the man through town (or why there are strange shadows at sunset)


There's a man who walks through town with a large piece of driftwood stuck to his back. No one knows if he fell and it is impaling him, or if he has somehow sewn his clothes around it; fabric becoming a holster for future firewood. His hearing is quite bad, so to approach him with questions regarding the origins of the wood, poses a danger of him spinning and striking your person in his startled state, so all in town leave him be.

The only time we hear words from his mouth is when we sit near to him during sunset. The sun slowly wraps his face in sheets of glowing stories that speak of cosmic darkness and her children. 

Of the beginning of it all. 

The sheets hang off his body, til they touch the driftwood on his back, spreading strange shadows across the sand to his side, causing him to look and mumble, "what a strange looking bird."

shadows and bats at different sizes


I've been thinking about scale invariant structures, which has been making me think a lot of shadows; shadows of skyscrapers and cigarettes stubbed out on sidewalks look pretty much the same.

And if we think of shadows as a layer of obfuscation, then things like direct sunlight are just really bright shadows; they are layers that hide a structure that can only be seen at a certain brightness. Maybe there’s something to the idea that you have to shine the right flashlight into the cave to find the bat you are looking for.

if...

... you're wiping your face with a towel while wearing a suit, you're only bringing attention to the rivers of sweat below your neckline.

she knows everything

Setting fence posts in concrete is a bit like the process of dying. I’m not speaking to the fully awful physicality of punching holes into the earth, but more to the fact that as the concrete fills the hole, mixes with water, and the post becomes more and more rigid, attention has to be paid more and more closely in order to make sure that as rigidity fully takes on, the post is where you meant it to be. There’s no fussing with the position once the hole is topped off, and what is left is a monument to a moment’s time of work; a reflection on a life. The metaphor can run on with the hanging of boards and whatnot, but I think I’ll leave it right there. The fact is that everything is in everything else. There is no boredom, only a failure to see a new relationship or shell that an action or moment is wrapped in.

I have recently been thinking of standing on a shore and watching something in the ocean with another person and wondering about the shared experience. How do you create depth when there is no eye contact? Or is there depth in the same way? Maybe staring into an ocean can make one blurry eyed, and see mountains in their filmy eyes; thick with something like spit or contacts left in overnight.

Or maybe oceans are just as good as mountains, because what are waves if not geologically sped up mountains; forming and dissolving in seconds, showcasing a theatre piece titled “50 million years”.

I was in the grocery store a couple days ago, buying yogurt, and Katy Perry was on. For some reason it transported me to driving down the California cost, listening to Firework with a friend of mine, windows down, both of us looking out at the ocean and I think, *I think*, we were thinking the same thing:

You just gotta ignite the light

moonlight on barking dogs and hat hooks

The last step off the porch is a longer drop when you are off the side near the yard. “Be careful” is the words of whoever is leading the way, headlamp held above their head; lighting the way mostly for themselves, but giving scraps of light to some soggy shoes behind them.

I can hear toes making out in wet socks, or maybe making the sounds of dogs tongues lapping up wet dog food.

The windows of the house are all shapes that end in sides divided by 2. Maybe because some windows are meant to be gazed out by a couple at a time, or 4 people or an army of twins. People that look out at the same ocean, sand familiar between them, but not knowing each other's faces as they are forever waiting for a sunset that never comes. Or was it a sunrise?

Inside an airstream a short distance away nails steal hats from heads and there is the feeling that a spiritual process is captured in clay. It’s good to remember at times like this that objects can repel evil or be an attractor for love, but rarely do they do both.

The sky is clear with a cloud grumbling over a small hill, speaking of the cold front of water being dragged in on the backs of jellyfish.

There you are, brother, floating in the sky above my heart


There are trolley tracks through town that glisten like fresh blisters on heels that have walked uphill for too long; everything in the air is ready to pop like balloons left near heaters. Pop with history.

Pop. There goes the memory of baggies in couches and the smell of plastic on fire.
Pop. There goes rolled ankles on cobblestone.
Pop. There goes.

What are we all waiting for in this cafe during spring with too many scarves on the coat rack? All the stop lights work in the city, and the seat belts are brand new in every car. The sky never turns that dangerous orange black, but sets with intention that hints at a meditation practice that informs the breath.

When did the sun learn to breathe? To whisper intentions and mantras, instead of look to the constellations strung on its neck like a bear learning to make fish heads into jewelry; paws smashing into rivers on beat, jewelry flung towards gaping maws with their gills and mouths fluttering in 1/4 and 1/2 beats.

Now and then we cover the setting sun with coins or perfectly align them behind new geometries. It’s rare. But we do it.

Sometimes that coin is one you gave to me.