My best and favorite playlists, updated semi-regularly:

a sing-a-long for the mirror

tunes for being in love (with the world)

rhythms for the road

relentless cheer

There was a paddock full of slow-moving copper-colored cows next to the church parking lot. i knew as much as they did that today was Sunday. Hell, they probably expected the midday mass rush better than i did as i backed my car into a spot made for pulling in. It was far away from other cars.

The morning unplanned, i had found myself first thing wandering into an art gallery on Canyon Road in Santa Fe, jaw dropped beneath my mask. The cheerful woman running the gallery called me an early bird, welcoming. i wandered the sculpture garden, in earnest trying to stay out of doors as much as possible, taking in all of the amazing art as slowly as i could. When i wandered back inside, the curator wanted to chat. As we talked her love of the space she maintained simply flowed off of her like an infusion of aura. i met her there, dazzled in the presence of so much soulful creation. She complimented my hair, praised my solo journey, and offered unsolicited advice that i didn’t mind one bit: take the scenic road to Taos.

Andrea (Ahn-drey-ah) started dreaming then. i saw her mind’s eye go toward the road as she tried to recall state route numbers. i watched her face squint in recollection, then soften to remember the glory of this particular journey. “You will really be in god’s country,” she said, and i knew she wasn’t capitalizing it. My host did all but take me with her when she said to stop in Chimayo, where the Santuario is visited by an annual Easter pilgrimage from all over the state. “The church has a dirt floor. Holy dirt.” Don’t have to tell me twice. Other, more reasonably timed, people started to arrive, but Andrea was nothing if not a gracious host. In no hurry, she lastly asked if i was myself an artist, and i told her i try. She said she hopes i do, then gave me her card, “If you need anything at all, any help while you’re in Santa Fe, directions in New Mexico, don’t hesitate.” i believed her, bowed with gratitude, eyes sparkling with tears and possibility. “You’re doing what I wish I was doing today,” this woman i now admired said as i turned to leave. “i take you with me, Andrea,” i patted my heart, and i think she believed me, too.

My maps app was guiding me when i saw the route Andrea had mentioned. A delight, that i could turn the app off and just follow some signs. i cruised past worn-out-looking paddocks and gorgeous adobe houses. Dust makes everything look worse for wear, i think, even if that isn’t the case. This scenic route was taking me through neighborhoods, past apathetic horses, white bikes and well-kept crosses, hills staggered across with low lying housing, windows toward the sun.

“Santuario Parking” was the first sign of my destination. i didn’t know if i would be stopping until i parked. And i didn’t know it was Sunday until i wandered into the outdoor complex and noticed a sign for noon’s mass en El Santuario de Chimayó. It was 11:55 and i had Felina’s rosary in hand. The priest stood under a pavilion while his congregation spread out further than six feet, on benches, walkways, and walls. i found my own isolated spot quite easily. Everyone was actually “in this together”; i wondered when in this strange year i had truly felt like that among folks i didn’t know. Perhaps only in New Mexico, where everyone wears masks even outdoors.

In the paddock behind the priest a cow came along slowly. She grazed there while the priest recited things his congregation knew the responses to. i was happy to be under my mask, having been easily thwarted by Catholic recitations all my pagan life. i didn’t wonder what i’d gotten myself into as much as i wondered where i was when the priest spoke English with an Asian accent alternating with proper Spanish. i looked around the crowd of about fifty people, diverse and alert, the pious and the tourists. We were all exuding respect; no one even whispered. i dared not photograph this holy event. Instead, i let myself sink into a foreign experience as god’s word was spoken.

After some research i guess it must have been Father Sebastian Lee who spoke that chilly day. He asked his congregation, “Is life a blessing or a burden?” We all said, “Blessing,” immediately but without much joy. He said, “And is life a boundless happiness, or a valle de lágrimas?” The whole congregation hesitated, and he laughed an easy laugh. “It’s a valley of tears! It’s not a trick question, life is difficult. Life is hard. But you called it a gift before. Why?” The father then launched into a couple biblical stories of sacrifice, reminding us that god is there not to hand us happiness, but to help us through difficulty. So that we may better appreciate the joys. “We do not reach out to god expecting him to fix everything. He will not. He will only show you the way out of this trouble, so that you can move on to the next.” This was my kind of homily, by god. Life is suffering. Nothing really helps but faith that each difficulty can be overcome, and that each happiness will return. It is only by grace that we are allowed to make a life in the valley of tears.

i returned to my car now surrounded by others, looking very silly with it’s faraway plates. Alone again, i embraced the valle de lágrimas, and hit the road to Taos.

What even constitutes crying? If it’s as simple as shedding a tear, i do it every day. It’s not always because i’m sad; sometimes i laugh when things aren’t funny, too.

Lately i feel exposed, a cut fruit with juice just waiting on the surface. A mess or a sweetness, often both. i have been enjoying the exposure, however vulnerable.

Today i went to church by accident. On a Sunday, even! i cried a lot in that holy place Chimayó, in a santuario to which there is an annual Easter pilgrimage from Santa Fe, nearly 30 miles away.

i always cry in sanctified places. Where ever humans gather to better themselves, really. i feel overwhelmed with possibility at any gathering like this. i can not help but cry for all the hope of the humans there joined together.

i am not used to this landscape with all of its sky. i find it difficult to judge distances. Somehow every moment of confusion will become a metaphor for life: what good is knowing the distance when i can enjoy right now?

There is something static about my current existence, but i can’t quite put my finger on it. Some days it feels as if i cannot exist without someone else noticing me, other days i just wonder at my basic lack of overall direction. None of this bothers me much.

i don’t mind going days without talking to other humans. i like to wave at other drivers whenever i’m off the main road. If i am out walking, i say hi to strangers who pass just close enough. i like to treat anyone who’s on the job as if they are already canonized for their sainthood.

i ran into a grey-haired woman near Bandelier Monument. We parked our cars at the same overlook and as i locked my doors she shouted, “Well you’re a long way from home!” She was traveling alone as well; we had a nice chat, in our masks, at a distance. There was a deep solidarity between us, and no need for more.

My home is right here, i could have told her, but i like to love up Maine anyway. i saw a person on a sidewalk stop dead and stare when they saw my license plate. It’s a badge of honor, to be this far from “home”.

But home is a feeling i need never be far from. i called my mom when she was with my brother, sister-in-law, and baby nephew. At first it was chaotic hearing everyone on speaker, but wow did the tears come then.

Things i might have been taking for granted: being able to walk, physically, into one’s personal space. i do a lot of crawling these days. Another: sleeping wearing less than a whole outfit.

Turns out i’m obsessed with grasses. Ever since that rainbow one i have been fascinated and my love for them has only grown in this dry, whispery winter place. i love to swish them with my hands. i paid for the Santa Fe Botanic Gardens and commenced my swishing, and listening. The wind is better suited, of course. Those moments when the breeze strummed the grasses were melodic. As i walked i ran my hand through the dry, hollow stalks, just to feel the shaky husks. What i really wanted to do was pluck them to draw later, but that didn’t seem appropriate no matter how i considered it. And then i went to pet what looked like a leafy little palm that turned out to be a stiff and spiky yucca! i snatched my hand back and saw that this desert jerk had drawn a pinprick of blood in much the way a doctor would like for testing. i fairly laughed aloud and went to sit down and nurse my little wound, considering the implications of having non-consensually fondled various plants.

Stuff i have definitely said, some i may have shouted, while driving: “Have You SEEN My Liscense Plate?!” “No, thank you, i’ll be going to hell.” “Where IS everythiiiing?!” “Move over, that guy is about to have a baby!!!” “How’s everybody doin’?” “i am sick of being on the moon i wanna go back to earth” “Fucking Altitude!” “Shut uuup, shuuuut up” this last to the beeps in my car when i’m in reverse without my belt on and it’s a fucking chorus. “Sweet overlook! For me to PEE ON!”

suddenly

you catch yourself wondering at a flat world

the horizon is everywhere

surely this much sky needn’t be seen

cowboys love this shit

this vast expanse that will have you crawling

into yourself so tightly

it’s the call of the void in opposite

if only you could become a black hole

instead of experiencing this unchanging semi-sphere

you disappear into the endless landscape

still you trust that the truckers

sometimes on three sides

can see you clearly

a tiny metal island from Maine

why aren’t there more passenger vehicles

you trust that there are human beings

amid the machinery

trust again

in other states you drove

winding mountain roads, so carefully

pulling over to let locals pass

now you barrel over pavement for miles

of nearly nothing at all

toward a limitless horizon

faster than you’d like sometimes

the odometer says there has been progress

you’re trusting this also

a surprisingly small sign says

“Old Route 66”

you might bark out loud,

“Where are my kicks though?!”

but whose fault is that really

you laugh like you’re wasted

too sober

the abyss screams from every angle

what else to do but scream back

“We’re driving straight through,” you’ll tell your possessions

as if your stuffed animal gives a shit

nothing is anything if not hilarious

you’ll pet the dashboard, thank your car

still

wrapped in the claustrophobic

static of dusty browns touching blue on all sides

you cruise fast behind and around big rigs

hours have passed

as every car passes you

but what even is time

just more measurements

you could spy a Virginia plate

even Ohio speeds by

reassured somehow, you might wave at them

you are not-quite-speeding due west forever

or until you fall off this flat earth

you will be riding into the sunset

diving into the hottest parts of the fire

starting at the seams where it touches the world

the interminable firmament will be taken over

slowly now creeps electric orange

fluorescent pink rises

to be engulfed in each other then

consumed by cobalt

the blues devour

until darkness

a quiet glory surrounds you in increments

you alone

among other cowboys

and the square acres of dirt

an end of day artistry

massive in ways you’ve never known

takes over this unfamiliar world

paints a heavy hush against your fears

suddenly

you catch yourself wondering at the boundless beauty

that graces all alike

on the seventh day you met the sky

Every day is punctuated by small moments. The sentences between can drag on like the fields of Tennessee, or hide surprises like the Cherokee National Forest. These long stretches broken up by fractions of the minutes when my wide-eyed regard of the world drops my jaw as well.

Do you think three Baptist churches all next door in a row are rivals? Like do they have softball tournaments? Maybe gun clubs. If not for COVID i might have been tempted to investigate. i’ve always wondered what Baptist churches are like.

Today i wanted to find postcards. Jasper, Arkansas is an adorable little town that i would visit again with the opportunity. The Buffalo River is a meandering stunner. Loneliness can creep in the moments you realize you can’t camp in a dream spot because you’ve neither a pal nor any phone service. Why this was easier in New England, i can’t say. In Jasper i decided i wanted to remember to return, so i sought postcards. i waited until ten minutes after opening time to stroll into a shop where i was gladly met with some faded beauties of Buffalo River greatness. The shopkeeper said i could just have them. He just didn’t feel like they were worth much, and they were “at least thirty years old”.

In a landscape i’d never seen before, i settled down for a day. Trees growing out of water like “Tennessee mangroves”, according to Viv, but looking desolate in a gorgeous, particularly wintry way. i scared a black vulture, then an eagle startled me (video in previous post). Local people came and went—fishing, looking, one red-faced old man even drove his white pickup with a matching cowboy hat on the dash right up to me to chat. He wanted to know where i’d gotten my tent, but not really. Later, he came back to wish me well and warm. Sure, i didn’t love the advertising: single person in the wilderness, but in the end it was the ominous environs that had me departing before nightfall.

Yesterday i crested a hill with Sorcha where a great blue heron was looking for a spot on a pond. This dinosaur bird flew right beside my passenger window, less than ten feet away, and i managed to maintain my composure even while i could see it neck feathers ruffled by the wind. i swear, in flight that bird was half the length of my car.

These wide open fields, particularly in Tennessee where the space goes on and on, host a wild, unadulterated wind that just does whatever it wants. Birds apparently love this—they glide and bounce just above the ground, going absolutely nowhere against an infinity current of gust and breeze. There’s nothing like a flock of geese puttering around on the ground while another flock bounces around in the air only a few feet up.

i am a slow driver generally, but also i drive a Prius. i also prefer mountain and country roads to highways. i pull over to let other drivers pass often. In fact, i wrote most of this on shoulders of beautiful roads where i’d rather gawk than go the speed limit. i appreciate that Arkansas drivers aren’t as into tailgating as.. well, everyone else so far. It’s not like i didn’t know i was going slow before your headlights leaned into my trunk, North Carolina! Now i’m looking for the shoulder a bit more frantically, thanks. But Arkansas, you dears, leaving as much space between vehicles as between words in your sentences. i am so pleased to find a place to let you scooch on by. i’m realizing now that this is a lot of my comfort with the Ozarks over the Smoky Mountains. Tourist traps, take note.

Tree farms couldn’t possibly be more pleasing to the eye. All in rows, all different type of trees. i couldn’t do it justice, in words or photos, but the organization of those particular fields was, to me, exquisite.

i stopped by a KOA to ask after a hot shower. i was just ripening, and the woman at the desk said, “Cuz of the pandemic i can’t let you use the showers if you’re not a guest.” Then almost immediately followed that up with, “Okay I’ll give you the code but just keep it clean I know you will and if anybody asks you anything you tell em you’re a registered guest and to mind their business.” She was not wearing a mask. She was wearing a Trump hat. She stuck out her pinky for me to lock mine, so i did, “Pay it forward, okay?” i cannot recollect a sweeter shower.

i blow a kiss to every roadkill. Some are really gross, others still beautiful. One was a dog with a collar. Another a chicken. The worst was my own warm bird in Sorcha’s grille. i also spied a live, collared cat hunting in the deep shoulder off the expressway, and several more off-leash dogs wandering around more rural spaces. i like when the cows plod toward food with calves at their heels, and when i catch them playing in streams around midday. Or bathing each other with their weird cow tongues, the best. Sometimes i see sheep; they are big on staring. Nothing beats watching young deer romp, though. A treat.

Apparently if you spy a kestrel, even from the interior of the car, they will stare you down. i didn’t mean to win these staring contests but in my life i have never felt so seen by a winged creature. i couldn’t look away. i met two separate small raptors in the Holla Bend National Wildlife Refuge, where the lady at the desk wouldn’t let me pay the $2 fee because, “all the waterfowl go to the lake every day anyway, so you probably won’t see much.” She told me about how the eagles hunt in pairs, the first one startling a flock as the other swoops in to pin down the slowest bird. She also told me about biscuits with chocolate gravy for breakfast, and where to find elk. All the information was so spot on that maybe i’ll have to try those weird biscuits after all.

(CW: dead bird) This week i peed in the Cherokee National Forest, cruised through the Smoky Mountains, murdered a tufted titmouse with my car, got real lost in West Memphis (would not recommend), later found a waterfall i hadn’t planned on, and got yelled at by an eagle. i’ve cried like two and a half times, but i’ve gotta say my opinion of long-haul truckers has improved dramatically. Shoutout to the sole rainbow OR BLM sign i have seen since Asheville (!!!) and these puppy models who watched over me one night at a rest stop. Honorable mention goes to rooster Ed, who’s hangin in there.

i can certainly see for miles, but it feels more like days. A dog in the valley gets started this morning, which i guess is a Monday. There too is a cow sounding less than pleased, but how else do cows sound? In the pre-dawn light i dragged my cozy, dehydrated, melancholy self from the coccoon of Casa Sorcha (my Prius home) into the atrocious Walmart lights to brush my teeth in a bathroom stall, for COVID safety.

Sunrise over a river is pleasing in the way that makes you feel warm even when its warmth doesn’t reach you. Maybe that’s why the birds are even slower to wake than the cow. Warmth is scarce these days, worth waiting for.

i arrived on this height of rocky outcrop to a few forest band members calibrating their instruments. A coo, a caw, a cheep. Wind comes off tempo as the river runs massive and silent under the gaze of both sun and moon. All have all been here forever, just like this. How slow it all seems, broad and deliberate; in a rhythm kept by celestial objects, the river saunters on. As i take it all in, the full orchestra arrives. Off beat, maybe even off key, i can hear the slow crescendo of trills, toowhees, honks, the cow again. A woodpecker starts its day. Someone new is barking now.

For a while i was the only human, but a pair of people come along, one chatting about the kids playing on these very rocks in summer. The deeper of these voices sounds reflective as it says, “You know if we’d have chosen that other place we were thinkin about we prolly never would’ve made it here. Remember when I tried that Knoxville thing? That really freaked me out. That was probably the most freaked out I’ve ever been.” i can’t hear the exact reply but they sound happy with their lot, together, and they are deeply respectful of my space alone on the cliff.

A train now. Everyone’s day has begun. The waning gibbous moon fades into the blue as the sun’s warmth reaches me, tender.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

This week i was in DC on an occasion worth counting down for, and have been solidly reminded of my love for Chocolate City. Truly i’ve been laughin too hard, creating some art, and searching for that urban nature. Check the last slide to see where i’m headed next, to get uncomfortable with myself. (Suggestions welcome! but i’m not trynna meet y’all friends.) And yes, i sat close to loved ones outside for an hour, don’t @ me.

saltyworld.net/stolen-religion-cultural-appropriation-white-friends-and-mixed-feelings/

i have loved many a human who has made a habit of hating themselves.

It is never as difficult as they think.

Envisioning a fresh world with dear pals, a perfect puppy, and some glorious attentions to detail. My zoom life in 2020 included “Art Club”, during which a beautiful lino stamp was carved by Audrey. As i push at the edges of my comfort zone, this print and the corners of a welcoming home are all treasured reminders: everything is a work in progress, but some art does get finished after all.

i heard a siren in the night and dreamed of coyotes. A close friend mentioned this happening to her when she arrived in New England from DC, oppositely. i get it now. She and i heard them howl on new years eve with what seemed like joy under a moon that was almost too bright. Like in the movies. The sirens remind me.

The drive down to these cities was less than eight hours. i saw so many hawks along the way. One roosting comfortably, close to the road, another in flight overhead, one that had swooped low toward prey. i’ve seen several in the cities since. Today a hawk perched just beyond the edge of a dog park, which is also a cemetery, which is a gorgeous piece of real estate in which to stay away from strangers as we watch all the dogs play.

At some stoplights there are groups of masked people who will wash your windshields whether or not you pay them. One guy told me, “I got you regardless” and i gave him a few bucks. i snuck a pair of sunglasses off my face through my slightly open window to a woman who asked politely if she could have them. It was bright in the sun and i had other pairs. She said she loved me. i laughed extra loud to be heard through my mask, loving her too. Everything managed for safety in the delight of strangers, and thank fuck for the opportunity of small kindnesses.

Everything is much quieter than i remember. Subdued. Everyone is masked: truly now, good fences make good neighbors. i’m delighted when friends ask me to visit their city backyards, then start fires to warm the distances between us. My fire-building skills have truly leveled up, but i still enjoy watching my pals do their fire-tending thing, blow torches and all.

The day down here is longer. In the evening we take the puppy to the cemetery dog park, and the time is near six before darkness starts to hide her from us as she galavants among friends of all shapes and sizes. Nighttime hits different in the cemetery than on the sidewalks, and as we turn onto the well-lit street outside the gates, there are sounds of wild engines in the distance.

The Wheelie Boyz are known dirtbike aficionados who love to drive as a group through certain cities pulling breathtaking 12 o’clock wheelies on bikes that weren’t really made for pavement. This is a daredevilry i can get behind quite often, though it isn’t always this particular group—inevitably, there have been times when some owners of similar equipment have allegedly decided to be pretty tragically dangerous. It’s rumored that’s why the police won’t pursue these outlaws: city dirtbike riders are said to follow no rules, which means that if chased they may cause more mayhem than if left to startle the traffic of city streets at their leisure. i simply love the spectacle. i appreciate that the unfamiliar, rowdy engines signal to traffic that there might be an impromptu stop, as when sirens are nearby. Memories surface of hanging outdoors on a crowded, drunken street as the bikes, along with three- and four-wheelers, careen through nighttime traffic. Sometimes i can’t count them! Other times i have spied femmes among the boyz. i dig the dramatics, the thrill-seeking, the way this is a big fuck you and also scary. This time we see only two riders, which seems strange, but they do not disappoint as they rush past. They raise their front wheels straight toward the sky, proud and haughty the way kings could be.

As i gawk, my friend notices the next upcoming extraordinary traffic. In the wake of criminal glory proceeds a line of several armored tanks through the same intersection. They head in a different direction, past barricades, toward the US Capitol Building.

Early in the morning, the puppy whines awake, so i meander to her crate and let her out for a wee. i settle back in my couch bed and she snuggles up behind my knees. We rest a while, swapping spoons, before the activity of her family upstairs comes closer. Soon, Louis Armstrong’s “La Vie en Rose” will play softly in the kitchen amid the smells of coffee and chocolate. A fancy meal and decadent beverage are placed in front of me unceremoniously, though i feel all the brilliant pride of being a spoiled guest.

After a year of gorgeous wilderness and fresh fresh air, i thought the concrete jungle might be alarming. Instead, i feel welcomed by these cities full of friends. These are my stompin’ grounds, and i can come home again.

When a grinning face i already appreciate leans into mine with purpose, like they have been waiting for this invitation. A light inside me is seen, and sought; i welcome the approach with equal thrill. The spark driving their own delight is being extended that i might breathe fire right back, and i will. i have found this is a smile i’ll hold dear for much longer than it’s in my life. These are the lips of which i dream. The real stuff of those who’ve kissed me thus has since faded into simpler, more dependable memories: raging parties, empty city streets late at night, rocks with lapping waves. i can revisit the feel of a couch on which i trembled, a sidewalk i swaggered alone, the stench of salty brine, the sweetness of small kindnesses. Recuerdo nos raímos. Smiling, desirous faces so wholly, equally welcomed to share of each other. Sometimes we smiled so hard our teeth touched. Often i’ve been shaky, a little delirious. This is the kind of poetry that doesn’t hold through multiple seasons. It could be a fire that burned hot and fast, or sparks that didn’t fully catch. A sweet, bright bit of warmth in my heart’s hearth. We cannot repeat these moments, memories. Some of this exceptional heat will be felt again though, somehow: a surprise necessarily, an adventure inevitably. Indeed, i will settle for nothing less.

Camilo joins our family just as i depart the great white north toward long-overdue reunions, and unexpected magical gifts. Did you know chickens love radical honesty and maximum creativity? And unlike anything police have ever done, bread by mail was a resounding success.

Rilke reminds me to be “carefree and quiet and immense.” i practice tracking with my favorite hunters. Vermont snow falls soft and pretty, like the ennui that sometimes joins mudita. Not pictured: leaving my family, some real ugly cryin’, and belly laughs with a beloved. If you love it…

i don’t know where i’ve come from but i am escaping as fast as i can, which is about forty miles per hour faster than i can run in real life. i am also agile as a wild cat. In this dream i am not by myself, and among us allies we carry useful objects which i understand will serve people like us by their relocation. We have taken these things from wherever they were before, and we have a phenomenal head start. Whoever is chasing us are unarmed but we are aware that they are better equipped. They are able to communicate quickly, attempting to surround and scatter our unsystematic squad. These hunters aren’t dressed in uniform but when i glance back to see their faces i recognize actors who play cops on whatever shows i watch in waking life. At one point i toss my precious cargo to a comrade just before being cornered by an attacker. i am backed up on a cement doorstep, against a wooden door carved with flowers. Me recuerdo Salamanca, la luz allá. My aggressor slavers in their solicitous attempts to convince me of their righteousness, my own offenses. In their pathetic face i laugh not unkindly, as if at a small child who has made a cute blunder. How tragic to be so wrong. Without more than a scuffle, i scoot out of their grips and away in a flash, unscathed yet shaken. i join back up with my crew quite easily as they stream through the streets as though running with the bulls. We who have liberated these necessities for our survival turn corners as a motley team with nearly cartoonish rounding at full speed. Someone tosses me their burden as they enter a skirmish of their own. There is a playfulness among us that is irreverent to an extreme, full of flare, brazen with a bright audacity; Merry Men and Lost Boys only wish they’d had this much gaiety. ¡Entre lobos debemos aullar! Our rebel platoon weaves and whirls through a city that is a melange of worldly beauty as only dreamscapes can deliver. My brave friends and i skirt temple steps, rush past food vendors, and smack the water in fountains as we careen through neighborhoods of cobblestone and cement, pavement and metal. We know our way because this world is ours. Once in a while a bystander tries to assist those in pursuit, but we are always there to scoop each other up. i land a right hook in the face of someone who has caused one of my brethren to stumble. A mal nudo, mal cuño. The assailant collapses as we scurry away, i lamenting my torn knuckles with a shit-eating grin. Despite our successful evasive tactics and the ever-increasing distance between us and them, our pursuers are undaunted. Indeed, the majority of us are fully aware that they will never quit. Others from our side though have sensed victory and gone to hiding, or collapsed with exhaustion. We urge each other on by turns. i run and run, panting and pushing my wild hair away from my sweaty face, whooping in cheers as i aid y protejo mis compas, “¡Corremos juntas!” We must not stop, no matter how inevitable our win. We continue to run as though our lives and joy depend on it. We help each other. The crusade goes on.

My love, let the memory that has brought heat to your cheeks also warm me next to you in the telling. Do not keep your loving smile a secret, i beg. Your full heart disclosed is such welcome happiness these winter months. When my heart is a child unsure of a stranger with whom its parents are friends, offer your happiness to hold close and carefully. As you share your joy, my own tenderness peeks out from behind my bones, hopeful. Lend me your bliss to press against my breast so that i might draw out my own heart who in this chill refuses to wait patiently for something still unknown. Your delight is my comfort in a time of caution. How grateful i am to be thus kept from the cold.

“letting go is the same as letting in”

Too much bread this time, with lots of help! A fancy homemade balm, Cleo’s tiny snores, and the reminder that meaninglessness is actual bliss. i accidentally found out i can rock a mullet, threw my egg, and said some goodbyes. Adventure awaits.

Maybe if i can collect pretty days i can string em together. This year’s would be spaced weirdly to remember the time of strange distances. i’ll hang them all over my memory. Combing through time worn photo books of all the lives i’ve bothered living. Retrieving every love’s sweet warmth.

i’ll decorate my interior with the times we laughed til we cried. That crowd in the elevator all sparkles and cheer; unforgettably ringing in 2008. We are now on several different continents. We are still so young and beloved to each other. Plenty more memories since. They’re all here, somewhere. Piled up haphazardly, waiting for me to stop by, sift through.

If i ever feel lonely i might meander these passages rediscovering well-spent moments. So few have physical photos. Too few. i can press back into the depths where i keep spent time, and forage for solid details. i’ll slog through the morass of nostalgia to mine gems compressed by years. i can restore the artwork to its original glory. Decorate my whole psyche.

This is also where i’ll come to have good cries. What is a better grief than one of lost joy? Perhaps all sorrow is really only that, anyway. Sometimes you just gotta listen to sad music for a while. Sometimes i visit these parts of my story to feel the absence of happinesses that once felt immortal. To laugh-cry at myself for expecting such. Sometimes i have to grieve.

And oh, how long and winding these hallways are! This palace where midwinter tucks me in. A collection of pretty days, all strung together, equal parts sorrow and joy for having happened at all.

being a “disciplined student”

wherein i take three baths, eat too much of Viv’s Solstice pork feast, lean into pigtails, and start feeling a lil cooped up.. just in time for my favorite holiday to usher in the energetic revolution.

Last year i went to the beach with my brother around new years day and whispered that i’d like to quit smoking. In August i successfully did so. (With the less-than notable exception of a puff of some hot guy’s hand-rolled ciggy one time,)

i have been without tobacco for nearly five months.

This year i think i’d like to take up smoking.

“Nothing is wrong”

In which i make (more) bread & a cargo net all from scratch, Max makes music, Viv makes cozy, and Ashley spots ducks.

A few days ago i visited my favorite pot shop for the first time in a couple months. The dude there was like, “Ayy you’re back!” This felt nice until i tried to say something about being memorable and he responded with, “No,you could be somebody I just met in the grocery store once and I would remember you. I’m an empath so that’s just me; I love people.”

Bruh.

Not that i am any sort of gatekeeper but i believe that a textbook empathetic moment would not have included discounting my hopeful “i like being memorable” by negating it. i teed up a nice little compliment there and this guy just barreled on through. Whoops!

How do you do empathy? Do we all do it? i have long wondered whether a lot of folks are actually projecting. Sympathizing?

Weed bro aside, here’s how i’ve witnessed the general role of “empathy” in the current zeitgeist: first, a person decides that they know what another is feeling. This is often followed by preempting the other’s response to that feeling. Generally this all comes from a place of genuine care and concern.

But wow, is it rude in practice! The “empath” here makes a lot of assumptions at once, the worst of which being that one can know better than another about the latter’s own needs. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be sad.” But like, didn’t you want to know, despite whatever emotional response you’d have? This kind of empathy removes a human’s autonomy, disallows their freedom.

An empathetic response, if i’m reading the definition correctly, is one that corresponds with the needs of the person with whom one is empathizing. It is not for the empath to do what they’d prefer done in this situation, but to understand that subject of concern has their own needs.

Whenever i deliberately empathize with others, i try to feel it through. i reach gently, with understanding, to very lightly grasp at what it is that might serve them in this moment. That’s the hard part: i will never know better than they what they might need, and i have to trust them to ask for whatever that is. Maybe i go as far as to make my supportive presence known; i leave a door open. Empathy is theoretical, at best. We truly have no idea what anyone else is going through.

A theory: if we are to hope that we can be as caring as an empath might be, we must indulge in the truth of a human’s existence being solely her own. What i want to hear or feel at any given moment is different from the next person’s needs, as theirs are from the next, and so on. Therefore the most genuine act of empathy is to believe in someone’s ability to respond for herself. To allow a person access to truth and offer support as they handle it their own way.

Then there’s that guy, who just got the definition wrong and felt strongly the need to really lean in: “I treat everybody like an old friend! I’m just an empath that way.” And maybe he is! Who am i to say?

: the love of your life lasted a day

: your best sexual relationship was only that

: instead of quantity of days, we went for quality of minutes

: we burned bright, left embers

: longing never ceases, so

: we leaned in

: we loved each other’s freedom

: we let ourselves be free

“There is no attempt to run away from the suffering.”

Featuring an eagle’s aura, snowy days, successful bread, and WAP.

This time i have to leave because i bought and built out this adorable car and i wanna live in it. It’s actually that simple: i’m not into paying rent when i have such a great little home.

i wanna live in the space i built for myself out the depths of my own madness and the middle of an atrocious year; that space in my car as well as that space in my soul.

i am going on a trip i always hoped to do with a partner. Been waiting! Holding off and for what. Someone who loves me sent me a Billie Eilish song where she sings, “I’m supposed to be unhappy without someone, but aren’t I someone?” Yes, Billie. i too am in love with my future.

Isolation will teach you about yourself. Shit that you did not want to learn. Things that can make you reconsider nearly everything. If you haven’t been through this, i’d like to hear what you did this year. It got dark, and darker, and bright, and brilliant for me as i learned to take care of the fragile, courageous, multitudinous creature i am.

After a couple months of car life, i wrote to a pal: “i feel stronger than ever, yet deeply alone in a way that is at once isolating and bolstering.” i don’t feel this every day—that’d be boring—but i feel it. And i don’t quite understand it yet. And i want more.

So, far from my beloved airports and crowds of strangers speaking every language, and much more attached to the earth this time, i’ll go away again. i am scared. i am stoked. Adventure.

i have a recurring conversation with myself and others about how all art is already just garbage, because it’s expendable/excess/not “useful”. And isn’t art, by virtue of its creation outside of those constructs, a worthwhile endeavor?

i realized a while back that in order to create art i would have to remove the possibility of gaining from it. i made everything super low stakes, like at those uncomfortable but cozy cheap diner booths (hallowed be thy name) where i used to build sculptures of all sorts of actual garbage—sugar packets, straw wrappers, those little cream cups and butter packets. All the jellies! Always, just as my masterpiece was looking fantastic, somebody doing their job would sweep it away. i love diners. i did this at every one. It became a joyful thing: creating just to lose.

All of life anymore is creating and accepting that we could lose something from it. We must keep creating even our very own lives in order to continue in ways forward rather than stop. This isn’t just about art anymore. What would happen differently if instead of thinking “life is short, YOLO”, i started thinking: “Life is long! But each experience is brief af”? Everything is already garbage. This moment is already gone.

Anymore it feels like we must pursue only our own personal versions of being alive, both in body and spirit. We are finding out that we have to make subjective rules about safety. We’ve also found ourselves making time to talk to only those we really genuinely want to. It seems like every day is a new opportunity to take good care of each other and ourselves. And a lot of days we don’t get it right, but we are honing in.

Life is sad and beautiful and difficult and sometimes really mean to our hopeful hearts. Everything each of us cares about is so deeply impermanent. Because of this, i think we must care as much as we possibly can about all of it. From the smallest garbage art to the most cherished heartfelt dream. We must love it all relentlessly until its inevitable, always too soon, change.

i hold steady, but lightly anymore. i know better now than to keep score. All stuff is garbage, all living things die. Change isn’t negotiable; i’m not gonna try.

Steady, i hold, for all beauty is fleeting. But i like to have something to admire of evenings. Still loosely i hold; real treasures come slowly. Most get left in draft states, never crafted fully.

Unfinished beauty is yet equally precious: half-sketches, scratched poems, scraps of confessions. Perhaps we could render the full work with some patience. Perhaps, but the next already awaits us.

“What could be better,” i ask her, a dog with her ball on the beach. All that justifiable worry left waiting, because right now we will play by the sea.

“Nothing is better!” she bounces. A mouth full of sand on the shore. Fears lurking inland cannot touch us. We delight and we play till we’re sore.