Tin roof hail


Patti smith and a bath that leaves me dry in the knuckles but warm in the bones

Donkey Gospel in the hail

Pit pat on the tin roof

I always wanted a tin roof

prayer flags

a fireplace

and plants


It has been here waiting

What is there to grasp?

Olives and cheese plates to soak in

and deep adoration of all that these walls hold

Sometimes I think

that after my soul leaves this fleshy body

it will fly out into the night – (because it will be night)

into the drift

of roads and tall tall trees that loom in shadowy highway streches of west coast dreams

I wonder often if dreams are just a collection of all the small moments we perceived happening somewhere else, or perhaps in another life, happening alongside our own.

I dreamt I hitched a ride

Everyone of us in the van were given a large smooth stone by a border security man

Mine was half dark sea blue and half white. Oblong, the size and shape resembling a small watermelon, or gourd

I asked if anyone in the ride would like to trade

I did not feel attached to mine

Everyone calmly replied , with a look of understanding,

“The stones choose you. It is your stone.”

I felt a heavy understanding, maybe small shame in my request

We arrived at the long stretch of white sand, after a parking lot of busy movement

and beyond that, a glittering sea.


There is a recurring idea of boundaries within and without me these weeks

Of knowing that saying yes and no will somehow have a heavier impact on the tomorrows than it had ever before

I listen to music notes and I write notes to no one

I pour coffees and smile beneath the strands of hair over my face

It is always okay, I am discovering boldly and late, to not smile back

It is okay to not always be okay

I write sentences then erase them and try again to explain myself

I feel that my passions are enveloping into pressure than purpose and it sits heavy on my frame in a way that frail ankle bones are not easy to perch upon

I am learning more about myself and understanding that I bloomed late in this world

It is spring here, and yesterday the rains fell and froze over the tiny beet sprouts in the backyard

and all I can feel is the dull hum of a quiet panic of never being in the right time of the seasons of my life

On Rooney and Didion


“You live through certain things before you understand them. You can’t always take the analytical position.” 

-Sally Rooney, Conversations with Friends

There has been a pressure to accomplish and create a wealth in myself lately. I am certain that my old ways of thinking are not comfortable with this. I am also certain that it is time to develop new patterns of doing. Of being. I have grown into myself with a fear of monetary value. Placing judgment came easier. I am slowly learning, or rather, unlearning, the notion that having a livable income means compromise.

I am sitting in our garden, a raised bed of raised hope, tiny green sprouts with the promised wink of beets, a row of carrot tuft, spinach leaves and so on. My legs rest on the pine edge, while my postured position sits on our chopping block stump. The sun is already heating up this high desert earth, and I welcome it with greedy slurps of bare skin. Ryker lazily sniffs the air from his nest of mulch a few feet away. E types inside, emails of updates, inquiries and deadlines. I close my eyes and silently send him this heat, this moment of realized calm.

I wonder what the purpose is. Why do I hungrily devour cold essays, Paris review and Vanity fair biographies on Joan Didion, Eve Babitz, Hunter S. Thomson?

I think that what I admire and arduously envy in youth is the idea that one can change convictions and still be seen as whole. The unseen and unlearned has time. A consecration of beliefs and molds will not set, for seemingly ever.

I believe this is what I fear in age

that by writing out my thoughts they hold some inane power and also purpose over my steady life.

The days will have added to a completion.

An idea that has stood the harsh winds of actions and progress, of stages and sins, of chance and choice.

On becoming


We have to learn how to live in this

How to reckon with the heaviness

How to learn to breathe underwater

on the wet lung days

How to sit with unease

and rest there

We have to water our own plants and walk the dog around the block

No one is going to do this for us

I am slowly learning that forgiveness and apathy are very different creatures

and to allow them in the same room provides no movement

I am remembering

that still waters are not clean to drink from

and neither is a still life

Learning many things that I’m told I have known before

How many lives and how may re-births?

“Let’s unpack that” , he says

But I remember that I have always pulled at clothing slowly from an open suitcase, long after arrival

No person can provide the push for another

I sit outside and and meditate upon the spotty sunlight

the goosebumps on my leg and

Andrew Bird’s violin makes the trees dance

maybe is does not matter if wind or bow moves them

and all I can know if that this is all the heaviness needed to question

and the beauty in understanding that we understand nothing

on time


I wonder sometimes about the type of person I would have been if i had stayed in that expensive school in Minneapolis all those years ago. If I had paid back all the debts I owed.

If I had never made rash decisions and packed up countless times. If I had stayed, somewhere. In any of those ‘wheres.

Before the geographic differences and subtle layers of time and events covered the days and set the bridges on fire.

I have always been afraid of moving backward and my biggest fear is that there will be a reckoning for this someday

I crawl forward only to meet myself in a new closet

in a new place the mirror always reflects the same perspective

Where can one go to understand the choices made years ago, and is there a goodness in knowing that you might have done it all the same?

on being


If I could be true

If I could be the bluest blue and still be the truest true

I could live in the middle somewhere

where sea water hazes with horizon line

there is where I could be

I could sleep on hot desert sandstone

Could melt with the silver wax of sage brush

and tickle my insides with tough cactus

Could twirl inside of the tumbleweeds

rolling across highways of memories

To where the greens and the blues become Earthen hues

the truest of true


I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

Mary Oliver

I worry that I do not know what my dreams are, or that my dreams are too ambiguous to ever form fruit.

There is much to do, I keep telling myself. I hear it from far off and I see it in the faces of the new moon. I can feel the strange sense of restlessness that seems to steam out from whatever drawer I keep placing it. It creaks like the adolescent fillings in my teeth and beg to be tended to just the same.

I drink hot coffee. I butter toast and heat up tomato soup and try to quell the anxious twitch under my eyelids. I read pages from books that gather in piles on the kitchen nook, in my bags, and on the nightstand, next to his salt lamp and my eucalyptus stems. It’s enough to be this. To be surrounded by items collected and gifted in love. To see and touch each memory. Each dream. To be reminded. To live with reverence. The word itself is a silent verb.

“My heart hurts and my shoe is untied”


Everything in excess.

Filling up shelves and floor corners with books and prints

Thrift-store sweaters. Scarfs. Hats. Tiny white summer shirts.

Cataloguing words in my heart space. Using them to reveal forgotten truths.

Conversations that unwind and spiral into turning inside out on vulnerable display

Babies. Babies.

Dogs smiles. Hungry kitten howls.

Half-drunk coffees.


Old Fashions and extra Luxardo cherries.

Baths. Sometimes for the thrill of full body warmth, and the self-aware privilege and deep gratitude for clean steam.