Sunday, November 1, 2009

at the height of conception

I have to write when I'm on planes to figure out where I've been and where I'm going. Stuck mid-air in transition wondering who I can be way up here. I'll be landing shortly and have to pretend like I know what it means to have both feet on the ground, to have come down from singing with my whole body in the clouds.

I can see how even my handwriting is changing. It's creating spaces and holes to insert breaths and fingertips to feel what pulsates beneath my words. Perhaps they're minute slits that break dimensions for us to dive in to and seep out through. Or even invitations to reconsider the truths that my body already knows, my hand reveals, that my lips couldn't shape but my heart could hear if only I would trust more in my writing.

I'm writing to make sense of my fears.

I'm writing to connect the drops of my tears into letters from birds on high who sang so softly within the sighs through the night that the dreamers forgot they were even there. I've got symbols around me on t-shirts-they're crossed with screen-printed whales-and dots on my eyes from painting them clear blue and wide like the crispness of your chords drawn tight from your chest last night. It's a story of tempo and rhythm, written on these pale sheets, of inflection and connection between lines and scars on the bodies of silent trees. Like them we grow-even deeper into evil, ever higher into peace; even wiser than recollection, and ever brighter with each cycle of moons and breaths and spirals.

Let us learn to write (to speak).


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