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12.31.22 freewriting

I am not doing well. I am doing fine. Both are true.

I need a thousand-year break where I can rest under the moss and become cool like the slick, wet mud. Where I can shed my flesh and become bones. And my bones can be cleaned, chipped away, turned to dust. I can sprout from the earth anew, sometime later. Shoots of wild chives. Earthworms burrowing through the soil. The falling leaves of trees in golden autumn.

And then maybe I’ll feel rested enough to come back to work.


disillusionment we

chase god from personal crisis to

personal crisis trying to make

order rather than

get ourselves swept up in chaos


a mystic a scientist the

way they tell me to breathe to

allow the muscle to wrap around bone around the marrow the

subtle beauty of the lymphatic system and

how we must always believe

there is some sort of magic powering this vessel

some magic so small and soft that when we pin it to the microscope it

is still smaller that

when we position the lens to the greater universe it

is infinitely beyond our sight that

when we touch the tangible

smell the wind

feel its chill

watch the way it moves the branches of trees

taste the flavors carried from a meal-topped fire

hear the howling as it whips up around

we still cannot see the air

know it is there all the same

know something resides in it

powerful enough to knock the wind from us

to lift us

crash us into each other

we observe the symptoms

and believe in a cause or believe in the

absence of cause

both are a release of control to that which

fills every inch of world in and out of us


I am restless. Without rest.

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