Why can I be so lost? I think too much, s'that easy.

And suddenly I get struck down by - fuck it.

Better off battling the beasts of repetition, soothing the rippled folds of mind until time -
twirls her many skirts and I trip up
dodge the subject and go running for some dusty passage way and a locked cupboard that I haven't looked at in years,
fears tumble out like so many tiny skeletons and I fall backward and leave the room as quickly as I went in.

Surely! It must be a sin or something akin to it to be plagued so!

That I can't achieve what I want even when approached with clarity and sincerity that this simple request of my mind is being neglected, no obedience, none at all.

Bats at my ears.

Bugs on my tongue.

Snakes in my belly.

Better off by the dirt and the vermes.

Blech.

Gugh.

Yuck.

Why can I be so happy? I like to arrange flowers, s'that easy.

Were I to rip out the electrical chords attached to all the houses on the street I'm certain the most glorious silence would ensue and it would be heralded by all the birds and bugs who'd begin jittering to a salsa sound- which is actually silence- and then further- expound in the most joyful cacophony, so here we'd be. On my couch listening after I'd committed the act, patiently waiting, and then-

the sound.

Like a blender full of flowers and feathers, lacey spiderwebs and beds of tender vegetables.

Lick the beet juice off our paws 'n laugh.

Me being me.

'N You being you.

But here I am, eschewing reality again by carving out this pathway into the nothingness, into the nonbeing, and bringing back these unique artifacts, tossing them back and forth between my hands for a while before bouncing off to play with beats that I blast too loud in the house while everyone leaves to go to work and I spin and spin and spin with this freewheeling joy at being alive.

Figs and Wasps missive I

For figs are basally monoecious, meaning that they can produce male and female flowers on the same tree but some have mutated and lost the ability to produce both sexes, become dioecious, or are only capable of one sex and need to exchange genetic material with another fig tree. In dioecious species the role of pollinators is integral to the transfer of genes necessary for reproduction. Pollinating wasps lay eggs and reproduce in the shorter stemmed fig flowers.

Crooned by flute sounds in the basement.

Trying to get focused.

Thinking about moss.

And bears.

And magaZines.

"I was worried that I had had a vision"

I'm not sure but this is perhaps the best way to begin. A man in the cafe speaks to a few empty tables while someone sings in French in the background. “God is real, don't ever deny that.” And I'm consumed with remembering the Devil's Club that I met in the deep woods just past the cedar grove. “If I believed in God, what would my concept of God be? An artist? An experimenter.” Ushered verses on street corners and silent planning in the rain. It's something to do with finding bones and warrens and compelled I pause and try to stop before I lunge and attack further, unraveling and going deeper. “You can be joyful without being oblivious.” The coffee is strong and bright, I've got cuts on my hands from brushings with oak and the warmth of my toes pulls me down from that thought on to the next, a question of love. Wishing I had corresponded more diligently. That I could “I was calm, I couldn't believe it, it was all so unreal, I'm just going to enjoy the fact that I'm calm after all these years” Her skin is delicately wrinkled, hand resting on her cheek like those plants that respond to touch and begin to grow together and her eyes are sunken and pull with an intense draw. I can be she, “there is the truth” I can also be he. And who do I write to? Do I write to you out in Amsterdam, bivouacked by brothels and jazz, sweet smoke and piers with ducks? Do I write to the Devil's Club and those who live in the den beneath it? Do I write to myself or my multifarious love licks, all those with whom I share an easy smile and a laugh, all those who I don't write to often enough.

Shift hipped I'll root myself and begin again. I have felt the flow of the universe as strong as a wind or a flurry of rain. “Why was that situation the same?” Her voice trembled. “What was in my head was that I was sort of worried, that I had had a vision.” And with that reeling realization it became clear, yes. There are steps, and different heights and levels of intensities and synchronicites and the crooning of a voice at an unexpected moment can provide the tip to the scale to cause the slow slide into bus mysticism and musky smile affairs. Chairs. That are seductive to me. In the same way that wood and harps, spring growth will arouse me.

Some lessons I've been learning:

patterns are present at all scales and respond to pressure by creating subpatterns to attempt homeostasis

music can be indeterminate

medicine is best if it's born of your bioregion

the idea of separate elements is poison

dandelions are dynamic accumulators of many minerals, they're working hard to heal soils

be: on the frontier, naïve, and a verb

So whatever, I'm nefariously precarious poised between a sacrifice of my temporal resources for duty and integrity and this nagging vibration that pulls me closer to the soil.

Today I met a bee who was wrapped in spiderweb. I used my knife and with the very tip tore away the strands that bound him. He sat on my blade for a long time after and I imagine that after our frantic venture in freeing him he was resting and felt at ease with me. I dropped him off on a dandelion in the sun and went back to sawing apart a pallet.

I also:
sang flute songs to seedlings
hitchhiked
spoke briefly with my professor as he rushed away to do other things
played a rotten note on a trumpet
and finally

stopped.

It's in this stillness that I'm now cross legged communing with water and fire.

Or perhaps dripped down
tripped
I become slanted and bent toward outside forces, the vector of the moon pulsing in corrugated pressures 'till I'm whirled, swooning and spooned up against a slender tree that in its straightness fairly begged for the curves of me to burrow into the bark, blush at some bees, brush bracken against the soft of me 'till I burn with the contact and shaking.

I guess it's just spring and night and the moon is waxing. But my blood beats. And I like it.