from salty ocean topographic shift, do we continue to pretend?
is our own facade strong enough to kill us?
it certainly feels like it might be.

tentatively forever after (la playa)

-these dynamics/refrain/shift-of-pitch are far too certain, that's to be certain
-it's not just these days, this week or this well begun year
-my old-souled-goat can climb through lifetimes, cared for and otherwise, and all the while hold notes no others utter
-audible only in certain sequences, with particular attendance
-clip clop wagon wheel, like a blazing fire
-& every time we wonder, well it only makes us wander (and for this we are grateful)

she said they used to love they used to love they used to love-
now they know what they mean-
each and every bird atop the library's clock holds your gaze for second & third scenes-
& numbers depict a sales pitch of what might be the end of even longer days-
breathing in each others exhausted breath the symbol said something of embrace-

-it's a hope in the hands of shaky lovers and their left leaned households' hem-
-and the desire of said lovers is what makes change of their adjacent riches-
-only for a beach-side garden, the laurels wait in patient queues erect-
-and when our eyes open to remind us both that it is not yesterday, we breath ever deanesthetized and fresh-
-feeding fields of mint leaves mending, the sounds become audible to company as present as ever-
-admittedly admitting, the tenets served their tender, and now for some snow-

pathology 176

i overheard a person talking aloud about a book that was about a band today. from his tone it seemed he knew people in this band, and had fond memories. he spoke as if there was someone there listening, but he appeared to be alone and without a phone.
i then caught myself talking aloud about how odd it was that he was talking aloud to himself.
that person was crazy.

break: a reason for these spaces

too fast? oh, okay. sorry.
not sure how to do these things i have done since i can remember.
you move here and i am off again. not that your movement was for me. nor my absence for you.
but i'll bother to feel bad if it's what you need to feel better about it all.
it's an iterative process, this process of knowing we think we know.
handbooks, ballots to bail out our other last chance: and you taste the same taste.
surely a ghost could do better, but who had time to understand that business anyhow?
so bother to grab me by the shoulders please, because that's what i need to feel better.
persons. places. smells. reasons. things i can not see, and am not sure i should want to. but i want to, and would you please show me?

resoled slippers

once you lived in Lisbon
so much more than just a summer
built pyramids of pleasures past, and those that did say never
faster, faster, faster cried the waning wake and tether
indicative of folks who study lives and loves of others

& it's not that I keep doing this
over and over
it's that i'm not doing that
over and over
never subverted
over and over
simply not mentioned

i used to be Algerian, from far external texts
stood in the arms of an ocean deeper than what we see here
worked hard for these marks, and never surrender
scathed from bow to stern, & recalling we both were

& the background sounds bleed bigger, awaiting recognition
all our backs bleed thicker, stood on by some past conviction
interlocking fingers, as if conscience was cohesive
not building fortress around, rather lush gardens within them

not a hagiography for my heroine

said it's thought they are under the covers escaping a winter--for a moment i'll believe that, if only to occupy my story book obsessions--the direction their feet mingle, as if a parent/caregiver/oppressor had never dissuade--peering gently through cotton fiber blends to watch the shape sunlight makes today--a stumble, a late family pet, ascended and brings endless loose ends to be tended--a narrative, from the untied tether, concerning retired relatives revolutionary folly--structures spread splinter to tooth, casualty free, lest we forget capitalism...or be forgotten--bed sheets spread in mid-west fashion, pock marked by insurrection--making sense in a bed's context, the narrative shifts willingly beneath sunlit shape--and how free was the choice/will/interpretation of where to hang hats/bomb shelters/a cosmic umbrella--bedsheets narrative is not for question, nor messenger to an inquisition--born in the unlit to die in the light, bright, glow of what might make change--the beauty of dark initial incubation holds far too much nutrient for aged bed sheet shifters--through the window/bedsheet/umbrella, the living/breathing sweat of stronger children we hope to have darker holds--grow

i*d*a*h*o (or, the freezingly beautiful, retrospectively weary north)

you don't have an email account. that is likely the most intriguing thing a person has let me in on lately. the garages we hid from cops in, glow like heavens.
those two, they still hang out nightly. and this one still "uses the restroom" every other second minute. chest held, out, not that we've begun to believe it.
the children we all have make children out of all our warm hands. and nothing we ever swore would never change matters beyond some best intentions.
nervously i knew this wouldn't be good, but in that it is. i knew i needed to hurt for a second. needed to see you. breath in the frost bite.
is reminiscing really for our generation? i live distant and you stay as close as you can. both in a veiled attempt to veil all those things we will never do, and others we always will.
i cling lively to anything that looks like your shining aged face. icy rivers, banjos picked softly, hard-drugs, any source of energy. unacknowledged of course. so much of my root grew only in protest to your watering.
unpacking the vestments of your last trip home. we both know. and neither has a clue.
still, to the last syllable, i can not peck your name. draw a face. i'm learning that i like the implications of loosing. the latent ones that give us that hope we didn't have to work for.
talk to you soon, hopefully.

hawaiian mistaken

so that's not your number i have been in contact with.
what a quiet. good. bye.
the other end, with its "who is this". "k".
you have become part of the cosmos in a hopelessly illiterate sense.
we all wish to hold you...again.
and hope beyond dreams that you wish the same.
this is not only you, but all of us...we have bills to pay.
is this my message in a bottle?
sure, why not!
it's all the courage and/or cowardice welled up these past days.
and possibly someone else knows more concretely.
but for the more courage/cowardice required, we all have bills to pay.
i love you dearly my friend.

your lips are my life

i overheard you, as you may have intended.
penned feverishly on what i intended you to think were notes from my reading.
you had aged only eighteen years, this was fifteen years ago, the two of you met in some mathematics class at your high-school. the genre of math was not pertinent to the discussion.
"after fifteen years in a relationship you are really not in a relationship. it's more like, just there"
to this your friend replied, "yeah, but that drug addicted love you feel at first can't last forever. you wouldn't want to be addicted to drugs your whole life. i wouldn't. it has to calm down and become normal at some point".
you're not sure you still love your partner. not sure you even recall what love is to you. you would "never just leave", but you don't find it necessary to talk about why that is. this feeling/idea that once made you never want a moment away from your partner has evanesced, and where its shadow laid is this constant reminder that it may never return.
you then both go into a narrative discussion of past relationships, finding a conclusion that there is a two year limit on the a priori sense of agape.
& i thank you both for the intriguing & thought provoking conversation.
what is the answer to tall of this? should we resist the impulse to be near each other like hip-sisters in the beginning stages of a long term relationship? would that extend the goodness? is that goodness not the point? i think that the answer lies in the questions being addressed. they are not quite correctly pointed for answers being sought.
more milling this later.
postscript: is this "problem" inherent in monogamy?

BLOCKHEAD!!!

no time to enjoy writing, but I have recently enjoyed some super stellar music! please check out Blochead's album titled, Music by Cavelight. particularly the track called "Insomniac Olympics". Some of the best music I have ever heard!
also, P-Love, a Montreal based turn-tabelist has recently put out some mind blowing jams for your head. Check it!
lastly, a great ol' friend of mine recently turned me on to The Gaslight Anthem. for anyone up for some "soulfull" oldschool rock and roll, this may well be your tunnel light, as it has certainly become mine!!!

date and name please.

you gave me this shirt-
said it reminded you of her-
now i look at others wondering who you stole it from-
you're the whole story behind my poor tattoos, and i love you-
an aggregated heap of years since we were here-
growing deaf, old, and better as "musicians"-
we all dreamt together of the floors we would sleep over-
squatting countries, curb-sides, and watching closely those who still do-
& i know where i know you from, though not one of us will say-
basement, bathroom, second floor, we're runaways-
everyone i watch now reminds me of you-
'rushing back' may be the phrase to use-
& i see life in this, as i saw in us-
in that cold concrete space, Diamond Heights, all together now!-
this life is in no way complete, never should be-
& looks so much different today

of napkin notoriety

little down she said
stand-ups like kickstands beg impermanence
a little like "another" today
but chin-up, the seasons are coming to a close/beginning
weight has dissuade the balance's lanky levers
say i remind you of a lover, followed by faults of uncertain origin
& this is what we do
sit and talk of others, in an effort to avoid this seemingly inherent selfishness
draw upon books we've not yet read
drawing memories on our hands

affixed along the hips

i can be a vacation.
also i can serve as a book you hold fast to its epilogue.
furthermore it is possible that i am a page in a calendar with photographs of antiquated swing-sets, which you like very much and keep in a dusty paper box some place until that big move far off.
a long run through cool dark wood, filled with a special sort of excitement that your grandchildren will relish the telling of.
the grade you deserved to receive for work you feel represents your thoughts in splendid order.
the delicate balance between what someone said and what they intended that you never quite wish to spoil with a question.
the dust on both your old records and vinyl that maintains a scent so dear to your heart, tucked in the webbed corner of every other great space.
seasons you love to warm up to, and recall the last when you did the same.
& for this not just a memory, but a piece of something great to help everyone get to the bus stop on time & without panic.

perfection is for dreams, reality more for the fucking up

it's a battle, tossup, contradiction
the space between my shelter and yours shrinks each interaction
is this time the one i find some reason behind?
in the still life there are covert options, following orders, hidden by dental lamps
polarization is so weak and waning
and this is not the only ripe fruit, but it is ripe fruit
fuck absolution, and forget it the same way fate and faith were
pieces of a language left on the same island in the same bound book
the links that hold muscles and bones in suspended necessity are absolves of a mission
there is a hustle in the alley that can find solemn peace in a vomit yellow street light
but it is not light or dark that allows me to smile or nod
those are concepts for someone else to uphold and internalize
my reality is in a dirty novel and a pack of your cigarettes

tired of hiding

so that was what a bad day looks like.
then i returned home to find a message from my department chair asking for a meeting with me asap.
it may not mean anything at all, but all i can think is that she has more bad news.
i really need a kiss in the hair (the kind you get with a hug from a very dear friend) and a really really really really long hug (the kind we call cuddling). the kind that lets you get it out. the sort that hits you in the gut & reminds you why you do what you do every day. the sort that valiantly gives a fuck about something other than its self & its own historical context.
this blog is not a place for me to rant and let out "my poor feelings", but today (& recently) there is nowhere else for that. the best place feels like this, because no one will read it.
done

cartography of me, vol: I

it's not a house shaped after a viola, though i wish it were-
gardens in the f-holes, along the fingerboard, skirting scroll-
shelter in a belly, with hallways scented as all the pain it took to grow-
this thing made of trees, the gut of sheep, & rich in coal from beneath-
texture, resonate, run, run, run-
this space shelters anyone, fill in the blanks as you see it in your moment-
& if the keys loose their tune, allow it-
& if the bridge slips a step, play it-
where your bow meets coal is where you hold the world-
a saddle with no time for pitch perfection-
play off the imperfection and chose what you art will entail-
release, fluidity, run, run, run, run, run

things which can be "drawn"

lines, string, out, pictures/images, cards, pistols, numbers, cards, a bath, & quarter, straws, to a close, blinds, a match or competition, together

positivism & faith: similarities? *~

clever acronyms delineate the proper worth of a prospective candidate
every last barely breathing thought rationalized to an acute point of stoicism

what are you worth, & to who?

life long aspiration of becoming a specialist. in a decidedly fallow field
the doctor said don't do it. even scientists can't handle hearing narratives of what they don't want to know.

you'll never work in this town again.

houses constructed of ending resources, rooted in shifting sediments
the shift is what goes unnoticed. the movement of energy blinded by an "enlightened" light. emphases on consistency solely.

headlights in the eyes of critique.

move around a globe to find some smoke and a place where weather shifts & animals feel it. the experience will be shared with the choir, but they will sing rather than listen.

the disdain of enlightenment,even now, dilutes you.

SHE'S TWO!!!

i know that people in many countries don't celebrate their years of age, and don't even know how old they are, but until she doesn't care we will celebrate the lovely Penelope Beatrice in human years.

adolescence?

why can i not recall swinging outdoors when i was 3 years of age?
are psycho-linguistic connections part of the explanation for our lack of childhood memories?

could this be partly explained by the idea that, as young children, we do not have a language to describe or document what is going to happen, is happening, nor what has happened in our lives?

is language the basis of our internal documentation, and if so, do we require documentation for memory? or, are we looking in the wrong place for memory?

could this lack of articulate language be the reason so many other sentient beings do not display the same emotions, or in the same ways, as we do? do they feel these feelings for one another, and others, and simply not recall their interactions as in-depth?

if we could teach our children more concrete linguistic skills in their earliest years, would they recall more?

lastly, someone is likely already studying this, has a name for it, and feels they can "prove" some of these inquiries. just popped up in my head the other day and i thought this a great way to remember it. hah! if you know if any such studies, please send them my way.

postscript: do not connect this to aged memory loss in any linear way, as we do not necessarily lose language skills and there are a whole different set of variables in this situation.

so, uh...chaos or smoke? or both?

there are so many misunderstandings whizzing by my overly sensitive dome right now it is making me a bit ill.
i am doing my best to remain positive and remember why i have made the choices i have, but nothing is quite coming to fruition. or even pretending it may at some point.
i am intentionally cryptic here because it seems everything in my life fits this scenario right now. it is not necessary to specify. sometimes this blog is a good place for this "let it out" sort of writing. or apparently is has become such today. huh?
school/work, friendships, other sorts of relationships, child care logistics, and the like.
if i know you, you are a part of one these groups, & there might be something you could tell me that would help me make sense of something, please do! anything! i fully refute the traditional masculine idea of not asking for help. i am one person who can only stand to gain from listening to the perspectives of others, so let it rip!
full explanations or a simple yes/no will suffice. if there is pain involved, bring it! just bring it soon please, so i can get out of this haze.
merci!

in another's words

and in a harmonious voice she asked the sky:
is it possible to have true guy friends?
why do they always have to get sprung on me?
so they think i'm atractive, and i'm single, why should this have to consistently change the relationship?
she wondered, does everyone feel this way, or is it just me?
why should it be my job to make relationship dynamics with friends clear?
can't i just enjoy being single, and having a lot of good friends?
what is it about my interactions with men that makes them think i am interested in more than friendship?
why am i wasting my time thinking about something that is entirely someone elses problem?
i have far more important things to take up my time. like remodeling my bathroom.

& they make shapes

concerned with linearity
this can not be the only way we understand things
sequences of logable numbers, attached ideas and well lit concepts
set in claustrophobic spaces with specific cut outs
feeling and a cut out
can humyns understand the significance of these licks
the bolts that bind
pieces licensed to a past that has passed
tethers held by teeth hardy cast
may be as perennial as perceived
likely a discretionary perception in a faint wind

primavera

my mailbox and I will again move across this city. back a bit further north,and a smaller bit east pdx. old roommates moved out to start new lives: one to marry & the other to work on a farm in far eastern oregon. new roommates are in search of a sense of adulthood, and i am knowing that these things do not change. we simply put on different hats, coats & mail boxes. i will be moving in with three good friends who are also team mates on the bicycle team i spend so much of my time with. one an ex military career person with a philosophy degree and hunger for conversation, another from stuttgart who studies economies through geography and loves my lovely daughter, and a third from salem, or, with a sharp wit and spreading smile. am i excited? i suppose, it is always nice to be some place new. even if only a bit further north and slightly less further east. i have no need to be bitter, but i am ready to make a larger move. barcelona, vancouver, chicago, dakar, sao palo, who knows. any place would be nice, it's just time to leave. alas, this idea is futile right now. place bound i am, and place bound i shall be. and if that must be the case, i suppose portland is one of the best places to bind.
i have fun research looming, penelope beatrice is beginning to speak in sentences & is hilarious, it's about to stop raining, and the world is in a bit of a shift from system to stone. so things look good! also exciting, my new room mates and i are going to play music together! ahh the recap. i plan to soon write something interesting, and less stream of consciousness. for now i will end with a nice quote from
The Weepies: "i held so many people in my suitcase heart, i had to let the whole thing go, it was taken by a wind and snow, and i still didn't know that i was waiting, for a girl, on a slow pony home".
happy spring everyone!

finals week again again again

quick note on my cognitive what-not this past & coming week. i have so much to get done that my only release is to ride my bike as hard and long as physically possible. this seems to clear my head, after which i can write essays and research papers. it's a bit ridiculous, and feels amazing.
postscript: my new room-mates installed a full liquor bar to our common living quarters this afternoon.

think about direction

we heard you say it was meant to look like running paint, but we all know what that meant-

the lovely shapes your skull makes, shadows in boats on seas we dream of-

what do stars really mean, you told us with your cryptic southern state rap step-

influenced razors and sleeping partners, and stood in your place of plain sight-

& if this is sex I want it, & if this is love I want it more, & those may have been your words,

you are after all, in part your star spangled chest, the reason I can say this-

awe is only one hold of the cradle that is not prepared to fall-

the saints of snow still hold heads differently than those sun blessed-

and I've been here hours waiting, but could not tell you what the table top is made of-

shared drink with both hands on one glass in six eight time-

and somehow none of that is frightening any more, but another bit of dust-

a second piece for you dear friend, sectioned eloquently as you might prefer-

could not tell the color of the bathroom walls, kitchen curtains, or iris accurately-

the keys have worn thin and difficult to read-

modern woman with a world trade agenda, two bold knowing lovers, a grandparent's buck-knife-

and a gut twisting urge to let it all out of the bag

eff the johnson control!

some thoughts on the day's musings.

• is it problematic to use the term "cancer" to describe a spreading problem in an institution, movement, etcetera? according to current bio-research cancer cells do not know what or who they belong to. does this truly correlate to the spread of crisis or dissemination of ideas in a group, or in society at large?

• is it not an equally Utopian idea to claim that a single dominant paradigm is necessary to create a focused cohesive society, as it would be claim that a pluralistic and multi-dimensional ideology based model is necessary? is either correct? is the idea of paradigm mere shit? should individual perspective be the source of truth and cohesion? would that generate cohesion?

• ask these questions because the fundamental theory and historical context is often where a paradigm shift finds its beginnings, and maintains a foothold to endure.

• are paradigmatic shifts always calling for a shift in, or deconstruction of, meta-narratives?

• to what degree did the formation of the Christian far right during the Nixon era create the possibility for a backlash movement in denominations such as Episcopalian? Does this explain, in part, the current stance of these religious institutions? If so, to what degree?