free writes

#706

Why else would we emit light?

Why else would we fall from the heavens?

Throughout the lives of humans we have practiced the art of grabbing attention.

We bend over backwards to get you to look up.

And believe me its hard enough as it is with the moon for competition.

She’s so large and flashy.

That’s why we starts help each other.

You would never notice one of use suspended above you.

But with all of use combined theirs no way you can ignore us.

#678

She ran after him.

Actually, she followed him.

She was blinded by his all around togetherness.

She followed him all the way from Billings, Montana to Provo, Utah.

She felt completely naked.

Stripped of everything that felt right.

But she had him, her nativity figurines, and Tropicana orange juice.

All of which were comforts.

All of which made her feel normal.

#670

The universe tastes like silver, tiny flecks of silver.

I first tasted the universe last night when my brother and I drove out to the forest.

We brought a thick woolen blanket and we laid out under the sky.

It tasted like the world right before it rains.

All silent and still, but the kind of silence that comes before something big.

The universe tastes like something sacred.

I can put labels on it, can reference it to something earthly, but its never quite right.

The universe tastes like something that I’ve never tried and at the same time like everything I’ve ever tried.

Water - Earth - Wind

Sacramento

Watering hole for the masses.

Mecca for those dirty, deprived, and dying of thirst.

Headwaters.

Where the river's endless belly sprouts.

I cup my hands and worship you.

Supple yet sharp,

chill biting at my esophagus.

Here I met a gypsy couple.

Disciples of the road,

preachers of simplicity.

Their soles were caked with clay,

red as the saturated sunset I saw the night before.

But once they dipped their callused feet into the water,

the scarlet sediment was washed away.

They were made clean.

I followed their example,

and hands first lowered myself into the pool of circulating water.

That day I rid myself of a violent weekend at my Grandmothers,

a test I cheated on in fifth grade,

and a cat that my brother and I killed the summer before he joined the Marines.

Raw and vulnerable I look at the gypsies and know, as they know

that the only rebirth worth anything,

is one that takes place at the mouth of a great river,

where the water is still in its infancy and cold as stone. 

Topsoil

Gritty, damp, sweet.

Protecting every plants vascular system,

keeping the woods insulated and nourished.

As if the entire growth is deep in REM,

there's no waking the dead.

I tread through the sleeping saplings,

deaf even to my footsteps.

There I collected a handful of earth,

the color of my father's eyes.

I scooped it up from the forest floor,

it was full of twigs and small leaves.

Nothing like the processed bags of soil my Mother purchases at Home Depot.

Perfect in it's non-conformity.

I traveled with it safely wedged in the crease of my palm

and planted it under my bedroom window.

Like a dream catcher fertile sediment captured all sound,

all vibrations.

Cloaking me in that same silence that lulled all the redwoods to sleep. 

Arch

Leggo castle made real,

shaped of sand and stone.

It melts into the sky,

the only divider being that ledge and endless fall.

The wind speaks freely above the arch,

it does not cower here in the wild.

Instead it takes the place of my hair,

pushing it backwards, caressing my face.

I'm walking with the birds up here.

Hovering above my shoulder they wait,

for a recycled gust of air, a bread crumb.

They show me their customs, the art of flight

and in return I leave half a sandwich and a strand of hair.

I was always taught to leave behind an offering.

Beneath the dome the air is motionless.

It doesn't dance around me,

but instead rests above the ground.

There are no windsurfers down here.

Desperate to return to the world of fluttering feathers and foliage,

I drag my body up the rock formation,

back to the restless air above. 

Elegy 2.0

I found you on a cold California beach.

Just past Santa Cruz,

still a ways away from Half Moon Bay.

You were hibernating a foot under the wet sand.

I felt like an archeologist,

excavating an Egyptian tomb

and at the same time a thief,

stealing sacred artifacts.

But I had to have you.

My fingers traced every inch of you.

Like brail, your many marks told me your story.

I would have continued admiring your beauty,

but upon hearing my mother’s shrill call

I pocketed you and ran back down the beach to the mini van.

On the way home I gripped you tightly in my left hand,

egg salad sandwich in my right.

convinced that if I let you out of my sight for one second,

you would quickly change your fundamental state

evaporating out of my reach.

But eventually I dozed off,

feet dangling from the car seat,

cloaked in the hazy comforting feeling of childhood.

I don’t remember ever letting you go

but when I awoke my hand was empty

and you existed only in my memor

Ode to the Hunt

Father harvested you from the mountains,

from your sacred alpine temple.

He brought you to our kitchen table

Your neck broken,

your eyes empty.

You were a sack of blood and flesh

but you were also our family’s golden trophy.

Father took me around back to the shed,

strung you up from an old oak branch,

and handed me his butcher knife.

It felt foreign in my small chubby hands,

a foreignness I would experience again only on my wedding night.

Father guided my blade

into your perfect chestnut throat.

It was beautiful,

that rush of wine.

Deeper in color than anything God ever created

and thicker than any syrup that had ever touched my lips.

It fell and pooled around my feet

staining my white shoes.

We hung your head above the fireplace

and that night we accepted you into our bodies.

Mother made stew and steamed beets

but to all of us it was the most delicious feast we had ever tasted.

All night long I could feel you inside me

and when I closed my eyes later I found myself aboard your back,

my fingers entwined in your golden fur,

riding beneath the swelling moon.

Writing In Public Places

I loved how intimate this chapter was. I felt like she was talking directly to me and telling me secrets about here private live of journal writing (or how it's really not private at all). Bonnie was the first writer so far in this book that talked about the issue of the disappearing act of writing on real paper. The way she talked about the pros of real hand on pen contact and the issues revolving around a generation relying only on typing actually made me want to throw out my computer and pick up a pen and paper. Most of all though, I liked how she described all the places she has written in and how you don't always need a quiet place and a comfy chair to produce good writing. It seemed like she was writing about a lover or a best friend, someone she cares for and will do anything to be with. I really loved the passion I felt in her prose.

A sea of blue ink

This piece seriously made me want to start keeping a journal both to have an archive of details I will forget but also for the same reason Kathryn Wilkens does, for personal growth. I agree that sometimes when all of my ideas and emotions are bouncing around and contained in my head that I can't really work through them. Sure talking to people helps bring these things out but I think that having a personal way to cleanse your mind is important as well. I think that both of the writers we have heard from have used these personal essays as a way to promote/boast about their work a bit, which sort of annoys me. But I think Kathryn makes a good point and illustrates her relationships with her notebooks in a beautiful and intimate way that is very accesible for everyone. I myself can say that after reading this I am going to go out and get a journal to start writing in.

My house

Hum Hum Hum. Hum Hum Hum. She sings to me. It’s a slow rocking melody that lulls me into a sun-saturated sleep. We’re sitting out on the deck looking at our house, our small beautiful house. I love how the red brick looks at this time of day, all on fire and burning. Burning but never becoming the remnants of a fire. Hum Hum Hum. I’ve always loved our house. Loved the way that inside its protective outer layer it is cool and safe. I love our room too. Others say its cramped, tiny, not enough, but I love the intimacy. I like coming home in the late afternoon to find her cooking some new recipe she just heard about. Grating turmeric and ginger into a pan while infusing cucumber into cold delicious yogurt. Hum Hum Hum. I love that we eat on cushions outside, listening to all things with wings and talking about the colors of the bleeding sky. But I love our house at night the most. When the white lights come out and float above us, just far enough out of our reach. When I look at them they seem so knowledgeable and full. Hum Hum Hum. She and I, we lay out on blankets and scarves in the warm night air and talk about everything, things that matter, and things that don’t matter at all. I love our house.