quiet work
I’m good at going underground– somnolent and meditative for stretches at a time, drawn to quiet compellingly, as to water for solving itchiness, to bed when harried and jagged, to soothing smoothnesses for the relief of wear of ordinarily days. adrift and too often spinning in my well of leaves and assorted meandering flotsam, odd ...
things that get stuck in the "drafts" folder
past birthday plan coordination; defaulted exchanges with spatio-temporally unavailable friends; partial apologies and limping pleas; notes to self; to-do optimism persistently listed; stalled-out gossip; collections of particularized references, filed for later; entirely empty messages somehow saved; whiny-ass complaints; lost and found messages for missing cardigan sweaters; mouth-drooling real estate and ebay listings, now closed.
wasvox
once upon a time there was a vox blog that became a wordpress blog. it wasn’t entirely sure what it wanted to grow up to be or even if growing “up” were entailed in the process– only that with changing seasons time had come to fall from branches that had held it aloft and fed it on liquid light strained through dirt, take flight, take root elsewhere and stretch toward whatever new sun rose on a persistent tomorrow
sleeptalking me
while drifting off, I told chris that his rubbing my back felt like candy-colored pieces of smooth glass.
then suggested we get married on a trampoline.
file under: how many metaphors can you hurl at an elusive thing?
aka, hot mess. “what would be so terrible about not doing the things you’re trying to do?” indeed at some point the effort seems specious– one has to wonder sooner or later. and yet attempting to address it stumps me. “what would be so bad about just writing for yourself? no one else to read ...
whazup over he-ah
lotta silence in this little corner of the webs, I know. when the navelly head grows too fraught, as it tends to do in turbulent periodic bouts, otherwise verbal volubility sinks into great morasses of (invisibly thrashing) silence. so this spring has been– and winter before that, and fall before that– a long season underground. ...
what to say?
this has become a sad, verbally sparse little “blog”, hasn’t it? oh, believe me, I know. there’s this irksome compulsion to at least try to be moderately entertaining, insightful or at minimum diverting–and for the life of me these days I’m finding it hard to find faith in my own capacity to do/be so… and, ...