I am married to non-monogamy.

And I am so, so uncomfortable about the potential of being replaced, cast aside, left alone.  I am so scared that sacred moments will be shared in other ways.  I am greedy for the time my loves spend with others.  I want it.

I have two partners. I left them both in D.C.  I chose to go out on my own.

I must be a pretty frustrating person to love.

Both of my loves are spending time with new people.  I am not.

Here in wild, queer Berlin, I haven’t met anyone who strikes my fancy. I see people, but I haven’t met them.

These two amazing people I love, however, have both been busy.  Others have noticed they are amazing.

Others are in the spaces my body has been, was, am afraid to hope will be again.

I feel so much more alone when these two individuals aren’t sharing with me the feeling of missing an us.  I am terrified.

The fortieth day is my loneliest day, brought on by their back to back dates (neither of their firsts, by the way).

I am beyond uncomfortable.  I wonder how I can stand it.  I wonder what I’m doing now that I’ve so idiotically put myself here.  What is wrong with me, I wonder.  What have I done to myself?

I am free.

So is he.

So is she.

And we are all amazing.  We each deserve the world.

The price I pay for this freedom–this knowing that my loves will live the lives of their dreams and I will not hold them back, nor the other way around–for this freedom I pay the price of discomfort.

They will answer when I call.  They will remind me of our love.  It will be untouched, the same love, unadulterated by the living of life.  I will ask for, and I will receive, all the reassurances I need.

I will be uncomfortable for longer than I’m comfortable with, but we will all be unrestrained.  Liberated from invisible bonds of possession, one to another.  We belong together, but not to each other.

I love them so much.  I am quite scared.  I remain uncomfortable.  These are the prices of freedom which I will gladly, repeatedly, always pay.

It becomes a housecleaning project of the brain.  I go through this again and again.  The house doesn’t only need to be cleaned once, or even just twice, but regularly.  Jealousy is like this.

This work, I hate it.  I could wallow in my egotistical slouch all fucking day and forget the cleaning I have to do.  Who cares, if I’m alone anyway.  Self-pity is a satisfying loop.  I regularly hang out there when I get new information, just to digest.

In the end I will have to be uncomfortable for at least a while.  Instead of letting it all build up until dust bunnies of desire are stuck in all the cracks.  The grime of unanswered questions like a film I could scrape with my fingernails.  The cobwebs of unspoken needs all strung about around my skull catching all the positive thoughts where they should have been flying free.

I will clean.  And I will be happy I did.

Because freedom is all I want, and need.  For my thoughts, my heart, my body.  And for my loves, their hearts, their bodies.

Truly, I want this for the world.

Walkaway, Cory Doctorow.  Another favorite! Highly recommended.

Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe

The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. LeGuin

Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood

Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston. Favorite! Necessary American reading.

The Enchantress of Florence, Salman Rushdie

The Penelopiad, Margaret Atwood

Sexing the Cherry, Jeanette Winterson

“Poetry is Not a Luxury”, and “Uses of the Erotic”, “The Master’s Tools Will Not Dismantle the Master’s House” — essays by Audre Lorde and hiiiighly recommended.

“The Veiled Woman”, “Linda”, “Mandra”, “Marianne” — short stories by Anaïs Nin. I loved Mandra the most.

“The Second Bakery Attack”, “Samsa in Love”, “Birthday Girl”, “A Folklore for My Generation: A Prehistory of Late-Stage Capitalism” — Haruki Murakami. I needed a big think after most of these, and I loved it.

I spent thirteen happy nights and days alone in a mostly-isolated cottage on a mountain somewhere in Germany. The birds sang. I’d do yoga with the trees. The world is full-time precious and bright again. I talked to almost no one, yet my full world was utterly devoid of loneliness.

It was also nearly devoid of wifi, which is worth noting, and bittersweet. I do think I’d have been more lonely had I had the internet to worry about. I didn’t though, so mostly I worried about which forest path would be my next and how to identify birds.

It wasn’t long til I wore my monocular (yep) around my neck. Yep.

It also wasn’t long til I perfected my mountain pose. I also wrote some little ditties that no one will ever hear. For the birds.

On Tuesday morning–day twelve–I started to prepare for departure by cleaning and organizing smaller things. I had been looking forward to a day of reading and puttering. Hiking over the past couple of days had me whooped.

So not a lot changed when the power went out. (Keep in mind though the absence of neighbors/assistance, internet, phone, I was up a mountain, and es tut mir leid, I can’t speak German.)

That was the day I read _Their Eyes Were Watching God_. I dare imagine that no few women of color remember exactly the time they read this book. It is simply powerful. Exquisite. The day was winding down as I exhaled everything I’d held for Janie, and breathed deep of her strength. I heard a chirp and looked to see a robin–not an American robin, friends, look it up–on the deck. It sang at me a while then fluttered off with a whirr like the cousin of a hummingbird. It was then I noticed the sun had begun it’s bedtime routine.

Night thirteen. I tried all the things I knew how to try, again, to bring the power back. I was resolved to a night of cold, but the dark had suddenly become intimidating. I smoked as the sun set and put it into perspective. What had changed, really? I have flashlights (one wind-up and one with extra batteries, thanks fam) and a hot water bottle, plenty of books to read and letters to write, and food. Okay, I thought, bring it on.

I settled into my comfort with this strange situation becoming stranger and suddenly remembered the Hunter’s Moon. Today was Tuesday the 24th of October, 2018: a full autumnal moon.

She rose glorious and I wrote about her. I’m bleeding so the full moon felt extra special. It was the brightest night I’d seen out there.

It may interest you to know that I am regularly the type to insist on using my own eyes in the dark of nature. Fire is cool cuz it doesn’t totally mess with your night vision. Stars look better with the porch lights off. A good moon will always light your way, if you let her.

On this adventure I hadn’t left all the lights off in the house except to sleep. The nighttime world was overwhelmingly dark; a new moon when I arrived. The light from the living room encircled only the small backyard, leaving the rest of everything unknown. Even though I had a fence, at night I wanted the animals to know I was there, so I’d keep that light on. Sometimes I would stomp. Or fart. Once in a while a good burp would whisper into the night: “stay away.” So the animals always knew what was up.

The moon came up and she was beaming. Like a freshly manicured, perfectly coiffed model she dazzled, spotlighting the darkness, displaying delights you mightn’t have noticed had her delicate fingers not whispered past. The world was deep in shades, three dimensional in a shimmery grey that could be nearly white, or deep black, but everything in between was the party. I’ve seen many moons like these, I’ve played under them. I was reminded of so many stars and adventures. I wasn’t even a little bit scared to have the lights off.

When I heard the hooves I looked to see the animal had noticed me at the same time and stopped still. It remained in the deepest of shadow, but I knew it was there. I was still inside my fence, but we were only ten feet apart, this animal and I. I decided to treat it like any other neighbor, and whispered into the black, “Guten abend.” I gave the creature a little up-nod and walked back into the unlit cottage without looking back. Even then I had yet to really feel afraid.

It occurred to me exactly once that if anybody noticed my flashlight they might come wondering. I wouldn’t be able to explain myself in German. I realized I fear men more than anything else in the dark, cold world. I had one more smoke with the moon and settled in for the night.

I spent the rest of the dark before bedtime stretching, holding my hot water bottle, and playing tarot. It was exactly how I wanted to spend my evening. I was happy and comfortable.

I woke up rejuvenated, ready, and almost kind of warm. I bundled up and gave the cabin every ounce of the love it had given me, keeping warm by cleaning and organizing. I opened the doors and listened to the birds sing, really sing! I felt a little like a northern woodland princess, all bundled and beaming with birds dancing about. I hiked down the mountain feeling loved and ready to leave.

Day fourteen: I don’t know if I’ll ever go back, but there is no way I’ll ever forget. The only expression of gratitude for a gift of such freedom of aloneness is to carry some treasured brightness around with you, I suppose. I will do my best, and always thank the sky.

– – – – – – – –

Afterword

The power had been turned off by the owners of the land on which the cottage sat.  When contacted, they claimed not to have known anyone was up there.  I found this strange because I saw them most days.  I’m delighted I had the presence of mind to leave when I did.  I continue to thank the sky for the whole adventure.

They flew off into the sunset loud as fuck, squawking and cackling. By the hundreds they flew toward the deepening orange of the horizon; for hours the geese were flying overhead. Those of us without wings were alerted by their overhead chattering in busy, differing crowds, never fewer than fifty per V. A gaggle of gaggles. I loved in particular watching them float around and reassemble, often merging Vs. Aligning and realigning, honking and tooting. I thought of marching bands on the field and wondered if marching bands had ever thought of geese. A graceful arrangement of honks and toots, they flew off into the sunset.

Recorded over five hours on the forest trails on a gorgeous Sunday in late October.

Dogs: 16

Off leash: eight

Trail bikers: seven

Trail runners: two

Deer: three

Great tits (the bird): seven

Prams/strollers/baby wagons: two

Did you know that Buddhism is not a religion but a philosophy? I’ve read some books and had a few conversations with Buddhist monks. It seems as though Buddha himself would wonder if he’d accidentally begun a cult, being himself a human being and therefore no more or less divine that those who studied under him and later would worship him.

So too is anarchism simply a philosophy and not necessarily a politic. Just as with Buddhism, we can easily slip from one to the other. What is anarchism a philosophy of, anyway?

It is not political philosophy. Sorry, everyone who thinks they know things from memes. Anarchism is a social philosophy that bleeds directly into politics, the way every social philosophy does.

Do anarchists want to end the State, erase borders and replace capitalism with cooperation? You betcha. But there are other works to be done first, at home.
Political philosophy is discussed with an assumption of the State at work. Anarchism is not necessarily this. Many of us have our discussion on the ground with everybody else.

In oversimplified terms, Buddhists would like to reach nirvana: the deep and true understanding of the world as one energy, as the self as divine but not ego-driven, an embodiment of compassion. Before this can be achieved, there is much work to be done at home, with oneself. Start by meditating, the monks will say, just a little at a time.

Similarly oversimplified, anarchism asks the same of us: that we do good works at home in order to combat social corruption and material greed. Start by supporting your immediate community: perhaps get to know your neighbors. Anarchists would like to see a day of utmost equality in much the same way Buddhists do; indeed, our adherence to the philosophy is also shown in our daily works.

A philosophy becomes a religion when one forgets that life is of the utmost importance. Before any god, life. Anarchism asks that we value the lives of our fellow humans as much as we would value our own. (Some anarchists would take this philosophy also into the animal world, bringing us ever closer to Buddhism.) Freedom and equality instead of borders and capitalism. Anarchists aren’t really in danger of religion, but we don’t mind a little fanaticism.

Dear reader, I ask that your view of anarchism–especially in these combative times–be unhindered by assumptions of unnecessary violence or chaos in general. Certainly we can find many anarchists whose sole goal is the burning of the State. If we look we will also find many worshipers, rather than followers, of Buddha. I cheer these people on, all. I allow for variety in my philosophic endeavors: I am not those people. I would like to be of help to them–and I plan to be, when called–but I also dream of a quiet life with a small community of equals who tend to one another. I dream of the world proven to have been created invariably by all human ancestors: a community of sharers, free as the day they were born, working collectively to keep strong the whole. My anarchism starts with me.

It’s okay to get up late now because everyone (all the woodland creatures) is doing it. I imagine the birds snuggled together for warmth even as the day breaks. Their day moves to fit the warmth, and if my neighbor is right it’s going to keep moving–shorter days, lower temperatures. I would have dragged myself out of bed at 830 just to be near daylight were it not for my plans to be outside much of today. The sun has the only important schedule up here

Looking at clouds when I finally got out of bed at 10AM. Who cares what the weather is!? Today I am going online to talk with my loved ones yay yay! [This is a venture I take on only a couple times each week. A “digital detox” as one friend put it.]

And lookit that, as soon as I got ready the clouds cleared! The blue sky beckoned and I am obedient. Well, except to the nuthatches that swarmed and chirped and begged for attention. But then there was the blackbird that stopped me in my tracks. I was like, “No, nuthatches, I’m busy today! I will see you later.” But after that Blackbird said, “Hey check this out I just wanna make sure you know I’m not as ‘common’ as they say–” and then proceeded to sing and sing! Blackbird sang so long and hard that I got my camera out and recorded it. I guess there’s some pride in being one of the last singers of the season. Either way, this little braggart took the speed right out of my step and held me still for minutes. I left only when my neck complained. And the time when I took my camera out? 11:11AM. What a treat, to know your dreams are safe with a blackbird.

I was behind a couple of boys/jungen at the grocery store checkout and one bought some Xbox card that needed a special receipt. When that was done, the woman who checked him out greeted me and said, “Keine ahnung [something something something].” To which I readily and less-than-confidently responded, “Ja, ich auch.” And it worked! She felt understood and I was elated after wishing her a “Guten abend.” Small victories.

Keine ahnung = no idea

Ja, ich auch = yeah, me too

I left some snacks out yesterday. These dumb peanut butter puffs that Ben bought. They have a faint taste of peanut butter but mostly taste like air and leave you wanting more peanut flavor. Ben says, “I’m chasing it til I get to the bottom of the bag” with a familiarity I can appreciate.

I didn’t want those puffs, but it turns out nobody else did either. They went untouched all day.

I had hope for the night critters. When I heard some unfamiliar but familiar chittering after dark, I thought it was definitely small rodents enjoying my snack! I didn’t peek for fear of scaring them.

In the morning all of those dumb peanut puffs were still on the ground.

I told myself I’d pick them up later and went about my day. Oh well, all attempts at feeding woodland creatures human food were a loss. (Somebody had picked through my muesli offering earlier in the week, and not very thoroughly.) They had taste, these animals, and I didn’t blame them. Maybe I would find some bird food in a store in town.

There are all these noises from all over the mountaintop now, as people winterize and renovate before the end of the season (first of November). That’s why I wasn’t surprised to hear a tapping-at-bark kind of sound while I was preparing breakfast. You differentiate sounds better when the world is quieter though, so it was only a second before I realized the weird tapping was coming from my backyard.

It turns out these squirrels are even noisier than I knew! Here this svelte red rodent came, looking posh really, with her ear tufts and fluffy train, just clattering down the tree closest the deck. Clattering! “thiChuk! Chuk! Chuk! thiChuk!” her strong little claws gripped the bark on descent, knocking some off at every grab. She was going head first! “Oh! It’s you,” I said gently upon finding her there. “Chuk! Chuk! thiChuk!” she paused only to look at me then hit the deck with a rackety thump and scampered noisily–really, no regard for the elegance of even her own attire–to the other side before dashing across the yard to another tree where she finally rested to stare at length back toward me.

I looked and saw that there was one fewer peanut butter puff.

Somebody told me I was having my Eat Pray Love moment and I almost vomited.

Symone told me not to “go all Into the Wild” when I joked about not coming back.

Anne said “Emerson > Kerouac”.

So I decided this is my side of the mountain.

(Has anyone read Wild, and if you recommend it are you able to lend it to me? This one keeps coming up.)

Every day I stretch and look at the trees out here. I tried to count the ones I could see, just so I would have an idea. I gave up around thirty because I wasn’t even close to finished. It was a dull undertaking.

Stretching at the trees however is not at all boring. They like to play along, leaning and cheering like when you cupped your hands over your mouth as a child and gently breathed out “ahhh”, intending to sound like a large audience going nuts. Sussurus. These little leaves just lose it for my stretching.

I look up at the bright hangers-on and I wonder what they wait for. What little photosynthesis-fed filament is holding them up? I suppose dying on the ground under a cold winter blanket would be kind of lame, but I bet the fall down is stellar. Imagine getting stuck on another branch for a while? Or if you were an acorn, tumbling into everything on the descent. Taking the long way has always been the best.

I got it in my head that the trees would like to see me pose like them. I was in the middle of mountain pose and thought about the fact of being atop a mountain. It tickled me to think that if the world feels anything, if energy passes through us and the natural world the way so many of everyone’s ancestors have always believed, these trees might get a kick out of me pretending to be like them. I remember doing the same as a child. I laughed out loud and showed them I could still be a tree–just marvel at my straight spine!

I don’t really give a shit anymore if feeling like I’m connected to trees alienates me from other humans. I’m over it. Imagine what these trees could tell us, if we only knew how to listen! We only just figured out that they communicate with one another, slow ape brains. They have watched evolution, and when we die they will (fuck, hopefully) still be witnessing the world as it changes.

And somewhere in the rings of their memories, these far more than thirty odd trees will have recorded a shared moment when one lone, tiny, inconsequential human stood as tall as she could and giggled ferociously at them.

An acorn fell into me on the day Ben left, my third waking up on this mountain, as I meandered back to the cottage after walking him a ways. It felt like I’d been playfully attacked, only bothered a little bit, as a tease. I grinned big, looking up, and said aloud, “It’s about time.”

Everything is falling here, this autumn slice of the barest tail end of summer. It’s warm, some days impressively so; it feels more like spring on those days in particular. All the colors are amazing, vibrant and wild. The birds don’t seem to be headed anywhere; they are hearty little beasts, not so terrified as their kin who seek warmth in the cold months. The clear blue sky even seems to dance along the edge of this precipice of winter. I imagine the VonTrapp children singing their “auf wiedesehn, adieu” song. This mountain doesn’t weep for the loss of warmth, but welcomes a smooth transition.

Acorns are the most terrifying thing out there. They crash right into the overwhelming quiet of the night and rattle along the little rooftops of these cottages, or down gutters, across decks. The acorns are constantly falling, but during the day there is the bird racket for accompaniment. At night, an acorn falling could be something else: something with more intention than a seed attempting to bolster its genetic line. Something with hooves may be poking about, my neighbor told me solemnly. She is afraid to leave her fencing after sundown, and I can make no judgment. The night here is deep, almost passionate. The stars play along nicely, doing little to mitigate the thorough darkness. A falling acorn could be just that, but once in a while I feel the need to sit and patiently listen, first by surrendering the fact that I’ll never really know. There are fences everywhere anyway, and few hooves, overall.

I have to admit to being a bit startled when first climbing the mountain. I thought there were small animals everywhere! Coconuts I am accustomed to hearing. Acorns not so. I said as much to Ben who knew the feeling. We laughed at the absurd fortune of our lives as they’ve been, to know such things with familiarity. Soon I will be familiar with acorns. Every little while, many tree adornments fall at once. There’s usually a squirrel, then. Hot red like a bombshell with hilariously tufted ears and massive fluff of tail. They are positively adorable. I think they’ve been eating my spliff butts.

Today the wind is encouraging the nudity of trees. I imagine it will only get more productive as the days wane on. We have almost 11 hours of dark up here, this second week of October.

The hooves, if you are wondering, are either attached to deer or boars. More likely the former, who seek flowering bushes and low-leaved trees for sustenance. Boars prefer to root about in the dirt, and there’s little to find along the paths that make our human neighborhood. Boars are too short to fight the fences, so the only thing they would know is the path, and that it’s useless.

I should like to wander around any time I please, if I’m honest. I do not only because it’s a long way to assistance, were any harm come to me. I don’t much like the idea of fighting a boar, either. This is, and has always been, their mountain. I’m just staying on it, talking to the trees.

What if

just if we stretch our brains and hearts for a thought exercise

What if “woke” didn’t have to equal “constantly angry”?

I know. I know they go hand in hand. We are fucking furious, enraged, ablaze with the righteous indignation of those who’ve suffered injustices. I know I am. Suffering creates rage, doesn’t it? Injustice ignites fury.

Doesn’t it?

You hear about prisoners who are ultimately found not guilty for sentences already served. They are calm, these men, mostly black, in the face of the injustices forced upon them. They say it’s because there is no room for anger in their lives. That anger eats the men themselves, not the monster who caused it. They will say that, and you can hear and read it, again and again.

Reading about slaves all over the world produces similar findings: there is singing over frustration, a clinging to life rather than smoldering in hate, natural salves for physical wounds, careful care of bodies and hearts, as much as humanly possible in conditions of chattel rather than human beings.

Y’all, I’m furious. I’m angry daily, full of hate for all white men, and ready to snap on anyone who fucks with me. There is something delicious about this unhindered, self-righteous hostility, yet I do not enjoy the person I’ve become. What if I could stay fierce, keep that fire lit, without hatred?

This is just an idea, brought about by conversations both with privileged, patient resistors, and human nails living under the hammer of prejudice. It seems to me that privilege isn’t what brings about a sense of calm; it’s self-preservation.

In that effort, I will be endeavoring to avoid engaging in rage. I will try to breathe instead with continued gratitude for my life and loves, my privileges and perks. I will continue to speak clearly about injustice, perhaps even more clearly now, absent anger. Perhaps I will be heard a little more readily this way, alienating fewer and bringing more in.

I know many of my sisters cannot make space for this. I understand it as my role in the revolution: to recruit.

What if we could wake everyone up, and in knowing the truth they could join in our fight with new energy? What if we woke up ready for battle, instead of run down by the fire inside? What if our bodies could be the tools of the revolution, rather than our souls?

 

 

The other day I went to a taco shop in Berlin and managed to speak all of my languages in one go. The gracious host kept up better than I personally did, as all of these things just flooded out of my mouth. My foreign language switch has been on but unfiltered, and here, where I understood that I would be able to speak Spanish, I just gave in and let it come. I began my order in Spanish, and responded, when she asked me a question in Spanish, with German. I then swerved directly into English, thanking her for her patience while we beamed at each other as understanding foreigners. She had spoken all three languages as well, so now we were cohorts. I tipped her self-consciously, and in completing the transaction said in Chinese, “hao,” as in, “okay.” This last she did not respond to, but I almost imagine she could have. There is a universal language among foreigners in a foreign place, especially those who do not have English as their first language. I wish to speak this universal tongue as if it were given me by my ancestors.

Indeed, it has been.

Originally Ben was supposed to leave me on the mountain on 10/10, which is the day Taiwan won their independence from China so that they could hold democratic presidential elections. Whenever I mention Taiwan’s independence to a Westerner, they put up their air quote fingers, “independence” they mock. I feel that way about my own freedom. Perhaps I can give up some habits for a few weeks, but will I truly unlearn them? Can I truly learn the ones I’d like?

I’m so close to god here that I laugh out loud. There she is! And here i am. Here we are together in the most glorious exultation to her glory that ever existed: the temple of her own creation.

Bug catching cups are a truly important and necessary addition to all lives that welcome the world.

There are so many children wandering around in helmets. Some have pedal bikes but many have balance bikes, without pedals. Either way, there are often children scooting by with or without wheels, in helmets.

Today I was standing behind one little cutie in the drug store. She was humming to herself and her adult was speaking kindly in German about how she needed to wait in line, etc. I observed this and appreciated what I could, and she moved around while I was chatting with Ben. When I turned back I managed to smack her squarely in her helmeted noggin with the shampoo I was trying to buy. Just, klunk! I of course made a terrified noise, but the kid went on humming along, and her adult was delighted: “That’s why she wears a helmet! People just hit her. Everyday.”

I have no idea if that kid had a bike waiting outside or not.

I’ve been so busy leading up to this. So busy. Birthdays, work days, family days, dog days, date days, driving days, salad days. My weeks were wonderfully packed.

And then my bags, too, were wonderfully packed. It felt sudden. It was not.

I am in Berlin, at a friend’s house where I would rather lay in bed than bathe the hours of travel off my worn-out body. I justify this by hydrating instead. I need all the water I can get.

Is a midnight arrival really an arrival? I haven’t seen anything but a short S-Bahn subway ride and this gorgeous, plant-filled home. I kind of want that to be all I see, today.

I knew it would be like this. I know it won’t stay like this. I breathe and adapt and eventually I’ll find opening my suitcase less overwhelming. It’s just that Viv did a lot of the packing. And I only packed things that made me feel comforts of home; of course now they make me cry. What doesn’t?

It’s jet lag and dehydration and when did I eat last. All of this underpinned by a feeling of absences so thorough they’re a constant, unreachable presence. It’s a change I chose: to fly without a net because I know the world will catch me. Maybe I have a little less faith in that today, but here, amid plants abundant, I breathe.

My eyes are increasingly often shrink-wrapped with tears. My life is beautiful, and I am grateful. But change is necessary, and I know the trick. It’s a bitter medicine, this old routine a decade later. Everything is so big and bright and full of possibility! I’m in a hurry but not at all ready to leave. I’m desperate for my loves, and my life. Why is possibility so terrifying?

Crying is quite like masturbation

Necessary

Better without company

Privacy is also good because it’s imperative one makes all her own noises

And facial expressions

Then there are bodily fluids to clean up

Maybe we forget that it’s necessary and go about our lives too busy, or avoidant

So it becomes even more necessary

One gets pent up

If one doesn’t cry

Or masturbate

There are people who will tend your garden when you aren’t looking. The many details we miss–ignore–as we run through our busy days. There is a careful, sneaky labor in cleaning up a garden not your own. The hopeful assertion, having noticed a need, of hands in the dirt. I was hoping to stomp out all those weeds myself, but they persisted, had been choking my flowers, my walkway.

A garden needs all sorts of care. Maybe we pull the weeds, maybe we have help, maybe they come back anyway. Sometimes we use medicine. Vinegar for the walkway, even though it stinks. Sometimes the rain helps, sometimes we need to water. Maybe someone simply sings to the flowers, asks them to grow. All these gentle hands and hearts together make a garden flourish. I can never keep up when I try to tend it all alone.

How willfull! How presumptuous my loved ones have been in taking care of things when I wasn’t looking! I catch them dirt-handed, less guilty than humbly satisfied with themselves. I cannot deny the benefits they’ve done my roots. How gorgeous my garden now, absent my family but singing their songs.

There is nothing like being loved so well as this. At the end of summer, tended to, still in bloom.

more root than flower, I

am first of my mother

(to whom so much belonged already)

then female

next brave

a small, stubborn animal

a wandering young buffalo

horned

communal

peaceful unless threatened

violent when

I am predisposed to play with anyone

sometimes no one

I am of dirt and salt

tears and new beginnings

an achy soul and tender heart

to welcome storms

know about rainbows

embrace departure before arrival

how else to see new skies,

hear new stories?

I have covered myself with creek clay

and lain in the sun to bake

rinsed in the summer stream

a muddy relief to exposed softened hide

I have run home barefoot through berries and prickers alike

I have listened carefully

I have counted every star

My dreams are of gathering

stories and fruits

I am more root than flower

I am first of my mother

I am anew

Beginning

looks like fresh fruit and flowers

wide open windows and bare feet

there are hours of solitude and sunrises

mugs of hot elixirs and local beer

my ideal life includes ritual

love letter writing, poetry

time on the road with new tunes

around the world

incredible humans welcoming me with open arms

they have gardens that need tending, ideas to discuss

I see myself sharing everything, owning little, reusing it all

as I sleep in spurts and eat in bursts

to keep my sanity salt. of earth, sea, sweat, tears

loved ones with whom I needn’t draw lines

my ideal life is sweet and savory, non-binary, a balance

and you, my dear, are right there in it

Were we friends now I would tell you, without equivocation, that I love you. I would remind you of your worthiness with honestly glowing reviews.

We are not friends now. We are something more desirous, a greedy beauty that haunts, unwilling to die with “Friendship” on the tombstone. As self-indulgent as YOLO, it sneaks into dreams: we are not friends.

But how, then, shall I tell you I love you? How trite. “I love you but I’m not in love with you.” That is a truth somehow, but so bitter. I want to discuss the in-between spaces again. Nothing exists on a binary! I could shout it at the world.

But to you, I want to whisper with my mouth soft against your cheek and my wet words in your ear, “I love you.” A simple truth with a promising future.

It was arguably just as well conceptualized by the characters in the film Fight Club, or rather the author, Chuck Palahniuk: the concept of a “single serving friend” or stranger you will only know for a short period, perhaps on a plane.

The thing is, everything ends. And the things we enjoy, in the context of this being needy and human, usually end too soon.

What if they didn’t? What if, as Waheed suggests in the attached, we could decide to just let each interaction be, as it is.

In practice, for me, this looks a lot like unapologetically living my life and possibly seeming apathetic or detached. I have a deep and abiding love for departure, for the end of one thing and the beginning of another. I have a complex and equally loving appreciation for pain. I understand how these things set me apart, in theory. But I do often wonder how others, especially people I love, might approach this concept. How do we do what Waheed is suggesting?

Wide-eyed and aware I have brought my traveled body back to these places I call home. My traveling gaze doesn’t recognize them as homes, but places I love the familiarity of.

There’s a wariness about me. It becomes expectation if I let it linger. There’s nothing like feeling unfamiliar in a familiar place. I wonder at the speed of speech as it comes at me, often more loudly than I expect. I am deciphering my mother tongue again.

It hits me like this: I have been speaking English in many countries. I have learned as many “thank you”s. These are simple, human speech. Now again I must learn the nuance of the English that’s spoken at home.

I hate it. I want straightforward words and considered statements. I see one person troubleshooting a situation and wanting to save another from discomfort by making a decision for them. I see liars hiding behind these excuses, in plain sight so you can’t really tell them apart from the people whose “heart is in the right place”.

My eyes have been wandering all these months and so, they wander still. They will not focus in conversation; I’m just listening. Must my eyes stay still upon a person? Some insist. I can feel an urgency of speech, as if so important. Everyone talks over each other, including me.

I noticed today that I stopped looking with my traveler eyes. I’d automatically honed in on thoughts and missed a few minutes of outdoors. I don’t know how long. I was jerked into a better form of consciousness by a glorious tree just flourishing just above a sidewalk, its petals decorating the concrete, boughs heavy in bloom. She startled me, this buxom bush. I readjusted and saw the world again from then on. Just in time to see my best friend.

This will happen more and more–can I check myself so often? Can I automatically recall being a part of the world? As I linger here, my traveling eyes will not. I may stay wary awhile, but when my guard slips away I too will believe in our fervent talking over of each other. I will think my mundanities important. I will forget the real world.

Once in this past decade I shaved my whole head. The rest, since 2007 when relocating to Taipei taught me new definitions of “sweat”, has been devoted to an undercut. Today Lu lu started in on some artwork on this shaved canvas. What fun we will have!

There is a direct, proportional relationship between the amount of time I spend under the sky away from light and sound pollution and the extent to which I appreciate life in general. 

When the ceiling fell down in our kitchen last night it opened a hole for the rain. I cleaned everything up while laughing. I made fun of the plaster, I filled a garbage bag with building material while the bin filled with water.

You think adulthood will be straightforward. You think you might understand things and make money so maybe everything will be a little smoother. I knew I wouldn’t have all the answers by 30 but I knew I’d have my shit together soon after.

It turns out that being able to laugh about setbacks/roadblocks/annoyances is having your shit together. The hole is the ceiling, the leaking roof, they are (forever) inevitable.