いけぶくろ (Ikebukuro) is a pond in a bag?

The moon was honey colored over the buildings of 東京 [Tokyo] tonight. As it rose, the honey dripped in between buildings and flowed down streets. It made some inhabitants happy; made others sick. For myself, it was sticky sweet all over me. But with no lips to lick it off, I only spread my arms to get  covered in confused bees. Humming their tired wings toward the wintry cold sea.

A wind blows that is neither bracing nor warm. I tie ear flaps together to get them from snapping against my neck, cheek, eyelids and lashes. So I can see the way into another wandering night.

But the moon last night, bright white and full, was a perfect guide. And tonight, it came again to hold my hand when I blew out the candle of my phone. Though that burning little box has saved my neck more than once. I can’t complain — but it was nice to be guided like a moth again.

I did not wander but came straight home, bag full of vegetables and noodles I’ve been needing for what feels like 6 days (has only been 2) to buy. 610円 buys me plenty of food to feed myself with. I am pleased to have smaller things. I always needed less, anyway. The carrots and peppers are just two more tangible reminders that the size of this city, this world feels made for me.

As I pick my route back alone from the station, time both slows down and speeds up around me. The blood of 西東京 flows, gathers, ebbs, and moves around me. But the steady pace of the moon’s rise and fall; the earth turning toward or away from the sun — these are guides I know how, at this latitude, to follow. It is dark by the time I find my door. The days were in golden light by the time I left the 学院 [school] with a crowd of others I wasn’t sure I could communicate with.


I learn slow and careful, reading lines at home that I missed at school. I sit in my chair and count…


1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.

And so on.

くろしいです。This is difficult.

No, but: I am being strangled to death by numbers.
(Note: This is not grammatical, but a mistake I made in class.)

I spend the night half-studying, half with new faces and possible friends. The barrier is strong between us, but will it break? It can — but the question is, when? Or if.

I prepare for sleep with numbers and 円 (yen) ratting around in my head. Loose change for my dream-state to arrange. And tomorrow, I continue wandering, getting lost, and finding a grounding in things I have before touched. A spark of fire building…but to light what?

わかれません。(I don’t understand)

In the goldening of tomorrow’s trees, I will hopefully have sealed my name. If all goes as planned, which is rarely does. But then, when I turn about, I find myself in temples and shrines I did not expect with faces who find my ignorance something to be forgiven, not detested.I am eager to apologize and bow.

I know. This is not my home.

Though, I must echo so many others and admit: I wish it could be. But that is a dream to big to process in one night’s sleep. A dream to big, even for me. Instead, I set it on a ledge before wind tunnels and storm towers, and I do not look back. For what the spirits do with wishes and dreams is their own business. Mine is of the physical, temporal realm, and a conduit somewhere between it. A filament, if you will.A bulb glowing from the inside out.

I wonder who, if anyone, can feel the warmth or see the light from it.

And if: はい (yes) — then what am I lighting?

More discovery another day.
For now: おやすみなさい。(Oyasumi’nasai; goodnight.)

England, England

I am made up of pieces of everything I’ve collided with over the years. Sentences phrased in ways I’d never have said, images in colors I’d never have dreamed. Words arranged on a stack of pages I sometimes shuffle and rearrange.

What rested, seemingly stuck to the top has drifted below. Names and faces and lusts for things I kept telling myself I don’t need. But did need because the lights of those fires taught me things. But in the shuffle, the exact images always get lost.

This day’s reorganization brings to the surface a line from a book: “You do it by doing it.”

And so, I get up and I do it.
Visa paperwork. New plane tickets. Emails and phone calls to confirm information. And an alarm in a base that doesn’t exist. Two lovers who don’t love, pressed together out of fright, worry, the pressing of the night.

Tomorrow, I will likely shuffle again. And see what scraps float up and what sinks down.
Life is a never-ending shift and I love being tossed in its current. Even in the eventually I get banged up on some sharp rocks and coral. The cuts and scrapes, bruises and scars are what have always made me. I hope to gather many more.

While I do, I float in rivers and bathe in fires and swim with honus, striving just to love what life I touch. I trust canto-yokai in all their forms to protect me. And when I die, to lift my spirit back into to the current of cosmic wind.


Oceanside, and this language and these ceremonies are not mine. But I dwelled in them at the grace of others. I am full of gratitude.

Food was good and my belly was full and I was ready.

We talked story. We listened. We sat in a circle among cracked seashells and pebbly rainbow colored sand. We watched and moon set and voices rose in mysterious chants. Then, we joined hearts and took off.

I met with a gathering of sea spirits tonight. I backed away, thinking only — Oh no, I don’t know these ghosts. But one called to me and said to put my hand out anyway. I could not see what gift I’d received because I wasn’t supposed to yet.

Open palmed, trusting my gift was safe, I washed and beat through a white glowing light that heated a circle of us. Healing, touching, cleansing the land. My heart and chest opened, afraid to disappear, but accepting the risk and letting go.

When I opened my hand, in it laid a lock of hair. And I thought, “Who’s is this? What color? Is it black? White? Blonde?”

Truth like a white razor though my gut told me it was my own. And I knew, that sea spirit I thought I did not know had been there all along. My protector on the balcony back in Belingham. My friend among strangers here in a new land. My guide as I go, through the light, to a new land.

Friends on these shores will drum in the sun and I will be caught up in the air.

Our guide asked, “How old are you?” And later, at the end, said to me, “You have an interesting journey.”

I am accepting of all these things. Of aloha, mahalo, and ha’a. I am humbled and energized and full of a fire; this world as nothing but a star somewhere in the vastness of the universe. I burn orange and warm to white hot. I am a part of what will burn away all of the trash.

I have faith because it was returned. Proof in strands of the past that I was never alone.

Mahalo friend.
Arigato kimigo.

I will do my best to help recreate the ceremonies of the past that humanity has lost. Rebuild what our destruction has wrought. Heal what I can. Stand in the light and share it’s glow.

I will evolve. I will not forget.

No Dice

Pieces of the past drift across the moment, leafs caught in a blustery autumn wind. I watch them crackle across my view, and I am transported in a way I’m not particularly pleased about to another time.

In the phase-shift, I feel again feelings I’ve tried to shed. Shame and self-hate. Zero confidence in my ability to be anything.

I click closed the file. I am happy to have thrown away or burned my copies of those photos. My snapshots of the past inside of me are enough. I don’t want to waste any more time sifting through old me’s and old you’s.

I’ve had enough of that drug. I need to let it be and circumnavigate.
Onward to another life.

Believe whatever makes you feel better.

Legs skinny as spring twists. Toes blue-white curled around a hard, unforgiving ledge. Clipped wings, bones of shoulder blades jutting back under tight, goose-pimpled skin. Chest stretches upward, pulled by the gravity of expectation and inevitable disappointment.

The ocean waves lap far below, taunting. Spray sprinkles shattered rainbow shards through the air. The wind as it twists around jagged rocks and through snakelike holes cries in a thousand immaterial voices, “Fly.”

So you try.

And it’s a long way down, but the time it takes is a breath and a blink before the feeling of freedom is torn away by the lash and crack of the ocean in your face.

Down through a tumble in darkness confused you fall, roll over, and cannot find up. Alone in murky dark, you reach for purchase and find only your own hair and limbs to tangle about in.

You wish a spear of light from the surface would stab through the deep and grab you. Catch you, flailing fish without gills. Drag you back to air.

You are waiting, but this one gasping breath with only last so long.

The dark is closing in.

The end is coming.

And bubbles made of screams will only pop into nothing.

The universe wanted you to succeed? Were you sure you read that right?

Perhaps the universe is indifferent and we are but vibrations with painfully self-aware egos that ache to be more than we know we can be.

Or, maybe you are not drowning but swimming and the surface is but arm’s length away and you have a pretty long reach. And kick upward is all you’ve got to do. Hold your screams in to fight gravity and break through.

Why? Because the universe wants you to.

Passion of a Muse Confused

A stone has been dropped from space and fell in the center of the ocean. Ripples like echoes sound continual drumming fingers and lapping lips against my little craft. I turn my bow outward, Northeastward, and float. I do not catch wind for want of a taut sail. Is it not raised, you asked?

No. Not even rigged. Tucked safely under my arm.

The current of the ripples alone guide me from here. I will drift until I see sharks and dolphins fighting, fins flashing against moonlit water. Until I see honus tuck flippers and drift past my wandering hull. Until I see violence worth fleeing or fighting in. For the moment of adrenaline, I’m still waiting. Out on the bow now, not down in the keep. Watching wary eyes on the water for shadows, ghosts, 妖怪. When the ripples widen over the length of a body, I will know my time has come.

In my stay from the wind, I watched a carpenter bee die. It laid in the wash of the sea. Aboard a narrow craft of a feather it clung and I, the hand of fate, took it to safety of sandy dunes. There it kicked and braced, tucked wing and antenna against a black arched back, sleek and shimmering against the setting sun’s metallic light.

Some stranger called, “What are you watching?”

And I thought “death and inevitability”. But, I called nothing back. The wind stirred and I rose, turned, and continued my journey. In another few moments, I guessed, the bee’s system stopped. I watched until there was nothing to see. Nothing left to experience for me. But death still gripped the bee cold through its useless fruitless struggle.

And I thought — I am nothing but a dying bee. A boat, listing. I exist only as a thread drifting through long contemplative days of painted skies, gathering driftwood and scattered sea life husks of death and discarded feathers like organic trash. In those slow meandering journeys bounded on all sides by salt spray and decaying beaches, I am coming slowly back into my smile and my skin. Only, I don’t know what that means.

Will I shake earth and break mountain with these images being sunk like pylons into me? Will I break barriers, break rules, shatter glass castles with the echo of my words? Will I be a trim-tab on this massive vessel cutting swathes in the sea? Can I prevent our collective crash and burn? Will I be a voice harkening angelic, demonic, prophetic calls into the blackness as we fall captive to our deaths? Can I change the course of anything?

Does any single person ever? Or have our histories and mythologies lied whispers of gods to us? Is every heart, burning or not, only ever a small fish in the big sea? Nothing but the shell of a dying carpenter bee?

What difference does the answer make but to our egotistical desire to be loved, worshipped, held high?

No matter.
Admission is the first step in the matter.

And fuck it. I don’t want to dust the ground forever. I was born with vestige wings and I fucking want to fly. I’ll find my ledge and jump. “Catch me if I don’t catch air,” I’ll say, but there will be no-one there.

Either I will fall or fly. Hit ground or touch cloud.

So it goes.

gods (deny)

It just occurred to me that I’m wasting my time being obsessed with you. Glad I got the hint. I should be able to disentangle myself now.

Lust for you is like a virus and it was devouring me, but my fever broke and I’m getting over it.

And from now on, I’ll fight with teeth bared and claws razor sharp so you won’t even feel the pain as you bleed to death at my feet. I’ll spread my wings and soar on the wind to the echoing decay of your screams. And only the sky will bound me in, and only because I want it to.

But one day, I won’t need these wings and I’ll break gravity.
And I won’t need the air and I’ll break orbit.

It’s only a fucking matter of time.