| Sunday, August 22, 2010: Number of times I’ve woken up after oversleeping and sprung out of bed like a ninja: 959 Number of broken bones: 3 Number of scars, physical: 4; emotional: 947 Number of funerals attended: 7 Number of friends, Facebook: 744, real: 9 Number of cavities filled: 0 Percentage of people I can stand in the world: 3.5 Number of times I’ve laughed so hard my sides would bruise: 2,972 Number of times I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out: 320 Number of things I regret: 11 Number of things I know: 918,394 Monday, August 23, 2010: Number of times I’ve woken up after oversleeping and sprung out of bed like a ninja: 960 Number of broken bones: 3 Number of scars, physical: 4; emotional: 1,293 Number of funerals attended: 7 Number of friends, Facebook: 800, real: 7 Number of cavities filled: 0 Percentage of people I can stand in the world: 3.4 Number of times I’ve laughed so hard my sides would bruise: 2,973 Number of times I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out: 321 Number of things I regret: 13 Number of things I know: 918,390 |
| If the water, everywhere, and if she is. If ghosts, like water, like if all rivers and oceans and rains are one ghost, surrounding and throughout. If she is, like if the lakes and bays of Seattle define Seattle, if the ices Of Mars and Massachusetts, hidden in their deep stones, define Mars and Massachusetts; if she is. A thirst unmet, alkaline or saline, the water not touching that thirst, if my thirst wants something else entirely. If she is. Water, if it is in and is blood. If invisible until exhale. If science lies and water doesn’t reflect sky but sky this water. If she is the sound, if it isn’t essential until its lack. If she is the sound of. Waves. If in the body, the dew in morning, and the moon. If she is the sound of the water. If rising, if breaking, if throughout. Everyone of us is made of water, and flesh. We are all born of woman. In a way, we are all one flesh. The older I get, the more I begin to understand the meaning behind the Golden Rule, the laws of Karma, the teachings of sages and prophets, the scripture that what is done to the least is done to all. | ||
| The song was moist, filing away, drifting while we drifted, something in blackface, Al Jolson of birdland, not quite right, prophesizing until hoarse who knows what. The locals say he draws poison from you, angatkuk, shaman, though they don’t believe it. Then the incongruous smell of chrysanthemum crossed us up and we remembered the service-station with someone in handcuffs. Probably a mistake, said the attendant, though they do get violent. The prisoner yawned. Our map lumbered from point to point as if trying to remember something itself, anything. We tossed it and got out. On the long walk back the tundra looked cozier by moonlight, everywhere the same, white as bleached whalebone. But things had not been right all day. In the damp heat everything was wobbly, even the bride at the old mission who seemed to grow clouds like companions, drawing them after. I glimpsed a ring of seal-fur flash on her wrist. Mm-hmm, unh-hunh they went. The honeymoon was spent beyond the rigs. It was enough for them it didn’t rain or snow though the driftwood fire they made beside the boats was all smoke. The sea sounded obscure as if it had no shape and was empty. We tried to capture it on Canon 501 and sent it south, but even that seemed staged. |
