Some kind of revolution

Some kind of revolution

Ciclakumei, La Resistance, Protectorate, Bright Light. A collaboration, amalgamation, conflagration of all of these perhaps.

The new stories of all the canto mushi-shi are brimming through my head. Here is what it looks like to be lit by them.

Do you see them swimming in the air?
Can you hear them?
Do you feel them?

They touch your skin and are warm. Sometimes, rarely, often – they burn.
Have you noticed?

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Happy something today.

Some holiday passed yesterday without our notice. A chill in the air, bread from Flagstaff grapes in the oven, and a casserole dish for the next three or five days. Depending on how fast it goes. How fast does it go?

I can’t tell. It’s November something. I think the winter is actually approaching. But, the sun is still in the sky warming my side from above as I sit half in shade, half out. Like a true winter creature – trying to find the bits of life still left.

Metal wings fly every day now, and this morning I hit this wall. Excuses and bellyaching made for a miserable morning. Have I stopped listening, Carbon? Have I forgotten you so quickly, like the dead?

Day of the dead is long, long ago past but maybe I need another reminder.
Come up from the grave and smack me in the face. I will listen if you wail loud enough.

No, no but that is just fireworks in the distance because today was some kind of celebration. A jubilee, but not of any sort to be set free of anything you might have accidentally accrued in the last seven years. A fat feast for the rich and the well-to-do, and another loaf of guilt and misunderstanding for me and you.

The day before all of this, we two swung from vines in a massive pecan tree that we meant to break. Mid air and the snap occurred, leaving us bent back and crashing to the ground. I nearly hit my head, you nearly smashed into the crowbar. We took a ladder and balanced it against the trunk, sworn to get those poisoned strands down. Sworn to break our heads. It was shaky, that high up, just hanging from these crackling vines, one leg up over that trunk and the rest of me sprawled, terrified and wasted, just waiting to fall.

Some of those vines are black inside, like ash crawled up their spines and burned them out. I wonder how that felt? Oh but the vines are long dead and we’re just pulling their legs from our tree. I think I own something here. Perhaps, it owns me.

At any rate, I’m working my way out on this limb that I won’t be able to hold on to. I think if I had a saw, maybe I could catch that fallen branch. Y’know, the one that keeps getting in our way when we walk from this way to that? When we walk down that broken stone path?

Are we going anywhere but round and round?

These two wheels I found in the basement of a bike place have fit me well. The bruises happen over the bones, where they’re supposed to. And under the shoulder blades is this stiffness I’d long forgot. Both calves seize up before I get up the stairs to go to bed. Pirate and Kadense are up there waiting. They’ve been sleeping on the couch all week. In dim lighting like candles from this tiny lamp.

We like a lot of tiny things.
I think we can blame some bright fires for that.

Though how bright they are is yet to be discovered.

First Port is coming. We are days away. And then, the winter will strike at us again. And we’ll see how well the garlic grows up from the morning frost.

So far, so good.

So far.

Under fog and stars

Going stir-crazy in that little house made of bricks and the modern West.

Little? No hardly. It is expansive, full of the historical thread of a civilization we no longer want anything to do with. Built on greed, lust, power, and death.

All around, I hear the silence of it. The stillness of a death cuddled up inside of what was once alive, of what outside of it is still life. The hum of our modern convenience fills my ears, on and on. And only when it goes out do they burn. Burn from the hush of nothing around. The empty hollowness of a cold and shallow loneliness.

If I step outside, I’ll be out in the cold.
If I step outside, I’ll be out in the open.
If I step outside, I might find some life around.

A deer here and there hooves across the grass in shadows, unseen, unknown. I can hear a sleeping jay stirring to warn me. Something is coming.

My stupid Western heart beats so fast I can hardly stop the shaking. Shivering. Chattering. A dog fenced in the distance bays, bays, bays non-stop. I wonder what it’s calling out?
Death. A trap. The end.

Fog rolls in and starts to cover the milky way I can see over my head when I look up past all these darkened trees. A snake could be in the grass, stirring, ready to strike as I walk by. One of those coyotes in the distant woods might come, smell me, find me. A scrabbling just off my left elbow could be anything. A threat, blind and strike-less.

Nothing comes. Only my bated breath, my visible breath, my shallow breath. I stand there, hands in pockets, cold, freezing. I’m not ready for this weather, this moment, this revelation.

When I see you inside that big, empty house with all the warmth of that oil heater – burning, burning, burning death away – I see it so clearly. You, fenced in, sitting alone in a little warm cage. You sit there in that artificial, cut off silence and read some book about something interesting. You move some dishes around. You are getting up and down. But, out here, I can’t hear a thing.

I can see the whole of it and you, in that little box, see nothing.

Little? Hardly.

The emptiness of this trap we’ve made, generations and generations of us all cobbled together into one massive failure is huge. The weight of it is a lead block on our hearts. The shadow of it massive, impending, damning.

Can you breathe under its veil?
I can’t.

Tonight, we might pitch our tent and sleep in what this Western way tells me is my “yard”. I think the deer and the jays and cardinals own more than I do. The assembly beetles belong wherever they choose to gather. The grass is from the Earth. I’m uncertain if I am or not.

I feel like I want to be.

I think the potato bug on our window sill must have been like me at some point. Knowing what and where and who it was. Four legs just trying, struggling, barely getting on.

It’s dead now.

You and I might make it through this winter, though.
If we can just get back outside where there’s life.
That life holds all the hope there is.

Do you see it?

In the shift

There is a sleeping blue jay in our freezer today. A true blue. The ones with little raven beaks and shook foil wings. The treads of blue and white and black rippling down their backs make me think of dream catchers, of dreams caught by those wings, of nights long and warm and soothing against the winter.

That old jay would be cold right now, were it not asleep.
It won’t wake. Someone else made sure. I only took advantage.
Like a true blue.

The rest of the sky is warm and dark at night now. The milky way jumps out from the velvet black I only remember as one word in my head: flagstaff. It means less about Arizona and the mountains, more about this misty, sprinkled white I see in the distance now when I go outside.

The city and suburban districts of my soul don’t lend themselves to this kind of light.
Something inside of me still has to blink against the glare, the blast, the bright. The fake days I spend my life walking through and dreaming cold, uncaught dreams in. The bright white days, florescent and blinding.

Everything out here falls into a funny place. Like a candle holder that fell from a funny shelf on the wall in the other room while Kadense in another world wrote these words:

Weak rays of purple light
sifted through the heavy air
refract from edges of red-silver in your hair

The other songs are all for Pirate, these days. Pirate is all for Kadense, and this is all for a story you haven’t read yet. Scattered, scattering, tumbling to the ground like so much broken glass and milky ways dripping from the overhead sky. A velvet curtain of the unknown, drifting – no folding, collapsing, crumpling up into the stars.

I can tell you all the things we’ve been doing. Saving, seeking, learning, waiting. I could spell it out in simple letters that make complex words as you combine them. I could paint a picture with some coffee stains and blackberries from the northwest in our cupboard here. But who, exactly, might be listening?

A journal of the day-to-day is too difficult to keep. When the lines in my mind are filling, filling, filling. There is so little space for the mundane, the typical, the unremarkable. Fires at dusk and making bread from old grapes and moving through land in darkness I can always see by – these are becoming slowly, slowly, gradually unremarkable. Soon, I’ll stop thinking to report on any of this.

A book a day is a pace I should have been on. I tried, for a while, to make it a handwritten letter. I picked up handwriting over printing again because of a picture frame in a cooperative market in Sacramento, center of California – so someone told me. It was a fine place to pick up anything. Handwriting – the least expected.

I only print when Kadense and I write lyrics together.
We do that, from time to time.
But, I’m still going to ruin their lives.

Hand-of-god, someone called that. Maybe it is dictatorial. Instructional. Manipulative.
As an author, I feel compelled to become more of these – less of me.
Is that a positive move?
Do you like to read books?

Twenty miles out, there are few little sounds. Bigger ones are strange, grab you, pull you to the door or the window. Little ones scurry away without a backward glance. A mouse, a mole, a snake, a squirrel. You’ll never know. Perhaps, it was a bird.

Perhaps, it was our little true blue waking, waking, catching dreams.
Soon, my jay.

In one week, we’ll see.