This is the sun on a leap day in a leap year. Some might call it “quantum.” I am reminded of Marta, my first meditation teacher in Arcata, CA. “How do we hold our core during times of chaos and quantum leaps?”
I want to touch the sun. Swipe my fingers across the sky. Touch the center of it all.
This is the end of Gram’s deathtime and the beginning of Dad’s. This is the end of February and the beginning of another month in love with the sky. No matter how dark and cold, now. The trees begin to shake and shed their winter coats.
On a morning before the beginning of March, I am reminded that this milky orb shining through cloud-fields will only be this way for this moment, for you, for me, for us, and the darkness that lies below will become filled with golden light. I am trying to remember a precious memory. I am trying to remember what it feels like to be at home.
And how to keep going on.
Notes on synchronicity. For la luna.
A message from you at the peak. When all i want is to want. Arms wrapped crossed over heart and yet, open chested.
Synchronicity, according to Trungpa, is the “absence of doubt,” which means first, we have to trust ourselves. Our heart.
Do you trust your heart?
When i thank someone from the “bottom of my heart,” is that where trust lies?
Does trust lie?
When there is truth there are synchronistic moments:
on a dark corner, somewhere in the PNW, you are stopped because your chain is misbehaving on your bike. You look up and a man on a bicycle begins his descent. He asks you if you need a hand. You accept his offer, after silenting wishing someone would help you.
Lucky for you, he has what you need to get home. To return. To arrive.
Monday, death day celebration. Dia de los muertos. Anytime. Any day.
Part two: Walking from the edges of life
we walked to the edge and stared out into vastness
ash ash ash
gate paragate parasamgate
I swore the mist held its tongue–if only for a moment
a black stone was thrown into the surf
and we didn’t drown
the mist led the way
a hunter a fairy and a fool
realizing too late: the beginning is over
You look out on your world, it’s Tuesday. You are welcomed and then you realize this is the first welcome you can remember.
You are finally addressed by your name; finally new life on the winter trees, shrubs are beginning to bud–there are even tiny white flowers about to bloom.
You want to hold the lightness of the fog in your throat as you draw a breath, but it escapes you. You can only see in front of you so far.
Bello is all wide eyed, ears up alert and then he’s not. You wonder what he smells, hears and how different you would be if you could tap into his knowing.
You are speaking to yourself and it’s OK. It’s a new year: a time to remember you can begin again (anytime). You want to write “we” but think better of it.
You are given a task: write from the edge of life. “Living on the edge” plays in your mind. You are a product of the 80s.
You make plans to visit an edge: the Pacific Ocean. You remember Gram’s deathday so you will bring a redrose, something to burn and a song or a story to tell so you can laugh.
Thank you dear spirit for aligning my path with the holy.
Ghosts in these books. I dust during Döns.
The black plastic tube swiftly inhales my bits of nail, bello hair, skin.
“so where do you enter memory”
these are open ended
a bright neon sign pointing to “genetic ghosts”
i want to fuck like nobody’s business:
“i need to fuck myself in such a way that the moans eat me alive.”
i am not who i think i am: a little lost hollow branch used to scrawl on the beach.
one sand dune beach day we witnessed a couple
followed by another: a few feet behind or ahead and to the side: holding out a camera
i want to go to that show.
[Quotes from Akilah’s the she said dialouges: flesh memory are my hook lines, a link to that underground, to another world, realm where i am waiting for me to look up: to sit up. Today i’ll engage my core and hold my breath: cerulean sky please come back for me.]
This death day anniversary will not go unnoticed–can i ever really forget? i said, “sopa” and i’m not talking soup. Rice simmered in tomato sauce. There is that sense of reclamation. Holla at your girl. Sometimes i fall into chola ways when it comes to having your back. I won’t let go.