your eyes are just like Hitler’s.
same with your brown hair; it’s been before-
but those blue eyes.
So what is distinguishable- if all our pieces are reused and recycled
in the shape of another similar body? If it’s all the same-
the golden hair, the freckles, that small mole on your upper arm—
You’re not the first to have.
Certainly never the last.
When you pass, someone will claim those eyes;
your son, or perhaps a complete stranger.
They will be in the world, continually—
as the only way to deal with death. The only way
to explain longevity, your baby boy
carrying your eyes until another takes his place.
And someone will kill him, someone will trash him through
the heart; he’ll succeed in all things war. and those eyes will hit the ground and
be simultaneously reborn in the screaming infant
produced with downs syndrome, but those blue eyes.
what things shall they see, what specimen they ingest.
what goods they will steal.

good morning, neverland.

On lack of words in general, I'm glad to be back to some state of talking. I am currently soaking up the air outside on our NEW and AWESOME back porch, and the wind is absolutely healing.
This is one of those moments where nothing can capture the experience, I feel it in my gut. It's almost like crying, in joy, my intestines are quivering. This may also be the coffee I drank out here an hour ago.

But it's a glorious day. The neighbors are playing with their dog. He's huge. And from my second story perch, I can oversee our backyard (compost and all) and beyond to the tracks and the unbeknown pedestrians walking from their cars, skipping to their cars, or crossing the blue divide in a glass tunnel.

So much coffee in the world. I wonder how this generation will last.

Ah the smell. porch wood, vines in trees, cat, coffee, new clothes, old cushions.

I have been realizing more the things for which I am homesick. I can't place my finger on all of them- and most of them are an emotion or feeling- or state of mind- that I miss with different parts of me. I can commit one to being missed with my whole heart- that would be an exaggeration anyway- but I find it more and more difficult to define what my heart is anyway.

I am homesick for oatmeal mornings. For the feeling of visitors. For my old apartments: their stairs, potted plants, pumpkin pancakes, and draperies. I am homesick for the knowledge of being needed. and the knowledge of myself.

These 'self-discovery' times are so intense that I'm finding it hard to know what is real. I find things out- I feel them deeply, and then feel lost for words to express anything, and then become a silent things that is at the quiet mercy of the fleeting emotions. I don't know what is real, I don't know what is me or what discoveries I can trust. I don't even know what a discovery is for godssake. And it gets me enraged. And then I say nothing, write nothing. This is the best I have right now, and it's hard for me to let even this go-- and vague as it is.

I'm stretching more, which is good. Voice class has this tendency, excellente.

let me break here for a play-by-play moment: a bright blue truck has pulled up across the street to water the two tiny yellow potted plants hanging next to 120A and B. The side is marked with "NONPOTABLE WATER", because the obvious first idea would be to drink from it's long red grimy hose. Don't do it, I'm on the side that says nonpotable, I know these things.

I have a fear. Theatre classes have this uncanny way of making me uncover things that want to remain covered. It's a tricky question to answer whether it's better to leave them quietly shielded, whether it's healthier. Probably not in the long run, but it's hard during school- (life) when you're meant to perform PERFORM write WRITE PAPERS present, WRITE, TALK. I'm in a state of listening. And listening not for the purpose of responding. I don't trust myself, I don't want to say anything. School requires this, unfortunately for me. And here I am gone done signed up for classes, and I can't guarantee that I'll be able to perform when the time comes. This is scary. What if I fail.

Oh wiat, I did. Not too long ago either, mind you. What the hell am I doing to myself.

But I'm stuck now, and forced to decide to make the best of it. Now I just need to decide to make the best of it. Is the best of it worth it? Really though. Is it?

So much money. I hate money. hate.

In better words and things, this moment right now is as close as I've gotten to--in years probably-- to my fantasy of sitting on a hill surrounded by grass, somewhere in the UK, writing poetry in a tiny notebook. This is not necessarily a dream of mine, or something I ever see happening on a regular basis, or in my plans to do-- more like a fantasy world moment that I've had for many years. It used to be a dream, I think. But now I find it wholly unfulfilling, selfish, clout. I don't think 'clout' fits as a defined word here, so if you don't know what it means, just listen to it's sound. Thats what it means to me. and if you do know what it means, do the same.
But here I am, freshly showered (last night, so I have dried hair in the shape of a peacock.) new leggings, my mom's big sweater surrounding, no bra, no makeup. soft cushion, relaxed stomach free of vanity, relaxed face muscles free of smile or frown. The perfect temperature. The perfect sun, alighting one knee and leg with it's warmness. It's funny when one realizes a moment fulfills a fantasy that you've been carrying for years.what a delightful realization. It must end in five minutes (or sooner) depending on how long my computer battery will last, not being plugged in. Yes, it just beeped at me.
I also have class. and once again, I have not written a single journal entry for htis class since the last time I passed it in. figures.

But I have this, even if it's not to show.

so much.

My lack of posting of anything not remotely deemed recent is in no way related to lack of brain activity, but I suppose lack of coherency of anything worth discussing at length with anyone but myself. There is so much conversation- so many words and idea, perhaps some listening here and there, but overall I find it very exhausting and barely want to repeat or record any of the thoughts or conversations I have to coherent words put together. I don't know, really.

I've been thinking a lot about faith, religion.
...and that's exactly why I didn't want to write anything about it, because of your reaction you just had, just now. I mean, of course I'm thinking about faith. who isn't.

I'm having a lot of issues with church. I'm turned off by it right now, and I can't figure out exactly how this has happened- what exactly lead to this thing.

And again, I can't even write about it. I have no motivation to write it all out. I thought forcing myself might work. but it doesn't.

I also hate writing, right now.

go figure.