Full Life



If the real truth is found in silence, then I have been more honest with you, Reader, in the past six months than ever before.

The real truth is that I am a small person whose life can only be witnessed by the few who jostle for proximity. The real truth is that I have so much to say and with such feeling that the utterance seems to cheapen it by dilution.

Reader, I am marrying a man. I am marrying the man that I want, the man that I dreaded because he was too perfectly my inner soul’s desire and threatened to make my life happier than I felt it had a right to be. Happiness is for the weak, for those who close their eyes to the sorrow of the world, for those who will not sit in silence and bear up under it alone, for those who are Human and not Atlas.

I forget that I am human, Reader.

And furthermore, I forget that grasping happiness though it runs through your fingers and linking arms with a person though they walk at a different pace and relinquishing sole proprietorship to another gloriously faulty spirit—these things are brave. These things are beautiful. These things make the universe mean something more, even if you are only dressing up entropic atoms with sentiment. I choose the sentiment. I choose to feel.

I get angry because I wasn’t watching the road and slammed on breaks and food and papers and shoes and jackets and books have careened into the crumb-crusted carpet of my dying Toyota.

I get surprised because my family and friends actually left their comfortable homes, got into their cars, drove into the scary ITP, huddled silent and sweaty in a spare room, and celebrated our engagement with wine and cake and stories and hugs and tears and letters and laughs.

I get overwhelmed that the logistical felicity of 35,000 ticket-holders depends on my dexterity with Excel, Adobe, iPhone, vehicle, GPS, small talk, Outlook, clothing shopping, and getting a good night’s sleep (at which I suck).

I get sorrowful because I miss my close friend and all I could think about while I listened to him tell his story about moving across the country is how much I will miss him when he is gone and how talking on the phone isn’t the same as accidentally bumping into each other when you readjust in your seat across the booth or as squeezing each other tight when you say goodbye with a hug or as seeing what’s really happening inside the face though the words sound normal enough.

I get jealous of my beloved because I want to forge a fairy-tale home for him that is cool in the summer and warm in the winter and pleasing to the eye all year round and brimming with the hearts of people who love him and need him and respect him and teach him and hear him and sometimes my best-laid plans are corrupted by my own need for him to build me a fairy-tale home that is always the right temperature and situated in a convenient location and full of furniture that doesn’t make you sore after a three-wine-glass conversation.

I get proud of myself for acting like an adult, which basically means that you keep on acting even if you don’t hear applause or get a review (let alone a good one!) in the paper or get the contract renewal before the current one expires.

Life has been extraordinary to me and it’s filled my little clay plate with a helluva lot more tasty and prickly food than it can manage, and I don’t ever want to give the impression that I am insensible to that bounteous fact. But sometimes, standing there without saying anything, just holding your plate with both hands in front of you and your face turned down so you don’t trip while you’re walking—sometimes, the silence is all. Thanks for listening.

Are You Happy, Do You Know It?

Playing around with a bit of a theme…

…sorry the aquarium is a bit of a background noise, haha.

Skimming BBC

I am always alone
Under the covers of my mind
No thought slips in but what I put in

Fast broaches the dawn of discontent
Hours with swelling need and vacant desire
No energy just a sucking
A sucking of all that is
To the place of hurt that I hope will
Die by
The side of my gathered calamities
The moments of being that aren’t mine but should keep
Deep in the well of an educated soul
Fresh places of pain for all hours of the day

w h a t i s

What is a flimsy breath that turns the lightest thought to stone
What is a pestilence that masquerades as healthy antiseptic for the giddy soul
What is a mirage that dwarfs experiential minutia under the shadow of its immensity
What is an unholy overthrow of sight and sound
What is a more constant companion than the three muses, insinuated among each inhalation
What is Failure multiplied by Expectation and divided by Fear
What is unfaithfulness to sanctified intuition
What is disuse of communion
What is a recession of bravery like waves withdrawing themselves eternally into a sea with widening beaches and bleached sand exposed to the sun until there is no water to quench the thirsty tongue of hope
What is a state of being the opposite of your dearest desire and wildest guilty ambition
What is
What is
What is
What, Is?
What IS!
What is.



Full-eaten belly crumbs tumble within
My thoughts fly apart
And turn again and rend me
Free of the foul-some breath of confusion
Down the back of my neck
As I walk away from what fades
To come what may
I see the Day
Bright-dawning o’er the crystal ridge
Of the past-present-future-in-One.

My spyglass full-full of pleasures and pain
Dancing the love song from here to Zion
One blistered step per moment of time
As the rhythm of Him marks my motion,
Witnessed and sworn, in blood adorned,
Trailing violent joy behind me in caravan and canopy high.


The Pleasure of Sitting

Pets get to do it all day, sitting.
I get to do it all day in my office, sitting.
People think you’re lazy if they catch you, sitting.
Sometimes your body insists you spend some time, sitting.
But muscles rebel and seize up sorely if you take one attitude too long, sitting.

Finding the sweet spot of sitting is trickier than it seems, and it’s so very rare that my psyche is unprepared to enjoy it, when I get that moment of peace to just…sit.


Being Super

Wanting to be a hero doesn’t make the moment happen
But deep deep deep
Look farther and find proximity
Of hopes and possibilities
Under the human hide
That hides the bindings
Of dust and starlight
Within the wandering atoms of our frame.

Fear not the quaking sobs of lonely moon-days
But grope the interstitial spaces
For the subtle synergies of want and desire
That birth our destined greatness.



So now I’ve been waiting 6.5 hours this week
For something to happen that will give me more life
Or fill the productal void of my daily rhythm
Making it possible to keep going on the continuum
Of things that happen or you happen to others
And I wonder I query
When the waiting will take on the signifying signs
Beyond the tick of time
To become what was worth the waiting in the first place.


Port to Air

Breathing waiting
Sleeping wishing
Cough cough
Whisper buzz
Can I charge here?
Little kid boy baby
Huge bags
Bag bag everywhere
Colors mostly black or sad or old
Who knows you?
Can you read my name on the ticket?


Michigan Sky

Velvet isn’t always black or dark or deep.
Sometimes it’s sharp and clear and high
Like a Michigan sky.

The loveliest silk washed o’er the high ways,
Frosty tops and homespun bellies
Bulging with the lake-weary winds
Turning home to the dry prairie tickles.

My green soul leaps with the cherry-throated grosbeak
To meet the goddess of the Air full-stretched across my face.

The lush season of the sunbeams is nigh
And many a pliant wood rejoices in the un-freeze.
Wrap us up in cattail down and tuck into the summer.