My Ability on Love

            There was something pulling me from my aunt’s house today. No, it was pushing me. It was smoking me out. This feeling of nausea, this broken desire to do absolutely nothing. I was so incredibly dissonant today, I got my book, grabbed the labtop, and I sparked the ignition of my broken car. That poor steed.

He took me from North Dakota to here, Oregon. He saw mountains and lakes, grasslands, meadows, desolate fields, sunsets, sunrises, even the Garden of a Thousand Buddhas, he and I shared the sight of. He bed me for the nights, kept me safe, kept me warm, and now he was pulling me from my den into the uncertain order of societal Monday afternoon.

Through the showering of falling leaves, as if they too were growing stagnant in their homes, I dragged my steed. He is so tired, and I’m sitting in the tire store with the mindset of a mother waiting on a sick child while he is on hydraulic pedestals getting examined and probed by aliens that call themselves man. It’s a good thing I brought my laptop to ease this pain.

He’s back! I rest in his shelter like he’s a tent and I am his homeless man.

I found this park today. Well, sorry, no it is called a Natural Area. I said, fuck yeah, and pulled over to the curb. Sorry buddy, you don’t belong off the roads. I walked and met people with curt nods and shallow h’lo’s. Then, the trail spilled into a parking lot. Goddamn it, I thought. Alas, I was saved by the game trail that led from the asphalt and carefully placed stone trail I was s’posed to keep my feet to.

This was my moment as an author. I crept with my head low and my steps whispering, pretending that they will hear me, they will find me, they will do bad things to me. Or the wolves are out, be quiet. I love pretence. You can feel the shivering in your spine when you do this. With no sight of road nor sound of car, you are really there! Who says that there aren’t wolves or dragons or monsters?

Or snakes!

Adventure was always imagined, never did I actually hear the howling of a wolf. But when I stepped over a log and saw the tent, I froze. I shook, yes. The wind was blowing and it felt alien to my face. I pulled my jacket closer to my self and I almost turned away. Most would have pivoted their heels and squished the yellow and brown leaves into the soft soil on their way out. I didn’t. I don’t know what I wanted, but I knew this is what I was s’posed to be here for.

“Is there anyone here?” I call, creeping toward the camp. My voice sounded harsh and I realized that I had become the wolves you kept quiet for.

No answer.

The tent flap was open and I saw feet cocooned in a blanket.

“H’lo?” I asked. The word wasn’t hollow this time.

The feet disappeared and became a face.

“What d’you want?” the beard asked fiercely.

I realized I didn’t know.

I told him my name and realized that is just what a cop would do before he said, “Get out, you can’t be here!” Or even worse: I sounded like I was pitying him! Oh, lord.

He relaxed, though. He smelled of cigarettes and damp clothing, but it wasn’t an unpleasant scent. I sat cross-legged outside the tent, aware of the scurrying-off of critters. With the look under the dirt and grime on his face, I realized that I sent off his friends.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, if I did. I just—What’s your name?”

God, my voice is too high pitched, I sound like the prissy white woman who is about to tell you off in a nice way!

“I don’t give my name out to people.”

“That’s fine. I was wondering, actually… What’s it like?”

I saw the muscles in his face relax. “Well,” he said in a mountain-man voice. “It’s not like anything, really. Just nothing. A whole lot of nothing.”

I’m not going to write what we talked about, because to be honest I don’t remember the words as they were laid down. And I would hate to remember them falsely by making them up in a dramatic rendition. So, instead, I’ll tell you how I felt about him. About meeting this remarkable individual.

Because I can remember in crystal clarity how something makes me feel.

I had no fear, whatsoever. I never did have fear. I could imagine this man laying there drunk on this Monday afternoon, perhaps even approaching me with a knife and telling me to give him all my clothes and money. The thing is, I would have done it. But not without a, “You know, sir, you can take my clothes, my cash, my life… but talk to me first. Let me know what you want the world to know. Give me advice you wish you would’ve followed. I will die with a smile in my heart if you could grant me this.”

The connection I had between this man was what I feel for a dog or a cat: unprecedented love. There was nothing in the way for me loving him. Not his faults, not his odor (though he had none), not his lack of property… nothing. I saw the love he had for animals, sharing his precious food with any and all, and how he treated the insects that moved in too close (he very carefully picked them up and moved them away). He was calm, peaceful, perhaps sad. I was moved by him. I love that man, though he probably thinks little to nothing of the boy who stumbled across him, with the nice backpack and the pack of cigarettes he gave. I didn’t want them, he could use a smoke much more than I could.

Contrastingly enough, when I found the paved pathway from here to there in perfect order as I left it, there was a little lady. She was looking into Johnson Creek with eyes of a child, eyes that we all have for nature, eyes of love. I connect so easily with love, so I said, “Such a beautiful day, eh?”

She murmured something, instantly losing the love in her eyes.

As she moved away from me, I sort of picked up my pace, smiling still from my encounter with the angel in the tent in the woods.

I said, “I just moved in from out of town, I’m new here.”

She picked up a brisk pace, moving away from such an uncomfortable situation.

“I just wanted to ask you,” I said, pretending not to get the hint. I guess I was sort offended with her and my courage was talking proud.

She obliged with reluctance. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to ask you what your favorite place in the city was.”

“You just moved here?” she asked. “Do you work?”

“I have a job with my Uncle down in Aurora,” I replied.

The relief in her eyes pissed me off.

“I thought you were homeless or something.”

Can you imagine! I had just shared such an unbarricaded conversation with the most remarkable man who just happened to be homeless and this lady, with her ear rings and her purple, spotless jacket, this lady with her raised chin and nose as if smelling the wrong end of a dollar bill, this lady had a fear for the homeless.

“I see,” I said as pleasant as possible. “Are they bad here?”

“They’re everywhere! You have to be careful.”

We went on talking, mainly for my curiosity into this fascinating contradiction. She told me how kids move here with no jobs lined up (oops!) and bum off their friends and family for living (haha!) and are what make this world cringe and deteriorate.

I think I proved her wrong (albeit having checked off each of her little opinion-boxes), for when I left to answer my phone call she asked my name and reached for my hand.


I made an impression with both sides of the spectrum today. That gives me hope on my ability in love.



We have walking around with us creatures that slither out of the shimmering twilight of our dreamlands. In the golden chills of a perfect harmony, a musical druid comes into our hearts and tickles our ribs with warm laughter.

But I digress. Words are meant to be harvested and prepared in a way that nourishes our hungry hearts, but recently I’ve been in the fields strangling them with iron teeth. The chemicals that I try to put into these words leak into my lucid days and poison my appetite.

Moments where a light opens inside me and my fingers twitch for the keyboard… these moments are slippery. Contemplation is my mistress and music is our bedroom. At the dusk of my sentence, if there is no crescendo in my heart nor applause in my mind, it gets burned by the sunset of my delete key. In the beginning there was a blinking line. Then, a voice opened the void and said, “let this blinking thing write!”

That is why I stopped my train wreck of thought above.

Characters dance between my ears from the familiar notes of a loving melody. The concordant dance between tires on asphalt and speakers on silence is my ballet. I am merely an astonished audience as full scenes are produced behind my eyes and between my ears. Lights reflecting from the black of the streets bow to the shivering ballads that tap on my ear drums.

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I want somebody.

I want somebody who understands me.

Somebody who looks at me, looks into my eyes, touches my hand because they want to feel closer.

I want somebody who has written in their journals of how much they want somebody like me.

Somebody who I can be intimate with: heart, body, soul…

Somebody to call into the room, all excited, when a particular ray of sunshine hits the blue glass of water so magically.

Somebody who doesn’t see me as a freak. Or as a nobody. Or worse: as a wise old soul.


I know that if I had this somebody (because I’ve this somebody in the past) that I’d want something else. Or to be alone.

I am cursed with want.

Even now, I want to not want.

I get this way every time my life’s dust settles. Because I can see the monopoly of it all. What it means to be human, what it takes to keep warm, how much energy I waste in securing my place in this world. I have to eat to stay alive, and I would need a place to live to stay warm. Well, I need to work to eat and have a place to stay warm. Then, I need to eat and stay warm to work to eat and have a place to stay warm. Furthermore, I need transportation to work to eat to have a place to stay warm, but I need to work to pay for the transportation that gets me to work to eat and have a place to stay warm.


I am so done with how they tell me to live, yet I see no alternative. I am so done with living in general, yet I see that death is just as lonely, just as barbaric, just as beguilingly hopeful as life is. Because death is life. There is no escape from this tenacious cycling of suffering. Buddha, I don’t know what you mean by Nirvana. I do not.

“Desire is the root of all suffering.”

Thanks. You just gave me the desire to stop desire in its tracks. I don’t get how your messages help me.

But, there is something. There is always the voice that pulls me through these hard times. It is feeble and lonely little Hope. He understands me, because Hope has both everybody and nobody. He speaks, but little give him attention nor the gratitude he deserves. The only difference between me and him is that I deserve nothing.


What is the process of creation? Does it bubble out of serious devotion? Hard work and strict routine? Specific skill sets? Frustration and tedium? Thin air?

It is the meditation of writing that I miss. This slump that holds the stories in my head behind bars will dam me up and I will surely spill over. Give me some inspiration to poke at the concrete barrier of writer’s block. Motivation is awarded, it seems, and I’ve been ignored.

Out of silence, noise shivers forth. From darkness, light rips through. On cold metal does heat dream of dancing. So from what do I emerge as a storyteller? My title as author requires an ego to hold on to. The vacancy of my self lets slip the juice of my stories. How can I be a god to these characters when I am not even an ‘I am’? That is, the fingers that tickle this keyboard are impulses, fueled by a mind lost in a dream. I cannot even find the way through my own story, let alone write one down.

Stories are mountains that I stare at, mesmerized by what life they may contain. It is the pricking of the pine when I attempt to hold it that sends me back home. The attempted wandering in the forestry of mine creative manifestations, that is writing, is so directionless that I worry it not being read.

God’s Song

These laments that I mispronounce with fluidity of tongue and pen are the spectrum of color playing tricks with the white light of the page. To me, these misspells are life: you either love what your doing or it becomes a prick under the finger. Sometimes, everything I do seems wrong. Things happen to me that I curse under foggy breath. These are just the days of shadow under the Sun, the sand left from the ebb of the tide. Negativity being wrong or bad is child’s play with words. Negativity is simply the other end. It is not something you should duck from or hide under the tabletop, where illusions are served, in reflex to. It is as natural as the rain.

Before the Sun comes out, you might want for it. Those nights of stagnate sleep make the grog of morning seem to shine in your headspace of anticipation. I eat breakfast while thinking of the day before me. I wonder what I’ll find, today, hidden under some stone unturned. I vow to be the one to find it. When I bend my back and stretch my legs to lift this unturned rock, I find underneath it a simple reminder.

            You are not what you are, but you are what you are not.

            When did poetry climb into the dampness where the insects hide? I swear to you that what you are searching for is already taped to the back of your head. You simply need others to tell you in words what you have had all along.

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