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.