Me and the weather can't make up our minds
Can't make a promise, but promise to try
There's no control here, the pressures to high
Me and the weather can't make up our minds

Me and the weather come raining down
Falling in sheets and flooding the town
Someone forgive me cause I don't know how
Me and the weather come raining down

Me and the weather are scorching the earth
Beating the rays on my skin til in hurts
Drying the seas and starving the dirt
Me and the weather are scorching the earth





Me and the weather are coming on spring
Dipping our toes, flexing our wings
Out past the misty there's something that sings
Me and the weather are coming on spring.

I don't know how to tell them.

I don't know if I should.

Why do I want to?

So they'll cry for me? So they'll be kind? So they wont be afraid? So they will be? Do I want to warn or reassure? Convince or condemn? To tell them 'thanks' and 'how dare you' and 'please don't leave' but also 'I might'.

Is it selfish? Is it brave?

Does it matter?

I've got this dream
Where I'm prepping for a presentation
And I'm ready
I am so prepared
I wrote out note cards but I don't need them
I've printed out my visual aides days in advance

But when I go to pin them to the wall
They shrink
I pull the corners out like kneading dough
But they recoil
Over and over

I try to explain myself to the faceless critic
But they've already marked a large "X" on their secretive clip board
My poster shrinks to nothing and I wish I could

I wake in a cold sweat

abrupt start
sort of head rush?
lump in throat
tingling, almost like leg falling asleep
but pleasant
moves slow and deliberate
sometimes gets stuck, pauses in thighs and upper arms

like drinking ginger ale on and air plane

I always tried to explain.
"I'm sick"
"I'm sorry"
"I'm trying"

But she doesn't know. How would she? She knows boybands and finger hearts and working just hard enough.

That's not her fault (its really not) but it's easier to be angry, indignant than whatever I really am.

Her words and hate and the ever-present ether wrap around me and I can't tear them off so I go for the shirt (this is what my mother would later use as my benchmark for crazy) and the sound of tiny threads coming through tiny loops lasts a joyous second and I can breath and I am gone.

I am back and I remember that the words and hate and doom are still there and now with them is a symbol of just how wrong my self is.

I sit motionless but I'm running.

I kept the carcass for months. In a corner out of sight, to be seen but only by the trained eye.
Some days it was scolding but some days it was proof, a purple heart, a trophy of battles lost.

Some days I miss it. In my mind it's hanging from the rafters (not in the dead way).  It's the retired jersey of an athlete who in the end wasn't very good but oh she tried to be.

Mine not yours and don't tell me otherwise
I loved him first for his genius ridiculousity, brilliant insanity
Idea:
two fleets of zeplins
the former carries ready made homes
the latter, bombs, set to carve craters just the right size to drop the homes into

I fell next for his spiritual science, new age pragmatism
Thought:
maybe all of us are intrinsically bound by a integral of gravity and that integral turns out to be love.

But I love him most for his heartache, his depth for melancholy
Feeling:
tired of being a wordsmith and mathematician and designer and sailor, prepared to instead become a part of Lake Michigan's great biology

What I'm still trying to love is his hope, relentless in optimism and downright unscientific. The thing that took him off that ledge. I'm glad for it but I cannot call it my own.

Bloom daily.
They open at the crack of dawn
Wide and purple
They turn to each other and to the sun
Reach up, out to the garden below
They are gentle and strong but they don't last

Grown weary in the sun, they close
wilted and white, grasping at the last pink pigment as it fades
By 2 o'clock today, they've shriveled and closed

But they will reopen tomorrow
and perhaps
last a little longer then

Secretarial school is in the middle of a crowded ocean. This is not ideal but you can't very well learn to type on an island full of animals and those animals need to eat. Most people don't mind the middle of the ocean because most people are insane. But the normal, terrified few learn to swim and pretend to be crazy. They swim in shorthand in the morning and wash up on shore at night, each time pushing down the sanity bubbling under their own waves. They look just like the other crazy people with briefcases and sensible shoes except sometimes they have to swallow down the bright white fear from their eyes that comes from their absolute sanity.

One day, the sanity will win. It will wake them up in the middle of the ocean and yell "Don't you know where you are? You're in the middle of an ocean and there are too many swimmers here for all of you to kick your legs.  Don't you know how far you are from shore, that even your precious shore could wash away? Don't you know your leg could cramp? Don't you know that you're going to drown?" And then they will.

I'm not afraid of falling. People say "it's not the fall that kills you, its the landing". I'm not afraid of landing either.  

It's the moment on the edge.

One second, when your foot falters and there's no assurance that you'll catch yourself. Maybe you do and you keep walking or maybe you fall flat and they laugh or you fall crooked and you cry or maybe someone reaches out to catch you.  

I don't even care which it is.

The moment is the one of uncertainty and lack of control. When there's nothing my body can do besides release an excess of adrenaline. My fear is in waiting for that moment, knowing that it could come. And knowing that the only way to truly alleviate it

is to let myself fall.