winding

i drive home on what used to be a farm road. desolation borders fresh tilled fields. the suburbs rub shoulders with fallow soil and horse pasture.
there is a barn that tilts to the right at a 45 degree angle next to a gutted house on the back of a flatbed. horses fly through mud in high spirits and cold mornings and the light makes even the mcmansions look like home.

things i am doing

- modding a milliken hi-speed 16mm camera so that it will not freak out when i use single perf film in it.
- making monsters out of felt.
- missing SIJ
- wishing on dust motes

...

i forget now why i opened the window to type something in the first place. i am reading about magic and worrying ever so slightly about my dear friend who will soon be on a trans-atlantic flight to italy from whence he had best send me a postcard. my thumb hurts where i stabbed it yesterday and i seem to have forgotten what i was thinking.

a shadow of an echo remains of what was once a tidal wave
and i am struggling to maintain a sense of decorum
my right arm is connected directly to my heart
and the heat of my mind is cooking itself for lunch

twins

we sleep curled around one another like two cats in sunlight, our breath mingling and our bodies as indistinguishable as our minds. i don't remember what it took to get here but there is no going back. he told me earlier that our relationship is the most obscure and confusing thing he has ever been a part of. not confusing to him, of course, confusing to everyone else. how can you explain it, really? it's like being lit from the same spark.