unexpectedly

Do you remember just when the sun came out yesterday? Its warm petals reaching everyhere? Just after the verdict? It was exactly then when I was bending over its operatic offspring with an offering of water, when it so sweetly blossomed widely overhead, across every sky, where for a moment we all existed in a soft-focused halo of prayer. Gosh, golly, these singing sunshines still bring out the weep in me. When did I plant all these? Last year? Two years ago? Ten? Their willingness to come up and shine, even after their perfunctory, faithless, forgotten, handling, the rushed burying of their souls in the most reluctant of soil, awakens deep germinating guilt-grief in a way so many words and lost hugs cannot. Even beneath my longest shadow—then, now—here they are, here they are, here they are, being their always selves. How can I hug them back? 💛

 

and for no reason at all this

and these

 make me smile and also cry

Remembering fountains

 I love standing in front of fridge late at night with all the lights off, filling my bottle from the water dispenser, watching the glow and swirling ripples under that little light that goes on when you push. It's spectacular. I forget too often this quality of artificial light, how it loves water, a magical combination, a childhood dwelling where you put all your secret wishes and dreams and it reminds me of all the year round fountains I grew up with in LA drenched by all that moviestar light, diamonds dancing in a pool

If I could draw

I would want to show you the biker in blue that just went down the 39th street hill from the west,  on this blizzardous day so beautiful, pedaling upright, and how much his headlight, so round and bright, glittered the storm so perfectly, picture perfectly, like a famous painting,  so much so it was if the whole thing happened just to be painted, another fleeting messenger that passed you by, so as to one day see it again, hanging in a museum, and be reminded that you let it get away, that there was a time, not long ago, where you could still see the world in pictures, even though it didn't mean that much to you at the time, and what you'd give for those days now

without this dying narrative

And when you can no longer lift your right arm above your head or allow yourself a good pandiculation first thing in the morning, it occurs to you that maybe you have been treating yourself the same way they have, subtly at first,  but enough to know it wasn't kind, telling yourself it's not a big deal, there's nothing wrong with your body, wear and tear is all it is; ignore the red flags, stop asking for help. 

It would be easier that way, making them right. In the short term anyway. There are immediate advantages to not trusting your inner knowing; there are benefits to staying stuck. For one, the fight is exhausting. Ignoring yourself is effortless; it feels so familiar you hardly notice. Monkey see, monkey do.

Until the short term becomes longterm and you loose half of your body to the neglect you bought into, wanted to believe. For a million reasons that you've believed before until you could no longer sustain yourself on those beliefs, you had to accept that something was really not right, that, no, it's not all that normal to not be able to lift your arm over your head, just like your brother said it wasn't right when your leg wouldn't straighten or your face felt tingly. You knew it then like you know it now. You know now that there is only so much that they can do and that the doing is on you and you alone, the same way you know you will return, like a moth to light, with your dead lighter to the old narrative and it's dying flame because now what? 

 Now what?                                                                 

Now what without this dying narrative?

Of course with emptiness, with all else 

Text reply to my brother who wonders what to get my son for his 14th birthday

 Oy. You guys. Don't worry. He doesn't need anything. 

Write him a letter. Tell him about being 14 and what u remember. Tell him what's great about being a boy and what adventures await him. Tell him about who u are and what made u happy at his age and what school was like and ur first crush and first toy and chores u did and what u collected and of the sugary things u ate, what the most valuable thing you learned was and a funny memory and a day u could live over and over even now, and who your best friend was and what u thought of ur little sister and granny and papa doo and how u got in trouble and what u played and what made u sad and what ur city was like and what dreams u had.Tell him what he has to look forward to and the best thing about being a kid and about being grown up. Introduce yourself. He'd like to know you. 😊

I wonder what John B is doing right now

 And then when you find yourself writing about something as seemingly simple as your first car, that magenta Saab that you've written about a million times, the lemon that dad insisted on because of the great deal he was getting for a foreign car perched for early birds like you on the corner lot of that used car place on Sawtelle that you named after Magenter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and that broke down on nearly every hill, miraculously making it all the way to The Evergreen State College, only to die in the rain forest upon arrival

and when you are halfway through writing about this for the who knows how manyth time, you find yourself back there, in 1988, driving to West Hollywood with Susan to John B's apartment  and writing about all that went down, the dream and the tragedy, both as you now see it for reasons you never saw before, and somehow, you are liberated and brought back to life, long after the last time you saw John B, long after Majenter went unwillingly for a dollar into the arms of your exotically gorgeous roommate, your lover-not-lover, girlfriend-not-girlfriend who damn, if only I was into women... and the deeper you wrote, the more you began to wonder about her, and John B, and so many others you have wondered about during Covid: are they still here?