'true solace is finding none'

'which is to say, it is everywhere'

before i left on 5/12, i found a tiny baby bird fallen from a great height, from a nest stuffed into the uppers of the sky-blue-rusting industrial warehouse standing at the end of my block for as long as i can remember. i peeled the baby bird from its rupture, plummeted unforgivingly to the metal beneath. cried as i realized where i was taking it {i always ask them where they want to be buried and try to follow the best i can}; the park across the street from my house, closed for nearly a year and a half— underneath the silver linden. the memory of my grandfather tree; the Safest place this baby bird could go. i thought of my daughter fleur in the otherworld who will be 21 years old this june; i thought specifically of the dreams that have to die so we can continue to live.

i am john of the dream again; the pedlar of swaffham; santiago in the alchemist. i am Again the thing i never want to be True, but Is— that the treasure is where you embarked from, and there was Entirely no way to know it, to integrate it— without the leaving. without the Trying. without the Dream.

*

i don’t have much to say at this point— it’s all too fresh.

but i want to record This moment. i want to look back on it three months from now when i am god-willing turning 39. i want to look at it at the end of this year, six months from now.

i want to reflect on the messaging from my inner child i needed to Hear. i want to remember the Opportunity of this Pivot-Pointing to change my life. the security and the safety and the resourcing she needs that i’ve been twisting away from. that i smash against and am afraid of, afraid of being too Unwell for, Incapable of, ever again.

*

i want to record this feeling of actual Relief in returning Home. to my childhood home, my hometown neighborhood, i have written so much about and wrestled so much against. hugging my mother. the feelings of Wanting to just Be Home, as/when i was Out There. // how usually there are tremulous feelings of what is Lost in the returning; my resistance to the adventure being Over; what is Taken from me in returning; the entrapment or dissatisfaction i feel Here; what i can ‘only have’ Out There, varying in dismantlement or intensity.

*

something Else is being asked of me, now—

travelled into my consciousness at times unwillingly through the land, through ex-boyfriends, through friends; through this experience, this singular directive, of ‘go see your friends.’ through canaan and hudson and pittsfield and staten island. through needing to Call It and come back home in a Winding-ness of fashion. through my fear and Breaking. my not being able to get on the train. my needing to go to the hag’s hut instead. my reality defended And collapsing. my blood and bug bites and dirty feet and being Held through the night, my sharing beds, my Crying. my memories, Flickering /// my making food together and working on your show and going to bed with our stuffies. seeing your mom in the nursing home, her thanking me for being there, our laughter and her tears. making eye contact with the people in the hallway, looking into their open-doored rooms. Not Knowing if i could Be There. // my seeding the garden bed you designated for me as you seeded yours, seeds in our mouths and into the earth. // my holding your brother’s hand as we watch your son in karate class. sitting at the kitchen island listening as your mother talks about you, and cries. wishing for a moment she could hear your voice again, hold you. remembering you clear-eyed, and laughing. knowing my mother has said similar things about me; i’m still here and you’re Not. // sunflowers appearing all over now that i’m back in astoria. three candles burning and the photo of my little girl. // talking to my mother and sister, squirreled in the bathroom of the old victorian. airing out my semi-soaked things on your stoop. engraved keyholes and doorknobs, pocket doors. sweeping. making your bed. washing our dishes. buying us toilet paper. remembering, i do know how to do things. // the back cover of my original women who run with the wolves ripping in half in my waterlogged tent. the Wilderness Dream, dying. so much Bewilderment, so much Regret. your dog and i in the thunderstorm, tent dragged under tarp and rain pooling. electricity in your body, overwhelmed and Exquisite. my fingers to the bear’s claw-marks on the tree, tearing up, after we first arrived. woman who became a bear. the voices of the wells. the king and queen must wed the land. crying on the ground where you buried your first dog; last time i was Here he was Alive; you cry, Too; give me his collar to clutch like the belt in gawain and the green knight. you sing to me when my inner child is so fucking Afraid; your fingers on guitar-strings, your Voice opened up, kisses on cheeks. joseph campbell and jim henson. more Dreams. mold, dirt. requiem for the silkie, ash and thanks and blood spilled, axe and tree stump; toads and salamanders; my heart cracked open into Everything— how much we don’t Understand, how much we have Lost. Reverence. life, death, sex, feeding and being fed. songs and songs and songs from the forest, in layers effortlessly. Alive. the woodpecker’s mask-face, bright Red in the underbrush, i held-in-hand as i stood in the streams. water witch, water wand, Her Body. Her Power. // So Many Things I Didn’t Ask For; So Many Things I Needed. // us in traffic in the car finally towards the city, questions about our past and future, what are we even doing; i can’t resist you. // the ‘best mom ever’ balloon caught in the powerlines, i took photos, i smiled. // he spoke to her about the world she left behind. the madness of mis. Gradual. Return. /////

i ask myself awful~awe-full questions about petulance, selfishness, self-referentiality, lack of commitment, debilitation. my extreme proclivity for yielding-ness is reflected to me lovingly~Firmly by people i trust And people who have hurt me; i tell him on the phone this is my era of eating my words; she tells me to be gentle, she tells me to remember the spiral going back Around but Deeper; i must See my panicked phone calls, my surrender, my No’s, my following my feelings and terrors— Unbounded so so Unbounded, my utter primordial; must See my stories that hold together my blame, my poverty, my asceticism, my balking-ness about keeping my word.

what if she doesn’t need me to be an explorer now? what if “we look for things and we find something else” again, and Again? what if she wants Structure and Stability and to walk around the neighborhood looking at the roses? to Be Here and Not Fight, just Not Fucking Fight?

in a way i didn’t expect, i will pray into, i will Begin Something,

New.

/////

thank you for reading.