alonetime

Alone in the kitchen. Erik just left for PAX in Seattle, and my dad will leave Port Angeles any time now to drive the five hour journey to my house. The radio is set to the jazz station and Kenard is snuggled up to the laptop, obscuring the left side of the screen.

There are so many versions of heaven on this earth. This is one. Last night at the Doug Fir, watching the lead singer of !!! move in a shameless heartfelt body-jerking dance while performing All My Heroes Are Weirdos. Finding a dead snake floating in the lake at work, with Hanna. At least, that was heavenly until she touched it and we found another dead snake in the water. Then I worried about Hanna getting sick and snakes being targeted by poison. Back down to earth.

But here I am, listening to jazz, stringing rocks on wire for my latest modular jewelry idea. The only thing missing is coffee, and I'm about to head to the farmers' market to sniff fruit and caress plants-- that favorite beverage of yours and mine can't be far behind.

I still find pieces of you in places I thought I'd locked you out of long ago, even while we were still together. How did you wend your way in? It must've been one of those times, your hurricane winds blew right through me. I could never stand your gale force, and being knocked over, chipped, you were right there.

Night in the garden

This dark heart of mine, crouching in wait, overflows in the rain with its scent of the earth. Waiting for answers before questions can be given over-- the lock to make the key turn in writhing anticipation.

I used to fear reaching my hands into the unknown black spaces beneath rocks, leaves, and wood. Naked fingers are drawn to the tangled puff of spiderweb and sudden cold slime of snails. Time spent closer, face pressed to the ground, has cured my hands of their exploratory apprehension. Every rock is turned and all secrets are baked away in the white smoke of the sun. I know all corners of the garden and each leaf-leaned nook.

Now though, these night visitors-- the raccoons-- fill me with dread each morning I wake to find undersides turned under again.

these thoughts I must not think of

I am wound up. Not wounded-- wound. Why are those heteronyms?

At any rate, I usually think of myself as invisible. Certainly in public I try to not speak out or stand out, to blend into the background and observe the surroundings. I've been told conflicting opinions as to my effectiveness on this front, but the point is that I keep to myself and I'm rather shy.

Tonight while I was out for a run in the conditions I most dislike-- hot, dry, sunny, windy. I was thinking about people I used to know. When I saw one running towards me (although his hair was the wrong color). I shouted at him, stopping, perhaps jumping to give impact to the name. I shouted til he had to forcefully respond that he wasn't who I thought he was. Oh. I moved on, embarrassed. And my mind locked onto the interaction, repeating every detail.

Why did I think that was my friend? It's like I expected that my brain could conjure him up. Normally when I see someone I might now, I remain quiet out of fear of intrusion. What pushed me to act, when it was more than likely I'd be wrong?