Once, I was told by a by a writing instructor that if I could only write in fragments, I should write in fragments. It was good advice. I never really finished anything I began during that time period, but I've become attached to these tiny bits of scratching that take up odd space in my journals.
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Certainty, like invocation of the spirits of thunder, gather in my eyes, my voice, in the purpose of my movement. Economical, efficient, effective motion will prove my intent where my heart fails. Only the stilled wind would guess my fear, my timorous uncertainty. You would not. You must not
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I would smear you on my lips, like berries in July. You would taste sweet, like sticky and cool; smooth against my uneven breath, linger like the scent of lilacs in april. I'm sure of it.
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Leaving. Somewhere between Casper & Cheyenne Olympus in the sky with Luck Dragons and owls. Patrick, do you see them from Billings? Earth that flows, rolls, folding itself over and over, mountains curving upward into claws of earth tearing at the sky. Silence deeper than sound, hair in my face and rain that smells of heat and wet, green things mingling with smell of hot pavement cooling in the prairie. These are leaving things.
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What I know. I know how to breathe. The trillion ways of moving air into these lungs. I know the quick easy breath of near slumber; the short rasped breath of barely concealed fear; I know the shallow breath afriad to break love spells and the flooding breath of relief. I know the sharp inhale of being hurt, and the deliberate letting go of defeat...
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I crave words, like chocolate, creamy-sweet on my tongue, giving way to teeth that press too hard.
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Impossible things everyday occur outside the continent of myself. I am not so busy with my own universal truths to consider this impossible raindrop that will linger on my fingertip in spite of the autumn wind.
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When it hurts the world makes sense. Resolution absovles me from inaction and the momentum carries me forward with purpose.
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Something about the feel of pencil on paper... of scratching out meaning from possibility. No more permanent than graphite on wood pulp ~ the soft friction has it's own truth, a burning of sorts, heat of substance on substance, from mind to paper, consuming all that it is not, internal regions to external realities; commitment at it's subtle best, fleeting and impermanent as time.
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Sometimes you don't think, or won't, or something like that, something crzy like that. Sometimes a stone is just a rock, a lone flower in a vast field of scrub and brush is just a mislaid seed. Sometimes a sunset fire on a sloping hill is simply a star behind a revolving planet. Occasionally, going home is nothing more than a twelve year old economy car and a bad road.
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Today I miss you. You are lodged firmly in a small, hard lump at the back of my throat ~ encased tears aching to explode into empty space, where you are not. Not here next to me, where skin on skin might reassure me of your definitive existence. Not here, where I am certain of you.