quietude is good

Last night this man plays guitar for me and i am tired enough to go home in his arms and sleep all night, too, in spite of snores that rip reality in half if i am all the way awake, and that is how i know i love him, too.  The way we sleep.

I am a romantic and fall in love f a s t.  I also am a man-eater and make men love me.  I do not know what to think of who I am when I am loving him.  It helps not to and just show up and dazzle on the dizzy beauty of where I live, especially when the fall on delmarva is blue and spinny and ripe still with mudflat mild.  Life is good.  I can walk with my feet on the earth with him too which is different for me.  And that is because he works fucking hard.

Harder than me and that’s rare.  I am working on my ego and as always, devastated by my hubris. This is separate. I feel it is an honest, fair assessment to say I work hard as fuck.  I am also having fun and not thinking about work at all and feeling the places in my soul that have worn thin and tired from working so hard and this happens because of him.  And in that, he feels like a cloud on day 3 of summer satiation just salt headed and feeling free.

Or he can.   It makes me ready for rest and long winter sleeps.  I took one last longing look at Laguna Beach in November and realized when I did it’s been months since I looked on that hashtag.  And my heart didn’t long with missing it.  My heart is more than satisfied living the life I love right here at home.  Which is my way of saying, damn I look forward to the future.

I am not so sure about the modern stories the rest of the world is so eager to look on and in doing so, cowrite.  That sounds judgmental and it is because I am, and that is part of the ego work I am curious with and deconstructing.  Mentioned above.

Quietly, quietly, lightly so~quietude is good.

 

what i am listening to, my new favorite jesus singers

always, always hanging around

In July I took off for two weeks. I was going to go to South America and then that changed, and I took myself instead to a Delmarva beach and pretended like I was shmeeshmee in Orange County again.

It occurred to me then that I needed a desk:  my life in the tall pines had become so much like my Laguna-Life, self-contained, witnessed, crafted and netted to my reality by dreams I’d hand-grown.  And I would breathe and my oxygen would be touched by Laguna Canyon dust and a tweak in my heart would pinch and I’d see my window plants there, the sunlight through my little hobbit house window dapple-dancing across my desk.

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pink!  south laguna secret spots

All this even though I was all the way away on the briny green mugged out MidAtlantic, wondering how the dog days of 2019 summer had already hounded me down.

So I got a desk over those two weeks off.  And it sat, and I went back to work and ran budgets and numbers from it and felt my blood also run arid as dust.

Then it was really the dog days, and that’s when the Terrible rocked beach city, and I looked around and there was one area my life wasn’t plugged in at all which even though I thought it was creativity, it was actually L O V E.

So then that changed, too, and it’s the kind that bottle rocketed everything and made me question everything, all at once.

So imagine my surprise, when here you are, and I am able to hold me, hold him, and still return to you.

And here you are, here you’ve always been.  And my greatest fear that a he would take you is upended, bc somehow when here I am November again and wake grog-hearted tumble from bed… to you laying there on my desk both of us knowing it will always be You who first slakes even a thirst incredible as t/ his wakened in my heart.

Which reminds me, 9 years ago my return to beach city they #usta call me thirsty thirty and those good, long TTO days in the sun.  (Will never be beach city nine five.)

10 years ago right now I am moving to Easton~

My first place all my own no roommates N O N E.  Easton where I put my bed in the living room so the  bedroom could host my desk, my books, the sacred space where I Still Sit and yes

You, blank screen.  How long, how consistently me and you’ve always, always been hanging around.

and how she was there, with you

It was your smile.  That’s what did it.  People say that but fuuuck across the diner from me and  for just one second I see you all 1995.  The goldenest days of my inner sun.  It was so small the #backthen glimpse of you.  I really saw it though, and saw the you you see in me.  It wrecked me.  It took my breath.

Your voice would change that first week we were talking, from now you to back then  #BeachKid #PierRat.  The change it was like scent.

It was like something I had to finish feeling out, sniffing, onto something, some cure.  It’s true how cute were we??  Like my mom said, holding hands in the driveway the very first second.  I knew then.  I knew because of the vault at the back of my heart and who’s behind it the me called kadadab and how she was there, with you a hot second at the diner, all happy you saw her, too.

There is a difference for me between loving someone and falling in love. With you, right away.  I fell.  

I had been running from parts of myself from long ago that I didn’t want to see and I wouldn’t let anyone in my heart because of it.  It’s wild, I remember at sap rising time this yr I found three dead geese on the beaches three separate times.  Birds speak to me that is my first medicine. So then, when I had reiki, and finally cried about my sponsor being gone I had this Grandmother Mist come to me in trance.  She held all my grief, I knew this when I saw her.  All the uncried tears I thought I’d hid.  Just recently she returned, at the end of harvest season, and changed into Grandmother Spider. Grandmother Spider led me, journeys towards Avalon with Shaman Bob.

It wasn’t long after the birds and when the Grandmother first came to me back in February that my own therapist and I started unpacking my myths.  The things that happened when I was a teenager and the stories about me that they made me still believe.

All this, and my dad this year?  And how I think like a man.  Alpha as FUCK.

What that must mean for you, poor man 🙂

I want to let go completely and have times where I am 100% ok with 100% not being in control.  I want to someday fall easily into doing that whenever it’s right to with you.

And the arc of my heart when I am falling in love.  You take me that first day in the diner up like a roller coaster.  Like the best one at beach city how you get taken up and all for one sec you can look out over the whole of the inlet and feel the wild island behind you and see the town all laid out ahead…the white thumb press of the tides beating and spread out forever which of course the ocean is somehow forever…we all know this…and it’s our home.  Falling in love with you first was like this, an upward arc in my heart, and being held up there with grand vision and feeling you suspended in air my breath all stopped and time stopped too, all at once.

The night before the diner I was camping.  Listening to the fire and the rain and the thunder, the drip and drops of the forest.  The river wind, and the mama the Great mama the Bay, listening and letting it all soothe me.  And her singing soft and calm and telling me you will sooth his heart and help him be soft and he will sing you into new life and too the fresh clean dawn air at sunrise.  Whispering go go let yourself love him it is what you both need.

And then our love dropped, and back in beach city the roller coast steals your breath  simultaneously and would always make me laugh that high chested hysterical laugh while pitching me towards the loop de loop, which is the circus that it’s been for us these first three months.  Which I take my own credit for where I need to, for my moons not the in the sky one but my personal ones.  My over sensitivity, which looks emotional where yours, like such a man, only looks like anger the only emotion society has ever allowed you men to feel.  I am hypercritical I want to change every last thing about you I realize it and know I am a crazy bitch and it’s ok to me bc so what, I really am.  All that shit and somehow you make me laugh.  And super want you, which happened fast and is bigger than me and such a hot, good fucking thing.

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I don’t know what will be with us which is something that has never, never stopped me. And also, sometimes when I don’t mean to I dream of it, a future with you will come into such full vision it’s crystal clear and my god it feels good.  So it’s enjoyable to me to believe in that when it’s near.

Otherwise for now I want to love each other and be kind.  And try and have as much fun as we can while we keep learning about this ride, and also what sorta rider the other really is and will turn out to be.

prayer, tide of the dead, for the loss of an elder witch

It is October again & right at the end

The magic in this.  All I can think.  the million different days i’ve sat right here, right at season’s end.  Every bit of every magic I’ve ever meant falling as clean as a pocketful of what I harvested into summer solstice sea salt, such is my home to me.  and a mermaid tear tossed in.

should you know what that EVEN IS.  the voice of a million middle schoolers in my head thinking of how many i’ve known as i write those words, as singysongy as a million of them, too. how many of them have i known, how many i currently do know, i think of jotto, who taught me the language of treasures from an outatlantic back gem chest.

she taught me the charm.

I keep traditions.  A pagan one and the opposite of it a Catholic one walks the ways and tides of the Saints certain they move bc the heart can be Marian led.  Which is Sophia for those who keeping score.  Saints who are gods other than the one God that, have no doubts, you idoLize. I know about the up downs of Nature, and the Church.  Both.  I know about the middle line

I believe in the changing Tide

Catholics have a male god and my paganism all women, Catholic is of sky and underground and the other earthbound, with room for All Views

I think of Maggie, who was ALL for beach city.  for the pirate trade hahahahhaah, fuck i laugh to myself as i write this, i think of a million different laughs w mag glossy as a outback clearwater green patch path, full of miracle gemstones and a million different kids.

I want to tell him,

and the other one, and the one after that, and a whole ladder of them, male rage it is male rage at the heart of patriarchal blame. of the old world matter. of which our story wrote.  it is the male heart, NOT THE Heart of the Feminine, that is broke

Do your work, feel your feelings, fix yourself, feel your rage, let them heal, let them fix, let them talk.  I wipe eyes.  Laugh and show people how close the two type tears.  I talk to Papa on a long drive north, the couple times for me of him come back: those long ass drives out west w him and those full resuscitations,

That one bug stomping the up north grower how after that under that white peak moon up at playground on top of hill–by then that was the second or third time already  (you have to think, i was living on the road then, had just crashed my car and had thankfully for the little commune and my cosmic murk fam been brought back to life more than one time by all of them being homeless and having to take my bags, and just go)  Papa and I learned to honor the giving each other back to breath. How to help give breath when and where in some places my own fuckn own bones don’t even have any meat left

Papa is good and listens and, now having a practice behind him, tells me of gold and breath work, and how men heal.  He is good for me to talk to about you.

Who I want to take to Oregon, to Seattle.  To back porch places make me smile. To back alley corner places and the naked spots w hippies in the woods.  To my first homes when first i left the south

I know a good fuckn few

oh and also  HA! ( if only it were southern they stuck us w Mason-Dixon instead, a crossroads place, a tradewinds w i nnnn d)

At work I tend what that has taught me the good earth medicine of in-between…when someone else finally gets what I get by this, and does magic from it, this is how I know I am home.  There is too much to arrive to and much to much to tend.  I drive in the Jersey woods a long time through Delaware too to meet Kate we sing beans and also, make an apple-hearted blend.  The results shake out violence, when I look at my own self through the shocked socked eye of my own best friend, i am way past having started throwing punches again.  I am embarrassed of myself for her and remind myself, that’s why I’m to therapy again.

Don’t let any therapist tell you they’re any good if they ain’t at some point seen their own!

Anyway.

~

On my alter sits a typewriter from the hills of MD, emerald gold
it is on the other side and catches all the Catskill song!

and i have stood in ditches there, pants ratted to my knees, and listened to the creek who sings graffiti writ underbridge

it was always this way,

since i was Kid. & the message, always the same.  b u r r r n this into your brain she tells me,

and on the her Alter, the Pirate sings…

…Her who is the second true crone i ever met, (first prayer to the heart of the crone ellie orr who saved me and the other, false-i crone molly who was maiden, gave pure milk)

(i revere women/ fuck who don’t)

second to mags, second for whom i sing
straight to your heart
it is day of the dead
& whoda ever thought you’d leave me so
quick as you did.  nothing could kill me like last yr
tho, so.  i am grateful for karen who claimed you
& equally for don who you (like gretchn) help me see

i hope i am clear with this when i give my thanks.

everything else is just song & dust, right? when you’re tickets up, it is~

maggies soul card

soul card made by mags, on some well past day of the dead

~

thanks Mag, for this 😉

I wish i coulda known you in your best of days in the S U N

 

 

The gushy line of beach mud

Enjoy it out there he says to me as he’s slipping on his shoes after our session.  Last day of Indian Summer he continues, voice trailing head moving his eyes already towards the door where we both can see that smacking blue sky clarity-light.  His enthusiastic Santa Claus jolliness sits on the air between us.  I am proud of him.  We’ve been sitting together for 18 months now in spiritual and recovery mentorship.  Our weekly conversations edge from the practical always into the introspective.  Yes, I think.  He’s right.  Last year this week I was on the beach sweating in 80 degree heat, then that Nor’easter came through and the rain broke the temperature and it was never hot like that again in 2018.

Tomorrow it will rain, and the heat will wash away.  He and I say our goodbyes and this message from him sinks into my body.  Instead of leaving my office and taking my computer business to the coffee shop, I head into town and loose my shoes in my car, walking side streets then the boards on my bare feet til I hit the beach. Then the gushy line of beach mud from 4th street to the Pier.  It is not a long walk, but the low tide sand bars are there and have made current pools of crystal teal changing into and from opaque blues and sea foam.  My spirit gives that breathy sigh that only the ocean can ever provide.

I think about the first short story I ever wrote.  I was away on scholarship at the fancy writing school, where (and when, how) my Destiny and Delmarva collided.  It was 21 years ago, half my life.  Probably right now 21 years ago:  I remember feeling dancy and angsty, October all through my soul.  It was the first time I ever fell in love with a river and dusk.  That story was called Pier One and it was about Beach City.  I wasn’t clean yet–in fact, for all I knew in October 1998 wine drunk each night and thinking about once more the harmlessness of maybe smoking weed again–I had no idea any of that would ever come.  Pier One looked in to the future though and predicted all of the deaths, including Kev, that in two short years would begin.

There was a shimmer of gold I sawfelt running into me from the aqua to blue to foam pools today.  I didn’t walk all the way to underneath the pier, just opened my spirit and let the coast roll flow.

I hope I can remember that, come the rain.

Deep and ageless, within

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It’s the first time this year the words feel elusive and my excuses stronger when I sit down to write.  The whole superstition of routine:  it is not Tuesday, I am not in suburb sprawl box store half hour west of here, I didn’t just leave therapy and I’m not, first time since Spring, coming to the words to process feeling me coming out of my skin.

The words dancy and seasonal as Indian Summer.  They wake me traipsing taunting at the edge of my bed. What a tease I imagine, not even delighted to finally see your trick asses again.  I take my time getting up not to spite them just, it’s the first time on a Thursday I’ve felt the coziness of my bed in Fall.  It is off season f i n a l l y and it feels just like it.  The clear, startling light of the Equinox.  Contrast so clean I can feel my own shadow alight around me.  My patients all seasonal and teetery because that’s Beach City, babyyy all us living for the summer alive and preening and gleaning and glistening and pumping, all around and all about and most of all, deep and ageless, within.

On Wednesday I knew I’d be in the office late so I cut out as soon as my 2:30 wrapped and scooted quick as I could to the beach.  The Island so you know (if you know) which one I mean.  I have skin spots and places on my body that have aged dark with too much sun.  I go anyway, I go, day after day, this time straight to my secret place then dropping my sheet and bag and chair I climb a dune half way up and fall backwards right into the sand.

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After many long and grace-touched moments soaking it all in, the clarity, the stunning shadows and still peaceful birds, oh the emptiness, the stormy salt and sparkling white light.  Only then maybe do I breathe.  I follow the feeling deep in my gut to crawl a bit in the sand til it’s the whimsy love of mini-quartzes opening my spirit and so then I am on my knees as a child, collecting them all the tumbled clear ones in a pile in my palm.

And writing this now, I recall.  When I started the free school how that was mantra.  To move a mountain, go one pebble at a time.   A day at a time, a pebble at a time.  I actually had a little box of agate-quartzes back then.  I kept it on my antique typewriter bc, obvi…my first religion the W O R D S so that’s my all the time alter but back then with a picture I drew of a big tree I called the free school tree.  And I reminded myself.  Move a little stone, one small action towards your goal, one a day.

Each new day.  I will leave here my other office in Beach City writing to write how blessed am I, texting with this cute ass man too and head back to the island to meet a patient to walk.  The water there doesn’t feel cold, or any colder than summer, but it is: after 15 minutes yesterday my insides catch a shiver and I reminded.  Winter does come.

But for now? Fall, and the w o r d s as steady as the peepers and cicadas buzz and that shhhh shhhh in the trees, that rattle in the mudflats of whispery beach reeds.  Praise the mystery of this, where it, one day after the other as an agate at a time, leads next.

Out of time

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The Friday before my vacation I meditated a long, quiet time on the back porch until in the silence the still voice emerged and said, You must s l o w way down.

So, on my vacation I slept forever. I got a horrible room in a boarding house for way too much money for the quality of it and still that was a hundred a night on discount. The guy who owned and ran the place decorated the walls in the lobby, the halls, my room with pics of himself from the 80’s.  This apparently being when he’d experienced some personal level of success as a marathon runner.  The fridge in my room didn’t work, I slept on top of the sheets in case of bugs.

At night he sat on the front steps of the joint with his shirt off and played trumpet at the sunflowers growing in the sidewalk garden and the traffic in the street.

The place was less than two blocks to the beach and each night I could see the moon out my window, growing big.   She peaked saucer white the last night I was there, illumination on all I had gone on vacation to be rid of in the first place.  My personal moon arriving the same day washing and ringing my body and emotions to rain out of me, me lined up for better or worse with her.  Else, in the daytimes I baked in the sun, brined myself for hours in the sea.  I ate fabulous food and did not think at all about the impact on my credit card bill.  When it was done I returned satiated, a deep readiness where restlessness had begun to live.

One thing I noticed though was the changing of time that happened after that.  One day, having just returned back to real life and work, I had patients all morning and again in the late afternoon til the night.  On my break, I found my way to the beach with a book and a bag packed with lunch.  I laid on a sheet on the flat part of lowtide beachmud where earlier in the day water had run.  I didn’t sleep.  I felt the rhythm of the sea breathe my body into and out of the earth.

And then, some veil-parting, some little-known aspect of the moon?  It was the waning moon, this week but one full cycle ago.  I checked my clock to see what time I had left before returning to the office, it had been an hour and forty minutes already.  I was certain it had been only 45. This was the first of several experiences over the Harvest moon that I found myself out of time.  Not as in running out.  As in the ancient way.  Between.

~

The night we move from chatting on Facebook to chatting on the phone the word he uses more than once is timewarp.  He was one of them.  By the end of the first week of us talking I have settled on, I was, too.  I was one of them, too.

So was I.

I come here to the big box bookstore after therapy to tally: I have lost Time at least 8 times since vacation, been caught in odd grey stormy squalls at least as much as that since then as well.  Kevin and BJ dancy and low-throated, dark eyed and cracking jokes, dead for years sat at my fire Friday night.   The whole time, real as if they were still alive.  It’s the first time that has happened since the summer I was first home to the Tall Pines, 2015. He is asleep before I have a chance to tell him and I decide it is just as well.

It’s all behind me.  And here, right now, too.  What has passed comes again, at least anyway when you make space for it.

Or maybe, it’s just bigger.  Than all us, and comes back around…No matter your pace?

I’d want comfort food

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This Starbucks is always so trashy.  I literally mean the tables always have crumbs and sticky, dried liquid on them and often straw wrappers or napkins are littered about on the floor or at least on a minimum of one counter or tabletop, too.  It is the one local to me and I rarely come here except for when my instinct, like tonight, says so.  Tonight when I walked in there was only one other customer and all the grody empty places to sit.  That’s when I realized, oh this is why I’m never here.

In Laguna Beach it would frequently get that way, too, but only after the certain times a day that the rush of tourists coming off Main beach needed their afternoon caffeine.  The employees there were always so good about getting it all cleaned up and put back together.  It was one of my two regular spots to write and be alone without loneliness.  I miss it, Laguna Beach, my lifestyle there, my independence, the so many places to go and simply be.  I think of it daily, lately.

Today it was stormy since noon. I felt drowsy, emotional, in need of rest.  I took a nap after work before therapy and knew before I even got to my therapist’s that when we were done I’d want comfort food.  I drove immediately to The Farmer’s Wife when we finished up for fresh fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy even though the mug outside hung thick as wet flour air.

I didn’t have my wallet.  Thankfully I figured this out before ordering.

In my car I called my mom to see if she felt like meeting me for comfort food.  She said, your dad just called and asked me the same.

So she got my wallet for me, and we all met at the country place that used to be Jody’s a while.  I sat across from my dad, my nose still stuffed from at least 8 or 10 tissues full of snot leak specific to him.

Life is surreal, its own weird storm.   Its own odd, ubiquitous light shining out of its clouds of grey.  Words, this is my co-created prayer to you–of you–of thanks for no matter the place, always yielding your own kind of quiet grace.

 

And translates several feet around him

The madness up in me, a growl on the inside of my skin ready to be let loose on the kids looking at magazines behind me in the big box store.  Coffee shop visit after therapy, and so grateful I am for the routine.  Clouds dreamy and fast changing all week.

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In July once I was pregnant, the father nothing more than a boy in too big for him skin.  That is a myth of me like a linen kerchief in back of a closet in abandoned house on a field somewhere, full with wild flowers and green hills.  Clouds fat and white and inviting as pillows in the sky.  Linen delicate, the barely there stains for reasons you cannot know cause tenderness in your heart when you touch them. My vacation is here, it is July again and I did not go to Brasil.

The man in the corner talks to himself.   It is off-putting in a way that is brooding and translates several feet around him as a palpable radius of danger.  In Laguna the street kids were chummy, and the two homeless folks with the most flamboyant single-sided conversations were people who also chatted regularly with me.  We were on first name basis.

I am thinking about Laguna a lot lately, about the importance of having a room of one’s own.  A desk comes, and I spend the first day of my second week off from work crafting poems and parceling words.  The bookshelf built into the wall is now full on the top shelf with novels I will read and complete, each one a piece of fruit meant to slake a thirst that also makes me feel clear and clean.  The fan drones sleepy and content and I am delivered to a peace I may have known only in childhood.  An empty ease, with space enough to hold promise. There is so much, there once was anyhow–to still to be felt into, plucked from the air.

In therapy I finally bring up Kevin and the boys from the beach, and near the end mention in an off hand way that Kukta just died the other week. I am wow’d still that there is nothing there, no bruises left or felt.  Just the facts, another one dead.  Same ol myth.  She reminds me the goal is for thoughts and feelings to align. I just want to get here, to write.  To trust myself unto my rhythm, to take my time.

Scars are scars I tell myself, and can go for years with the tissue numb, just under thumb.  Other times there is meltiness, stain.   There is gasping for air and the feeling you may choke.  I never know what I am going to know until it is time.  So I write poems.  In one I remind myself: the axiom what you resist persists means that to resist is to deny.

I know.

 

A surprise for you coming

 

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On the banks of the French Broad in the hills outside Ashville the reception is terrible and whole days will go by without you even noticing this if you’re there for the national forests like me.  I went there in the Spring, when the river is brown and so high with winter melt the first site of rushing white caps evokes a natural awe, close enough to terror it quickens the breath.  I made my peace quick, in part because the churning reminded me of frothy chocolate milk.  That and the old growths there, the sleepy yawn of stretched out lazy Appalachian afternoons had captured my heart.  I paused at every new violet, every fairy white cap that made the sandy banks there as winter would.  I gathered them, enchanted, blessed them, heard the giggles of the sweetly fresh Spring breath tinkle as fae bells in the wind.  By the time I was home I had an entire wild-crafted blend.  And I find myself surprised, today, to look back on the pictures, and remember I used my 35 mm to document it all.

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The prophetic way, I find myself thinking, I used to use w o r d s to see into the underbelly of life. Seeing the pictures today it’s easy to understand why my heart yearn answered Go South…when leaving the beach I ask my soul where my whimsy felt led.  It was such a long time is all I can think, such a long time for a solo drive. In truth, I made the home-haul in one afternoon and settled in to the Palm Tree Inn just as the sun was setting a fierce yellow in my sideview mirror. I was south of the tunnel-bridge that puts you onto the peninsula where I live by just an hour when I stopped there, delighted by my road instincts that sat like a round cushion in my heart, all apple cheeked and taunting there’s a surprise for you coming, right at dusk.  Sure enough, the Palm Tree Inn was sitting there on the right…I breezed passed it and felt my instinct a shaft like quick under the hair wind go hold on~and glanced back and thought, could it be?

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My god, the Palm Tree Inn, where I stayed in 2011 when I last took off to live on the road.  The wandering trip of seven months that left me off eventually to burrow into Laguna Canyon–my first and only unto my own tiny little hobbit home.  That first night, a $40 motel room an hour off the peninsula, which back then to me was still its own mostly foreign land.

I turned back, got a Dairy Queen hot dog some oj and called it a night. The rooms had gone up $20. Fucking internet and social media making commerce out of e v e r y t h i n g.  And that, maybe, is the surprise I came here for now.  To remind myself, remember?

Go south, huh?

The words are priceless.  Freedom of soul the only real gold~