"I'm in a good mood today; I'm in a good place now. I've been all the way around & I've been...
...all the way..." ((From "Good Things", Katie Sawicki))
If there have been many questions since returning to Portland, there have only been more answers, and more. If I've had a seizure (or nearly) while here, or been struck with a rush of moon blood that would often knock me down for days:
I've been able to walk and breathe with stunning ease; even to talk, interact, be touched, questioned, laughed with, teased. Looked after by kind older men with No Agenda Beyond Being Fatherly (see: this is another entry, entirely. I think somebody sent me an Angel from Texas, to remind me again again, that family goes so very far beyond blood.) While bleeding, I've been breathing- also able to be touched by beautiful women and men, with or without agendas- obvious or not- regardless, really. Lovely people, people with my trust unless they prove themselves wrong. (Raise your hand if that makes sense to you. True yeses his will be closely followed by a kiss!) Beautiful hearts; beautiful city; so then, what of my blood? What of the Ocean and Moon? Certainly, red-wild alive, it seems still to be spilling, yet somehow
I am dancing. I am free. More at home inside my body, with each passing day, than I have been in so very many years. This is beyond surgery; beyond pill bottles; these Truths exist at deeper altitudes than Western Medicine can so much as exist.
The attitude and Hope that I so much embody, but which can be a struggle to fully live out in other places: Here, I can. My hopes for this visit have been overcome by, instead, a journey- discoveries- possibility beyond what even I dared imagine. I can find echoed Hope in others without months of search and struggle; people I meet briefly or at length. Others for an hour; for a week; for infinity- time will tell, but time is not something I tend to trust as much as I do the heart. Maybe that's a bold statement, but more importantly, it's true.
Jeffrey McDaniel has said, and written, so many wise things that I sometimes quote them offhand, almost as if part of a conversation. Because that is much of his brilliance; of many truly brilliant writers' genius. I know more than a few fellow bibliophiles are reading this, and get that. But one thing he refers to is The Infamous Last Straw- and how rarely, if ever, do we think of That (tender, essential, aching for recognition) First Straw.
But if I think of my life's daily path- often in the back of my mind, but nonetheless, often- in terms of Spoons- then it's become almost inherent that I also try to see those first or potential first straws. They're not so obvious; often they lie in wait long before you've even met the person whose Spoons and Straws, whose mind and heart, you're interacting with. But they are there; search with hands, search with your eyes closed and mind open; look closer. Those first straws; those trip-wires that can lead to losing someone who only wants you to find them; they're everywhere. They're like Jeanette Winterson's "code only visible in certain lights", her words written on bodies. Her braille of skin-stories.
There have been many questions and answers alike, since arriving here; yes, whether amidst the madness and butterfly-boomeranging effect of wallet with numerous IDs/credentials being taken. Whether curled on the sidewalk with people between homes, sharing cough drops and spare change, smiling and passing on as much warmth as I can in those moments. Yes, whether in the arms of a beautiful human (dolphin? Unicorn...?) or wide-awake and giggling-bonding-nodding with adorable pixies. (And also, for those who may wonder; wide-awake these weeks, with no fatigue meds that charge by the microgram! Instead, here and now: Bits of guarana or herba mate, a few vitamins, organic green teas. Jasmine and mint. Sparkling pomegranates, fresh lemons.)
And it's clear, if not literal in the simplicity of how this may/will play out, that the answer? The answer (among many answers) is Portland. Is my heart-home. Is where, often, I ached to be, but only my body could truly give me the way back, the most honest map. The answer holds ways to save the daily losses of my parents, when all they want is to help me, and all I want is to accept that help while also letting our family thrive. Among this larger answer is the fact (the Truth) that I can live fully, and in transition between two cities, two states. Can find wellness therein. I can do that; I can see that clearly now, rather than just wish desperately for it to be true. From this West Coast, Left Coast, deeply-pulsing place: My green eyes widen all the more, they sharpen and hone in to details.
But, and yes again, here's a question for you*: Answer however you want; with your own questions, even, as I've been doing in these entries of late, possibly frustrating some of you, I realize. But trust me, yes? Follow my words, and you'll keep finding me- as I hope, always, to keep finding you. *So, with some explanation, my question of sorts:
There's a lot of mythos surrounding Unicorns. From the bare bones of Robert Graves' studies; which read somewhat like the bibles of Greek and Roman mythology; to many lush revisionist takes. The poetry of Eliot or Plath; the lush prose of Ms. Winterson, or the delightful Margaret Atwood. Francesca Lia Block is an obvious one, as is she who brought the world into a certain ickle Potter's reach. So, then:
When you pick and choose- what do you believe? What do you like best, or find the most poetry within? If not of unicorns, feel free (JAC! MIRANDA!) to speak of mermaids, sirens, and so forth. Though right now, especially pertaining to my experiences and how I'm writing about them as they happen, it's Pegasus and Unicorns that I'm exploring most. Okay, your turn!
*
This much, among much, I know is true to my heart, and to the pieces of writing I'm working on:
Unicorns are many now, and some can also exist underwater. But their many began with one- a She, Pegasus, and winged.
Their blood is close enough to Holy to call it just that; it has the ability to heal, give life. It can be taken, at horrible cost to whomever might steal such innocence. It can be given, an enormous and precious token of trust, of love.
They should not be penned in by others, not ever- but given free rein, may often choose to settle and rest at length. To nuzzle, exhale, shimmer beside or within you. Not unlike birds of many kinds, or even cats if you do the research; a Unicorn is never domesticated- unless it has been its' own choice. You might not see the difference at first, but it's a clear one, and there.
So, then: What of a Unicorn, just being berthed- or rather, just discovering its' true nature? What of a Unicorn falling in some sort of love? What of birds, cats, Unicorns- met- even intertwined? I know I may be making some of you want answers of your own, more than give answers back; particularly those of you who speak poetry-speak and/or know me well. But as many answers as I'm discovering, and in time will share, right now I bloom over with more questions by the hour.
It's near (or just after) lunch-hour for some of you East Coasters, and early for a lot of us. But I do wonder: Maybe, even, as much as you wonder how I've been these past two years, how I've grown and where I've journied- and I promise to spill more literals soon - I do wonder, as I have often over those same months and years- What You Think.
*
"I know people are afraid of story collections- they don't get the same respect as novels- but I don't understand why. Together, these stories say much more than they would apart. How They Met refers not only to the characters in the stories, but also to the stories themselves. Here they are, meeting for the first time. In the same way that paragraphs meet, and sentences meet, and words meet.
Enjoy the intersections." ((The fabulous D. Levithan, from the intro to How They Met, and other stories))
If there have been many questions since returning to Portland, there have only been more answers, and more. If I've had a seizure (or nearly) while here, or been struck with a rush of moon blood that would often knock me down for days:
I've been able to walk and breathe with stunning ease; even to talk, interact, be touched, questioned, laughed with, teased. Looked after by kind older men with No Agenda Beyond Being Fatherly (see: this is another entry, entirely. I think somebody sent me an Angel from Texas, to remind me again again, that family goes so very far beyond blood.) While bleeding, I've been breathing- also able to be touched by beautiful women and men, with or without agendas- obvious or not- regardless, really. Lovely people, people with my trust unless they prove themselves wrong. (Raise your hand if that makes sense to you. True yeses his will be closely followed by a kiss!) Beautiful hearts; beautiful city; so then, what of my blood? What of the Ocean and Moon? Certainly, red-wild alive, it seems still to be spilling, yet somehow
I am dancing. I am free. More at home inside my body, with each passing day, than I have been in so very many years. This is beyond surgery; beyond pill bottles; these Truths exist at deeper altitudes than Western Medicine can so much as exist.
The attitude and Hope that I so much embody, but which can be a struggle to fully live out in other places: Here, I can. My hopes for this visit have been overcome by, instead, a journey- discoveries- possibility beyond what even I dared imagine. I can find echoed Hope in others without months of search and struggle; people I meet briefly or at length. Others for an hour; for a week; for infinity- time will tell, but time is not something I tend to trust as much as I do the heart. Maybe that's a bold statement, but more importantly, it's true.
Jeffrey McDaniel has said, and written, so many wise things that I sometimes quote them offhand, almost as if part of a conversation. Because that is much of his brilliance; of many truly brilliant writers' genius. I know more than a few fellow bibliophiles are reading this, and get that. But one thing he refers to is The Infamous Last Straw- and how rarely, if ever, do we think of That (tender, essential, aching for recognition) First Straw.
But if I think of my life's daily path- often in the back of my mind, but nonetheless, often- in terms of Spoons- then it's become almost inherent that I also try to see those first or potential first straws. They're not so obvious; often they lie in wait long before you've even met the person whose Spoons and Straws, whose mind and heart, you're interacting with. But they are there; search with hands, search with your eyes closed and mind open; look closer. Those first straws; those trip-wires that can lead to losing someone who only wants you to find them; they're everywhere. They're like Jeanette Winterson's "code only visible in certain lights", her words written on bodies. Her braille of skin-stories.
There have been many questions and answers alike, since arriving here; yes, whether amidst the madness and butterfly-boomeranging effect of wallet with numerous IDs/credentials being taken. Whether curled on the sidewalk with people between homes, sharing cough drops and spare change, smiling and passing on as much warmth as I can in those moments. Yes, whether in the arms of a beautiful human (dolphin? Unicorn...?) or wide-awake and giggling-bonding-nodding with adorable pixies. (And also, for those who may wonder; wide-awake these weeks, with no fatigue meds that charge by the microgram! Instead, here and now: Bits of guarana or herba mate, a few vitamins, organic green teas. Jasmine and mint. Sparkling pomegranates, fresh lemons.)
And it's clear, if not literal in the simplicity of how this may/will play out, that the answer? The answer (among many answers) is Portland. Is my heart-home. Is where, often, I ached to be, but only my body could truly give me the way back, the most honest map. The answer holds ways to save the daily losses of my parents, when all they want is to help me, and all I want is to accept that help while also letting our family thrive. Among this larger answer is the fact (the Truth) that I can live fully, and in transition between two cities, two states. Can find wellness therein. I can do that; I can see that clearly now, rather than just wish desperately for it to be true. From this West Coast, Left Coast, deeply-pulsing place: My green eyes widen all the more, they sharpen and hone in to details.
But, and yes again, here's a question for you*: Answer however you want; with your own questions, even, as I've been doing in these entries of late, possibly frustrating some of you, I realize. But trust me, yes? Follow my words, and you'll keep finding me- as I hope, always, to keep finding you. *So, with some explanation, my question of sorts:
There's a lot of mythos surrounding Unicorns. From the bare bones of Robert Graves' studies; which read somewhat like the bibles of Greek and Roman mythology; to many lush revisionist takes. The poetry of Eliot or Plath; the lush prose of Ms. Winterson, or the delightful Margaret Atwood. Francesca Lia Block is an obvious one, as is she who brought the world into a certain ickle Potter's reach. So, then:
When you pick and choose- what do you believe? What do you like best, or find the most poetry within? If not of unicorns, feel free (JAC! MIRANDA!) to speak of mermaids, sirens, and so forth. Though right now, especially pertaining to my experiences and how I'm writing about them as they happen, it's Pegasus and Unicorns that I'm exploring most. Okay, your turn!
*
This much, among much, I know is true to my heart, and to the pieces of writing I'm working on:
Unicorns are many now, and some can also exist underwater. But their many began with one- a She, Pegasus, and winged.
Their blood is close enough to Holy to call it just that; it has the ability to heal, give life. It can be taken, at horrible cost to whomever might steal such innocence. It can be given, an enormous and precious token of trust, of love.
They should not be penned in by others, not ever- but given free rein, may often choose to settle and rest at length. To nuzzle, exhale, shimmer beside or within you. Not unlike birds of many kinds, or even cats if you do the research; a Unicorn is never domesticated- unless it has been its' own choice. You might not see the difference at first, but it's a clear one, and there.
So, then: What of a Unicorn, just being berthed- or rather, just discovering its' true nature? What of a Unicorn falling in some sort of love? What of birds, cats, Unicorns- met- even intertwined? I know I may be making some of you want answers of your own, more than give answers back; particularly those of you who speak poetry-speak and/or know me well. But as many answers as I'm discovering, and in time will share, right now I bloom over with more questions by the hour.
It's near (or just after) lunch-hour for some of you East Coasters, and early for a lot of us. But I do wonder: Maybe, even, as much as you wonder how I've been these past two years, how I've grown and where I've journied- and I promise to spill more literals soon - I do wonder, as I have often over those same months and years- What You Think.
*
"I know people are afraid of story collections- they don't get the same respect as novels- but I don't understand why. Together, these stories say much more than they would apart. How They Met refers not only to the characters in the stories, but also to the stories themselves. Here they are, meeting for the first time. In the same way that paragraphs meet, and sentences meet, and words meet.
Enjoy the intersections." ((The fabulous D. Levithan, from the intro to How They Met, and other stories))