I have been re-reading some books that were important to me in the past, and it strikes me how much my people have a voice of their own. Oftentimes drowning amidst a continent that cannot, does not know how to hear us. How our culture can vary ever so slightly, so beautifully, and how many of us, in dialogue as much with ourselves as with the world, keep making. Perhaps we create to signify our existence, to remind ourselves of the sound of our voices.
the difficulty is in figuring out how to reinvent your life without blowing it to pieces, how to keep digging deeper while searching for new ideas that may turn out to be beside, not below, parallel. I’m doubtful still, but it feels like this change in where I live, how I live, may energize me. I’m looking for answers perhaps, but also for a canvas to hold more questions. and so, tentatively, I approach the easel. I’m not sure what I’ll use to fill it yet, but that movement toward it, that’s a start.
when words, sounds, guttural or otherwise, quiet but essential, surface, buoy up, how does their underbelly feel inside, below, those waves, invisible but mighty, how loud must they get before crossing that fluid threshold, becoming audible, particular, waveforms, when does an object become its own echoey shadow?
sipping coffee on a Tuesday afternoon,
the roasting smell rests against your hoodie,
it’s a normal day, an average beverage
and eventually – a simple sundown to come
as time trickles bluer, parallels permeate through your thoughts –
and she holds your hand, somewhere else across the timeline,
maybe Millenium Park, a distorted reflection of you two amidst hundreds of others
or on the High Line, your elongated shadows racing ahead of you,
and hundreds of you in Versailles, the Hall of Mirrors.
here, now, it feels okay
you know it’ll never quite feel like home,
but for now, it’s simple enough, linear.
winter on its last leg,
spring tunes through my earphones regardless.
the jacket, decreasingly fitting, still on
my back –
longer days are back, Mondays ahead now glimmering adventures
no leaves sprung yet, but
. the struggle it had been.