Alone.

What could you possibly offer me that someone else hasn’t already. And aren’t you just another form of chaos.
Nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to relationships. I don’t have the fortitude to brave the new shores of men. I have chosen to seek love elsewhere; in solitude, in photographs, in unknown lands, in the green mountains of home, in the laughter of my friends. After all, didn’t Bukowski say it best,

“there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realize this
and most often when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than too late”

― Charles Bukowski

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w.o.r.k

Some days, all I want to do is make beautiful work. It’s an all encompassing feeling. Being overwhelmed, in the best of ways, by depths of inspiration. It feels like a well filled with gifts. And they surpass all else.
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“The world is quiet here.”
― Lemony Snicket

A midsummer nights dream.

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This saturday.

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Intention.

On the eve of my birth.

Video from Haleakalā <3
Haleakala at sunrise.

In the decade of my 20′s, I feel as though I was very unsure about who I was and what it was that I wanted. There was a lot of fumbling. A lot of mistakes made but also a lot learned. In my 30′s, however, I feel that I can safely say that I am comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and what I want. Last year and this year have been especially big growing years for me. Last year was tough and strange, but it’s made me who I am now. Stronger, empowered, more fearless than before. I am grateful for that.

In my 30′s, I want to go on more adventures, I want to feel things really deeply and experience every aspect of life. I’m open to challenges and getting off the beaten path, create important work. Anything that makes me feel more, experience more, learn more. I feel as though, your 30′s are when you are still young enough to do anything you want to do but old enough to feel secure in those decisions. Not that any age should serve as a barrier to life, but I think the 30′s are incredibly special.

This year is about having a deeper relationship with myself. To find where the good stuff resides.

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(The view from Haleakalā this morning, sunrise. Listening to the chant E ala ē and being overwhelmed in the best of ways)
E ala e
Ka la i kahikina
I ka moana
Ka moana hohonu
Pi’i ka lewa
Ka lewa nu’u
I kahikina
Aia ka la.
E ala e!

W

“I will teach my daughter not to wear her skin like a drunken apology. I will tell her ‘make a home out of your body, live in yourself, do not let people turn you into a regret, do not justify yourself. If you are a disaster it is not forever, if you are a disaster you are the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. Do not deconstruct from the inside out, you belong here, you belong here, not because you are lovely, but because you are more than that.”

— Azra T

R

“The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts.”

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Gospel.

This little river,
it’s all black and blue.
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First to explode.

The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts. It is important to pay attention to love’s high voltage signs. The mockingbird is really ashamed of its own feeble song lost beneath all those he has to imitate. It’s true, the Carolina Wren caught in the bedroom yesterday died because he stepped on a glue trap and tore his wings off. Maybe we have both fallen through the soul’s thin ice already. Even Ethiopia is splitting off from Africa to become its own continent. Last year it moved 10 feet. This will take a million years. There’s always this nostalgia for the days when Time was so unreal it touched us only like the pale shadow of a hawk. Parmenedes transported himself above the beaten path of the stars to find the real that was beyond time. The words you left are still smoldering like the cigarette left in my ashtray as if it were a dying star. The thin thread of its smoke is caught on the ceiling. When love is threatened, the heart crackles with anger like kindling. It’s lucky we are not like hippos who fling dung at each other with their ridiculously tiny tails. Okay, that’s more than ten things I know. Let’s try twenty five, no, let’s not push it, twenty. How many times have we hurt each other not knowing? Destiny wears her clothes inside out. Each desire is a memory of the future. The past is a fake cloud we’ve pasted to a paper sky. That is why our dreams are the most real thing we possess. My logic here is made of your smells, your thighs, your kiss, your words. I collect stars but have no place to put them. You take my breath away only to give back a purer one. The way you dance creates a new constellation. Off the Thai coast they have discovered a new undersea world with sharks that walk on their fins. In Indonesia, a kangaroo that lives in a tree. Why is the shadow I cast always yours? Okay, let’s say I list 33 things, a solid symbolic number. It’s good to have a plan so we don’t lose ourselves, but then who has taken the ladder out of the hole I’ve dug for myself? How can I revive the things I’ve killed inside you? The real is a sunset over a shanty by the river. The keys that lock the door also open it. When we shut out each other, nothing seems real except the empty caves of our hearts, yet how arrogant to think our problems finally matter when thousands of children are bayoneted in the Congo this year. How incredible to think of those soldiers never having loved. Nothing ever ends. Will this? Byron never knew where his epic, Don Juan, would end and died in the middle of it. The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to go through all that dying again. You just toast it. See, the real is what the imagination decants. You can be anywhere with the turn of a few words. Some say the feeling of out-of-the-body travel is due to certain short circuits in parts of the brain. That doesn’t matter because I’m still drifting towards you. Inside you are cumulous clouds I could float on all night. The difference is always between what we say we love and what we love. Tonight, for instance, I could drink from the bowl of your belly. It doesn’t matter if our feelings shift like sands beneath the river, there’s still the river. Maybe the real is the way your palms fit against my face, or the way you hold my life inside you until it is nothing at all, the way this plant droops, this flower called Heart’s Bursting Flower, with its beads of red hanging from their delicate threads any breeze might break, any word might shatter, any hurt might crush.
— Richard Jackson

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