Dear heart, I miss
you, my lonely
miss our lonely
baths the sound of water
in an empty flat the
sound of pages turning
the way it felt to be
in pain and unafraid or at
least only a little afraid,
I am wanting the sound
of our breath (my breath), lonely
Holly I heard you for a minute the other night
when the traffic fell silent,
at one o’clock in the morning I heard you
in the space between
one kiss and the next
I don’t know who I would be without
someplace to be going—
if I couldn’t sit here
and be three hundred
miles away, I don’t
know how I would have
survived to this age. Childhood
is funny, all this
business of building
space ships, time
learning to become
I sent my body
walking out of the closet alone,
drunk. Throat bared, singing,
“Here it is, if you’re
holding something sharp;
here I am”
She comes back every couple
days with scrapes on her knees,
weird bruises on her arms. Her mother says,
“Those look like fingers.”
Comes back hungover
with ink drawings on the backs of her hands,
flask empty, a fresh
entry or two in her
journal. She comes back in
the afternoon and calculates
the number of sleeping pills to
take to not be conscious for the next twenty
hours or so. It’s wonderful
to be young! It’s wonderful
to be in love. Give me your tired, your shit-faced,
your pushy hands on sexy dissociated
corpses, your stupid girl crying on the kitchen floor until
she wants what you want, the vague memories rising from
the depths of blackout, a strange man that apparates
in a room she doesn’t recognize, give me
your hollering screaming (still) drunk on the
sunny Saturday morning streets — how captivating
she is, how free her spirit, how naked
Home is here, always. Anywhere where I am standing in this ocean. (Any ocean).
On a warm, warm day in San Francisco, the beach can’t be missed. I took the train out after work and was too late for sunset, but the light took its time fading, and I still got to enjoy the soft water on my legs and the soft fine sand under my feet.
First thoughts of winter, and first preparations for winter. I like this herbal remedy to aid against colds and flus. It’s a tincture – a very simple way to extract certain properties in alcohol.
The herbs looked so beautiful, with the mixture of flowers and berries and leaves looking like sand art, that I needed to take a picture before I filled the jar the rest of the way with vodka.
Here’s the recipe. I added lemon balm and thyme, increased the quantities of ginger and orange peel, and left out the honey.
I find the things he designs for arms to do, in particular, so deliciously surprising, expressive, and utterly original. If I ever go to New York City, I will plan it so that I can see another of his ballets while I am there.
How rousing it is to consider a trip, the combination of remembrance and anticipation. I start thinking in packing lists almost immediately. I have a hostel membership card. I have a lot of Delta miles. Perhaps I shall do it.
I have never cared too much about seeing New York City, but I could care quite a lot about some of the dance companies and art museums there.