i'm still here...

learning to make sense.
take the piece of paper, tear into pieces, throw in the air.
start all over again.

on october 12th we stayed at the Foshay tower, downtown minneapolis. that was the night after zombies, good music, laughter. that was the night of an outdoor wedding. it snowed and we drifted off to sleep in the shadow of the TCF clock, awoke to the biggest flakes i'd ever seen. it felt like christmas and for once this feeling made me feel happy (every year i try, i really really try to love christmas. it never happens).

i think of this as the turning point, or the point of no return, or the positive turn to the negative.

And who's to say that living in ambiguity doesn't have its perks? Oh sure, you can't tell for certain when you will accomplish what's expected, but it leaves more room for...
Tomorrow, Antartica. Next week, the streets of New York. Next year, Roller Derby Queen or the chocolatier that makes fingernails tremble, teeth ache from pleasure.

It's been quite the adjustment.

What I'm learning, mostly, is how to hang on to that tiny bit I know. Of truth, faith, belief. That it's all sacred, and hard, and justified. I'm learning the magic of sifting.

He said maybe the first half is forming. The second half is defending.

I'm learning also about domesticity. The generosity of soups and stew, of cookies and pound cakes.

Friday; The end of the week; Inappropriate semi-colon use

The thing about writing 500 words a day, just 500, is the sense that you are revealing your worst self and then looking it squarely in the eye.

F me, I'm a cliche and shitty dialogue and generic character.

The thing about revision is the hope of showing you're more. A craft, a myth, a gem buried in the milkweed pod.

Revision isn't coming for a few more days. Hoping enough laughter is stored away to get me through.

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

What it is. Is this:

I spend my life building security, a defense, a guard against the world. Because, shit, the world is a scary place.




Can I help it if the golden soyfields don't always make me sing? Can I help it if I want the dirt of 3rd Avenue again, the fear of aggression, the hurrying of feet, the pointless meanderings.
The anonymity.
Oh Lord, to be anonymous! To be a face in a crowd, but to be known by who you choose to know you.

The home was wooden floors, sunlit windows, skyscrapers and fireworks and church steeples. It was tears on the bathroom floor, laughter on the bed. Homeless drunks in the park across the street, hot coffee every morning.

I'm learning to make this new home. There is a cat who shows up in the evening. He is orange and meows, whines for affection. I can't cuddle him, but I can feed him a can of tuna. I tell him he is pretty.

On highway 60 I hear the same song, but it means something different now. A city is a person - a mountain and I built my life around you. I guess it takes a little boldness to see the harvest moon rising. It takes a little boldness to hear the criticism and choose not to react, to climb the mountain and turn around.

I'm learning from the best that themes don't matter like they used to. And what I mean by themes are the crates under the bathroom sink. And what I mean by the best is the man who comes through the back door each evening; his hair of dirt, his smell of leaves.

Here it is; one week ago a violent storm ran across the prairie sky. Out here, you can see for miles and miles. Out here, you can see the blue break in sky, the next coming storm. (Sometimes, when we are driving or walking and it is silent, I can't help but utter "My God! Those clouds! My God! That pink! That orange! That red!)

It's true; I stand at the edge of the dock often and watch the sky. This was when the dark clouds brought nighttime a little sooner. This was when the sun needed one last dazzling moment, a break in the clouds so perfectly orchestrated I almost fell into the water below me.

Dillard says this - I've been thinking about seeing. There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises. The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But - and this is the point - who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat kit paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only and go your rueful way? It is dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days. It is that simple. What you see is what you get.

I dropped Dillard in the lake last week, an old copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. But somehow I don't think she would mind. My copies are all torn, beaten, well traveled. Here, Utah. Here, VA. Here, the ocean, a far away place. Here, the lake outside my door.