nor the Endorphins-as-Sequins Gown of two days ago. Woke up feeling solid, motivated a little somber which I am deciding will read as patient-as-a-planner-with-a-day planner. I am working out the schedule so that I can maintain everything even as four classes dance on my head for a few months. But there is Florida, then Chicago, then Montevallo Literary Fest. then Wick's Twenty-Fifth, then Italy, Greece and who knows. My girl trip with the Trionited Girls--White Sands, NM where I might find a way to cross Angelina River at last. If it doesn't work for that trip, I will make a way for it to. That river does not go uncrossed for one more year.
Because, that Weir-passage was memorized all those years ago by a new-to-college, new-to-so-much me and it resonated and it has been my biggest challenge to drive on and away. All the running-away-girl stories I've written. The end of every story involving always-escape. My obsession with the Roms--traveling lightly in every way. All of it says Girl, let go, freefall, there's always a somewhere after this somewhere. And my current city has had real things to say to me, so I am here and for now, I'll see what's possible with work etc. But I will listen closely for when and if it is time to go. I don't move on well or with expediency and I am going to be better about that. Sorry for the journaling here. I spend (by choice) most of my hours solo and this is a way of catching L-Bo, Veace, Locksmith and that might actually be all that I know read me.
As a treat, I offer the following from Zapruder's soon to be graphic novel: The Pajamist. I can't not post a poem that mentions my favorite Joni-song:
By Canada I have always been fascinated.
All that snow and acquiescing.
All that emptiness, all those butterflies
marshalled into an army of peace.
Moving north away from me
Canada has no border, away
like the state its northern border
withers into the skydome. In a world
full of mistrust and self-medication
I have always hated Canada.
It makes me feel like I’m shouting
at a child for letting a handful
of pine needles run through his fist.
Canada gets along with everyone
while I hang, a dark cloud
above the schoolyard. I know
we need war, all the skirmishes
to keep our borders where
we have placed them, all
the migration, all the difference.
Just like Canada the Dalai Lama
is now in Canada, and everyone
is fascinated. When they come
to visit me, no one ever leaves me
saying, the most touching thing
about him is he’s so human.
Or, I was really glad to hear
so many positive ideas regardless
of the consequences expressed.
Or I could drink a case of you.
No one has ever pedaled
every inch of thousands of roads
through me to raise awareness
for my struggle for autonomy.
I have pity but no respect for others,
which according to certain religious leaders
is not compassion, just ordinary
love based on attitudes towards myself.
I wonder how long I can endure.
In Canada the leaves are falling.
When they do each one rustles
maybe to the white tailed deer
of sadness, and it’s clear
that whole country does not exist
to make me feel crappy
like a candelabra hanging
above the prison world,
condemned to freely glow.