can i ever know the order :?:

the trickiness of interview inquiry and where it got us (us = me).




how :?: potentially as invasive as why, this one i reserve for instances of necessary knowledge. the narrative we can recall walks with a single broken stiletto and forgets in the morning. how is released promptly as the safety committee threatens a walk through, and retreats to its scabbard in similar fashion. its hip joints rutty, teeth warn flat, and still it can catch a queried thinker with gnash and stammer. inside one stiletto heal sleeps a switchblade, no one recalls which foot it belonged to.

how are you?




what :?: the generalized other of narrative, what holds hands with where on a swing constructed by who with nails rescued from its childhood treefort. what is the meaning of anything, and often nothing at all. if a water-colorist fancies a soft breeze from the north in "Landscape Willow with Backyard Swing", what is there to show the pale underside of every third and fifth leaf.

what would you never do for your lover?




where? holding my heart like the necessary muscle it is, where draws a picture of the patio corner meeting the sliding glass door, in the back yard of a child's first home in rural Japan, where who and how played. befriending in the country is sometimes hard. former child makes hands at boat repair in the city now, and where brings vodka to the evening's Arnold Palmer.

where did these stains come from?




who? beyond demographics who is afrolic with potentiality. who is better at hiding than any of its siblings and knows all the best tricks, like backwards-alphabets and cusswords in literary languages. who smokes what it can scrape together until it is time to get in the station wagon and disappear. occasionally, who waits around the corner that i didn't see coming and, rounding in tandem, slams body to my body abruptly.

who wrote this hand written letter?




why? stop. incarcerating power happens in three letters that many languages either omit or make mouthed silence. why needs no sharpened shank or oxide coated steel pick to escape. why eats the cake, frees the knife form its own belly, and forgets the truth before boarding a plane. why knows that some institutions aim to be trusted, and truly expects that no one trust a thought it could share. why is rewritten Soviet histories.

why are there only three knives in the drawer?            

commemorative mugs for being human, rather than another animal

"i think they (the disembodies other) should only give allergies to the villains in Jane Austin novels and telenovelas. the rest of us should get coupons for free hair cuts and commemorative mugs for playing. this is my official opinion" -K.W.

the mug might work like a mood ring, becoming what the receiver feels is right once they handle it. the mug could be the larger piece of something you have always carried around, never quite sure what it was. possibly there is an oligarchically selected committee that votes on the most thoughtful and nostalgic mug shape and design. sentience feels difficult sometimes, and since humans sometimes assume we are the only animals that have it as a sense of the world we will need quite a proportionate mug.

to be accounted for: size, aesthetic, magical prowess, colorway, relevant incantations, refill quota, lip interaction, grip, buoyancy, packaging (this is an additional list), transparency, ability to remind the owner of the life spent earning it, durability, willingness to say "you did the best you could", shareability, x-ray-ability, proper storage techniques (a further additional list), insulative property, pickle capacity, and a host of less urgent variables.

and when should the mug be presented? post retirement from a work-thing seems pedestrian, to allow time to enjoy it before you (the royal you) find - out - if - you - were - right.
attaching the mug to employment could be painful for some.
appearing casually like the second circle in Silverstein's "The Missing Piece Meets The Big O" may allow for a successful integration. the mug might appear along side you when you are being your own authentic and beautiful self, feeling need for nothing. the mug earns love, and an appropriate amount of affectionate ridicule moving forward.

if you (royal) do not have hair, do you get coupons for cranial massage?

dictionary

svegliettadellatetta: when it feels like someone is looking at you fondly, but they are looking at someone just past you. also applies when that person is on the other side of the glass and is peering at their own image. 

parting glass, take one

can taking on water count as sinking, or is it necessary for a sinking thing to be growing less visible?

the place i work may not be a sinking ship, but one made bouant by deeply dedicated fingers stuck in holes that came there by way of external desire. the hole punchers thought they were dealing with a fortress rather than a sea vessel, and likely would not have expected buoyancy had they known. the hole pluggers, their fingers weary and tiring from the pressure of what might become sinking, look in at one another with the hope that someone has learned to free themselves long enough to see if there is a helm and rudder to the wave-tossed wondering hull they call home.

those we work for, our clients or youth, are not privy to the possibly-sinking nature of the boat. some of them found us late at night and climbed quietly on board. some were brought our way while hitching rides with pirates. others were floating along, tired from trying to learn to swim, and hopeful that we could teach something about swimming or fishing or boats. many youth would love a handshake or hug, if ever any of the hole pluggers could free all five fingers to extend. instead youth replace those hands with chemicals and things that feel like what they think a hug might. for this behavior youth are asked to keep swimming. our porous boat has little tolerance for measures beyond hole plugging.

some of us hole pluggers manage ways to love the holes, or at least love the painful fingers they create. many of us have to pull our digits free and swim with hope for a solid hull. no mention of the pain our fingers will remember, and the soon-plugged-holes forget. all of us love some of the people we work for, and may wish we loved the holes or that there were a helm. no space to mention the pain our hearts will remember, or ask who still just wants a hug. i do.

schools of youth who continue to swim will light-on panopticons of all shape and size to rest. those hidden towers shape like universities, shift leads, doctors, ministers, wardens, or community college recruiters. shift from no one freely offering a hug, to hugs as paid interaction. learning to swim is hard.

were it my choice, i would be a camp fire

 the best ways i know time passing: 
time in the forest, in the sun, in warm oceans, in cafes without english, in college classes, with particular friends, in breath gulping workouts, first entering an unfamiliar library, cooking meals with or for loved people, anonymously watching life happen, when gravity feels less persistent, without a deadline, crammed with the smell of newly blossomed plants, free of leaders and genuflectors alike, with tastes that remember, among animals that make it feel like there is more blood, in quiet, when the ache shows me what it wants or what i want, when power happens on all sides the same, when birds can be seen or heard, when buildings are too far away, when it is too dirty for you and just right for me, near the desert, when i get scared, while the duff is drying, when rivers are louder than thinking, as friends are asleep at camp, when fires remind me of love, when music reminds me that people can be really good, looking at art that makes my thoughts reverse, hearing rocks clang together, feeling sex in every cell, drinking lovingly brewed coffee, without too many clouds, when i have given everything i can and want to give more, hugging, building things with tools i don't yet understand, writing, sitting in trees, recognizing contributions, learning about species i don't yet understand, driving on ice, being hungry, listening in a open plaza, smelling outdoor summer festivals, with mulled wine, dancing, filled with thoughts of lost friends, pondering geometrics, with few numbers or codifications, listening to stories, seeing movements of animals and plants under water, creating bad haircuts, with my back against a tree, as toes fill with mud, when things taste like gravy, when i lose control of most things, as the vision i know becomes distorted, while grey hair grows and grows, holding off judgement to search for other truth, adding wood to a campfire, aimlessly traveling, writing, the few times annually when it feels like the words "best" or "good" may be internally generated, with warm or dissonant tones, deconstructing nearly anything, believing, being honest when it hurts, when i should shower and don't, when the clouds break, when someone tells me the hard thing they want to say, mosquitos being eaten by birds, without traction, listening to mechanisms do their jobs, touching cactus,     

occasionally deleted for the record

how to use a semi colon, properly place the words affect and effect, or a commanding sewing machine technique are all things that i know i still want to learn. there are myriad others worth knowing; these are some of the more obvious bits i feel i should learn, but never make time for.

since finding parts of the means to make our move to Regello, Italy next year, I have begun making additional time for studying. the more i learn the more my hunger for learning and knowledge grows. it's similar to the times i allow myself to venture into an unfamiliar situation, with unfamiliar and unique individuals and rituals, and suddenly i feel able to recall parts of my life I have not thought about in many years.
it feels like remembering something new, which is a concept born in drugs, depression, and little sleep. it is a beautiful thing to have a memory come, then the narrative of what was give way to a new and old emotion all at once. the exact terms of that narrative are no longer relevant, as what i actually recall is what i base my present reality on. with much more to say on the philosophy of memories, i would like to shift to the tick of this post.

recent mornings have sounded like plodding footsteps of an Italian toddler. rudimentary phrases concerning horses who drink milk and monkeys with money are commonly stammered, if spoken coherently. seldom is my cup of coffee complete without a spirited verb conjugation quandary. the program i am learning with, titled Duolingo, claims that i am now 40% fluent in the Italian language, though i know the real learning comes when i need to buy parts to fix a broken water pump in the small town we will soon inhabit. on the whole i find learning Italiano much less confusing than francais, and my motivation far clearer. i am legitimately excited to learn and grow in a culture that i know little about, and to share that experience with my closest friends. driven to experience culture in the most honest manner i can muster, this appetite for learning is sure to find a glut.

my penchant for consistent learning has further been quenched by a new book Megan bought for me titled The Tree; A Natural History of What Trees Are, How They Live, and Why They Matter, by Colin Tudge. The author explores many animal uses of trees, how trees affect human civilization, and why critical taxonomy is important. It is a beautiful work that intertwines many of my favorite things: philosophy, trees, language, and science! I love this book (and i am only on Ch1)!

last night Megan introduced another amazing bit/phenomena when i made the remark, "i can not tell the difference between genre or era of classical music." MC asked if i wanted to have a mini lesson, via Youtube jamming some classic music, and then proceeded to share some super interesting info on all of the unique periods of music -- as it were. MC began with a piece by the Gregorian Monks, titled Dies Ire, and i have not been able to listen to anything else since. this is a piece written by a catholic nun that depicts the goings on of judgement day. the particular recording i have heard most is sung by a group of monks inside Notre Dam Cathedral, and clearly bounced around in that cold stone building in exactly the way it was written. the piece inspires me to do something with music again. something with my own hands. something respectful of all of the folks who have felt music rattle their bones, in many ways and for many reasons. thank you for the beautiful opening up Megan!

i remember as a teenager i heard about how Chris Christopherson had gone to college for most of life, and from my first poli-scie course i have wanted to do the same. i love learning, sharing, critiquing, deconstructing, constructing, advocating, high-fiving, and teaching alike. i now know that it is possible to do this outside the classroom. with the right bookends of accountability. school provided a metric and a method to get through subjects, and to build on them. with a careful collection process i think i can do the same for free, and hopefully continue a branching swath of intake all along.

lastly, this is my first attempt at writing while not depressed.
here is to more of that!                

not a hottub

i was baptised protestant, and it felt similar to stepping in my own shit. to be fair i remeber the shit and learned from it. camping and forest days can give such glowing gifts. 

trying harder than

 i reaL needed a deck shuffle a while back, and the medicine did not work. not even a little. i became super high, and the next day i mostly pretended to feel better than before. i was/am still the same amount of wintEr sick. 

maybe iT was too many pains of glass to smash, or i didn't let Go enough, or another thing. maybe different medicine is in order? like sunshine. or acid. or bOth.

or winter is just harder than medicines.  

getting well

i have a pocket of favorite things about not celebrating religious, imperialist, genocide, or otherwise power/consumption/faith/fallacy based holidays that i don't support.
the pocket is rolling solo on those days.
my quasi tradition.
now that Penelope Beatrice is old enough to share thoughts and feelings with me in ways we both can understand, i am going back to living life in this way that feels more honest to me. the way i do things i believe in, and act against things i do not. i feel confident that Penelope will understand.

one of those favorite things is occasionally empty streets and open spaces. it feels like maybe the few humans i see are those the earth is comfortably able to provide for. it's possible this is the number of people we are capable of kindly interacting with.
those of us who are not celebrating get to hear the leaves rustle uniquely once or twice each year.
i get the sense that we are all calmly appreciating perennial defiance, and the things iconoclasts (& folks with all other motivations) get to experience.
i know i am.

looking toward ending homelessness: not a utopian approach

there are plenty of organizations trying to help folks who do not live indoors find shelter, and the skills and means to maintain it. below are some things i think could greatly help in those efforts.

upstream:
1. abolish free-market capitalism and replace it with a community health and welfare oriented socialism.
2. ban corporate welfare in all forms and put those millions of tax dollars into free education and social welfare institutions. make this action retroactive.
3. defund the military, minimizing defense to a small national guard.
4. stop paying war debts. if the USA owes other nations money that was loaned during wars, too bad. they are existing without that money.    
5. imprison all rich business leaders in power situations of similar to Rupert Murdoch and Donald Trump, and freeze their assets for public use. then figure out how much money they owe. then put them on welfare and let them live in the public housing projects....or just take what they owe and let them go.
6. defund the prison industrial complex. release all nonviolent criminals, and mandate expedited legal proceedings for prisoners who are awaiting trial . release all prisoners who are awaiting deportation to their countries of origin. knock down prisons, and replace them with community gardens.
7. legalize all drugs, create safe and clean places to use them, and offer recovery and rehabilitation services to addicted people.
8. direct much of the prison, corporate welfare, and military funds to create the best mental health services and research universities possible. make all mental health services free, non-institutionalizing, and create campaigns to destigmatize mental illness (with an attempt at giving mental illness and physical illness similar footing).
9. mandate that all states and municipalities legalize all forms of abortion and birth control. people who do not want children are often not the greatest parents. this in itself would greatly reduce the number of unsupported youth who have a higher likelihood of living on the streets.    

downstream:
10. give people housing (also somewhat upstream)! it is uber difficult to obtain a job or go to school when you have no mail address, or place to keep your things. it is also difficult to do these things when you have to spend a large part of your day finding your place to stay, or queuing for a bed.
11. do many of the upstream things for the current population of folks living without shelter.

iconoclasts eat last

stages of grief: my parents begged me to read part of your book. you write specifically about this year. the year that the person we grieve has been gone as long as they were here. i recall a note about how i would be thinking about that person once a week or less by this point in the "stages of grief". i ask myself what you, as an author, knew about my experience. how did it serve you to create these metrics of forgetting? why is the infrequency of my remembering something to look forward to? why did that seem like a comforting thing to write? what does this say about your experiences? would you write it differently now?

today my sister, Becky Denise Gerow, would be 36 years of age, had she not died in a car accident 18 years ago. if i were able to talk with her this evening i would ask a lot of questions. i might share some things as well. here are some of those things.

i might ask what afterdeath really feels like, if it does.
i would ask how it feels to have believed in what it would feel like, and know now what it actually feels like. assuming it feels like anything, or exists for her.
i might admit that i wish i could believe in some place we would hang out together once i die, and that i do not believe and we can't.
i would ask her if she recalls the time we laid under the pines with our dogs. the ones the lightning took.
i would ask how it feels to be remembered by a tree, a license plate, and some hand scrawled songs -- if it feels at all.
i would beg for her voice on the state of our parents non-comital-non-retirement.
i would ask what she thinks of our family now. the distance and silence we have all grown like moss on the roof of our relationships.
i would hope she would have an angry voice to speak of the way our relatives deconstructed the cabin we grew up in, and the stale mansion that stands supplanted.
i would ask her if it is okay the way i feel about spending time with happy people. how it is scary because i worry that i can only make them less happy. i would ask if some folks get to stop being sad when they die. if she had a way to know that. i would ask if sad folks at least get longer breaks from being sad then they did in life, if they exist. if they have reasons to recall.
i would want to thank her for being my only friend during some of the harder parts of my life, and share how much it would feel good to tell her that.
i would thank her for being the kid our folks always wanted. i would thank her for pushing space to let me be myself, even when she knew it was an unhealthy self.
i would thank her for the trips to the beach, the cigarettes, the dirt bikes, rodeo dances, for go-cart hair fling, and for taking steps i would need to take later.
i would say thanks for the day i left before she did. i looked out the window of my green car and said goodbye. it felt like the time i said goodbye after we dropped her off for college in Colorado, and i sat in the back seat and cried against all my might.
i would say that i love her.
i wish i could tell her these things, and endless other things, but i can't.
that hurts a lot sometimes.    

      

"ending homelessness"

placing "skin tone" Bandaids on compound fractures
bandages designed, manufactured, and profited off by the breaker-of-the-bone
none of us know how to swim, or what direction the stream is flowing

all hallows' eve

Sama (endearing grimace of desire): "What costume would you wear every day -- and you can't say yourself?"

Gena (eavesdropping reply): "Other than this one i currently wear every day?"

how are you?

i find myself a person looking at a piece of art wondering what the creator felt when they made it (and after), what folks might feel when they view it, and asking myself what make this art? i am the type of person who forgets to ask how i feel about things, from time to time. 

the last ten steps, over some leaves

in a place without seasons, beyond the rod-iron gate, one mile and ten paces left, the prison sits quietly on downstream haunches.
there are no license plates stamped in max.
if I could insect my way in I would roam the panopticon halls, sniffing for graphite scribed lists titled "should have" and "shouldn't have".

should: write Rachel a letter, learn to swim, start a memoir, request photos of my dog, know what pineapple smells like, be able to remember outside.

shouldn't: have stopped, have been caught, told that story, answer questions that begin with "why", given Reggie my keys.   

a wall is the line

someone created a line; some what arbitrary, and the other what strategic.
for native folks, whom the line jumped over, it was time to move south.
military factions sent to force whole tribes and villages to pack up and flee the fertile land they had learned to love.
today the line is more of a fortress than a semaphore of power.
what are the fortress builders so afraid of?
what did it feel like to draw that line the first time?
can it be fixed/

paper clip zipper

holes born on the other side of fences are in this.
several tears from several friends soaked in and dried in the shoulders.
burns of errant ember dot the ball-pitted sleeves.
pockets that even a quarter can't cling to.
the scent of coffee, campfire, grease, and travel wrap softly; holding it all together.
winter, spring, summer, and fall have slept here.
everything I know, apart from laundry, has shared itself with my messy shirt.

please fool me, so i don't have to pretend

-sometimes police officers are punished for compassion. more often for misconduct. 

=a young boy was chided, in the forest, for refusing to shoot a squirrel. all of the friends laughed, and took their turn shooting the squirrel's jumping body. the refusing boy's sister said he should not have supper that evening. 

=-in the center of one ill-lit suburban casino, it all went right. now to buy all the weapons, cars, sex, and sport-fan aisle-attendant popcorn. 

sometimes watching fingers dance in the sunlight over keys to say, "i feel like you are the kindest person i have met, summer" is a really warm way to also thank the season for tricking us for so long. i hope it continues. i hope we all do. 

for the warmest summer tricks today. 

not marbles:

opposite, alternate-

toothed, smooth-

simple, compound-

whorled, scarred,

veined.

how to float on a river and rocks, bolster the shoreline before.

share fungus and nurture neighbors constantly.

how to sacrifice in a way no thanks can be given for.

to always provide without being asked. maybe why.

how to observe and collect, with abundance.

it feels necessary to reach up high with all of the parts when a station is mandatory.

to have a look around.

feed everyone.

make quiet distance.

give the air sound when it wants to dance.

ways to spread out.

when to let go. possibly why.

how to push destructively hard to stay, as deep and wide as possible. even more.

how to only love.

how to offer the world with candles.

to allow space and hug back, just hard enough.

to find everything necessary, right where it needs to be. to go without.

to lean over real good and far to ask for things.

how to redirect when it hurts.

how to keep some, maybe most, humans alive who really need help. likely why.

seeds, fruit,

flowers, cones,

vectors, teeth,

stomachs, claws,

feces, vomit,

roots.

explanation-erish 1,035_:

i often share words about how i want to be, and what ways i would love to show up. for a long time i have lived through what i would love to do/be if i had my druthers. 

i know this may not always make the clearest sense, but it is a necessary thing for me. i feel like living life through what i can currently do is limiting, and in some odd way dishonest/half-honest. 

i am not interested in what systems in my life have allow me to be/do. 

that feels like voting for winners. bullshit.  

i need to look at what/who i would prefer to be. without those stories of something like hope in my daily life, i feel a lot of heavy water. 

maybe this is why i like to make plans that i know i can not act on. that one likely is not a healthy one to continue.