Jim Brickman: Rocket to the Moon

For the record, the canoeing was decent, although it did involve battling ~50 mph headwinds.
Ever woken up with literally a quarter inch of dust over your every exposed surface (and some not exposed)? Yeah. Me neither, till then.

Beautiful, in an in-your-teeth kind of way. No, really. Also, this blog is turning into a less-words-and-more-pictures blog.

I'm still workable earth, if you want to listen.
'cause, for all me not having changed a lot over the course of the last six months,

all of a sudden the space between these walls seems so small

(not all of a sudden) I want to write without

thinking even about it, making words with my fingers

having them mean something

like in mud or goodness forbid this forsaken sand

(it seems like forsaken

/ it’s not).

whisper in the text. Text. not

words, mind you. My sister’s thumping the wall with one elbow as she falls asleep,

then the other one’s thumping the floor with both heels as she moves past the hall light (on)

and speaks to the elbow (also on)

… “You’re rude.”

Part of me doesn’t want to talk about how my mother moves up the stairs

turns off the hall light

it’s the 29^th of November, almost Christmas according to the Man

The way we don’t change when we tell our stories, not from six years old

not ever

I cry to keep myself human. Sometimes

I’m really that close to shutting off.

To jumping off the edge (just to feel the wind)

To running as far as I can / To hopping freight / To living in the dirt.

like a person clinging. I know you don’t believe me.

Maybe it’s why I can call animals and have them come

they never stay—I never ask them to—and

as much as sometimes I want them to stay

I never want to ask them to.

words out of

context are as bad as a person out of context, just like

me lying on my stomach on the carpet trying to speak

just like getting up and using my body

just like communicating (like

trembling on the inside the whole time. Like every muscle in your body clenched.

Like curled against the side of your bed, knees almost to chest but

writing  medium in between.

(that’s not like communicating, though the description fits all three

other positions)).

anyone ever asked you to show them the world?

I know. me neither.

what you won’t read into that sentence because I won’t let you

because I’ll tell you instead and then you won’t be able to read it in

what you won't read into that is

I can’t recall asking anyone as much

in as many words. What I mean when I see without asking

(it’s intrusive, apologies;

no regrets on that front but apologies for sure)

is show me your world.

Listening to love calms me down / makes me cry / takes those blasted mindless radio words out of my head / I should explain about the radio.

That’s a reference to me leaving my days in so many places.

I keep songs in my head to keep me from crying more than any passerby would expect.

I should explain about the love.

I should also not pick at chapped lips.

I should also stay in: when the one thing I need more than understanding is to go sit in the tunnels at the top of the neighborhood and be out of walls, the one thing my mother needs is for me to stay.

“Why are you putting your boots on?”

tsk, tsk.

Some of these things I choose to do, and some of them I choose to not do.

Rather, choose to don’t.

as much as I may feel like I understand so many people,

I still feel like I understand so many people, but from a point of view they’ll never think to test.

I feel like I could explain history after studying it some.