Day CXLV: Puzzle

Trying something new today. Sibley timed me for fifteen minutes of uninterrupted writing, from thought to page. This was the result.

= = =

Or how water doesn't always taste like water.

Or how fire can be cold to the touch.

Or how ice burns.

Or how hearts fail, or smiles lie, or losers win.

Every day is a puzzle full of pieces, and always missing so many.

Sometimes I wonder if death is just the last corner piece everyone thought was missing but was just under the box the entire time.

= = =

I am six. I am in bed and listening to the furious clipping of cardboard puzzle pieces. They snap together in a hurried rhythm, as fast as my mother can put them together in their neat little lines. My room is lofted above the rest, the quietest room of the house, about seven or so miles out of town. On my bed is draped a pair of jeans, caked in mud, dried and flaking, baking on top of a dirty towel and dusting my room in tiny little accidents.

I'd fallen in the yard next door. I kept sliding in the mud and rain down the hill  for yards. Rocks and twigs and bugs built homes in my knees, made camp in my shins, forged families in the soles of my feet. That's how filthy I was was. Covered. Completely covered in one giant accident.

Day CXXIX: Hot Rain

Innately, Mondays are the hardest part of the week.

There's nothing kind about them. The weekend is ushered away, quietly, as if behind a curtain, and the week, with its worries and speculation, is suddenly front and center, spotlit, pronounced. Even on a day like this--terminally gray, drizzly, tires spitting back on to the streets in globs of recycled rain water--there is such unfortunate urgency in the footsteps of others, in the impatient tap tap tap of the line outside the coffee shop. That pressure to keep up, to engage in the same swiftly moving stream of the day, it's tricky on a Monday. 

It's like standing in hot rain.

I was eight years old the first time I went to Liard Hot Springs in British Columbia. The springs are actually tucked away, deep within a dense and boggy forest, about a mile away from the more populated campsites. A boardwalk simmers just above the water and moss and skittering bugs. Full of holes, eaten by nature and heavy foot traffic, it's not an impressive path. It's dangerous looking, even; perhaps it is frightening too. Of course, there are so many scary things to an eight-year-old. Everything about the single-digit years carries just a little fear along its backside, a tiny ridge of malevolence. A rickety path happens to look the part rather well.

The planks through the woods lead to a collection of pools, each steaming and sulfurous, smelling more and more like rotting eggs the closer you get to isolated spring in the back. The first spring you can step into is actually connected to several others. To the left, you wade into cooler territory. Cooler being relevant, of course. Ninety seven degrees is hardly "cool." To the right, necrotic coughs escape the water, just a foot or so from the grass that meets the edge of the hottest spring. No one stands more than fifteen feet away from the steps that dip into the center pool, perhaps out of fear.

I think my mother told Erick and I: standing in that spring would be like boiling alive.

A week or so before our first time in the springs, a bear caused problems at most reclusive spring, necessitating the closing of the walkway until the situation had subsided. A sign slung low, bright yellow and wrapped in heavy chains: "Closed - Bear."

To an eight year-old, "bear" was hardly much of a reason to diminish my experience in Muncho Lake. I wanted to enjoy every part of the springs, and seeing the last pool was very much a piece of that puzzle.

We reached the sign with just enough time for the rain to begin. Reading "bear" over and over and over, sure that we had all missed something, that it just wasn't time to open the furthest reach of the path, I planted myself in the grooves of the worn walkway. 

It began to pour. Loud, angry, drops pelting the trees, peppering the springs. And the rain was hot, hotter than the day, and heavy, heavier than the aches of an eight year-old's heart wishing for two more minutes of distance, for a bear to just go on and get out already.

There's this moment, defeated and stepping into the springs, that stands still in my mind.

Rain punctuates every step away from the stairs, my feet searching for slightly cooler temperature, my nose for a little distance from the smell. There is strange space ahead of me, hollowing out a small section of the earth at the very back of the connected pools. A bird spins in the rain, it's little twig feet dipping into the water. 

Shake, shake, shake. 

Flurries of water roll off her feathers and into the world. 

I think of how hot the rain feels. 

I think of how slow this moment moves. How slow it is.

I think of how sluggish this moment will always be. How sluggish it's always been. 

I think of how watching that bird toss the warm water away from its tiny body, seeing every feather ruffle, carelessly, recklessly, frenetically part and expel the hot rain, will always feel so sedated.

It's that hot rain. 

It's that odd standstill between moving and memory.

Today, the rain creates these charming little rings in the puddles on the streets. Little ripples stretch and diffuse, replaced in an instant, a lovely little chain of pitters and patters and plinks.

And the warmth of the rain, pouring heavily from the sky, embodies this Monday so well.

Day CXV: Plants

It's unsurprising that Archie and Bernard devoured my last two spider plants.

Those poor little guys didn't stand a chance to that gravelly-mouthed little creature and his black and white partner in crime. And while they did leave full, enriching lives, I miss them, and they were gone too soon.

The nice thing about plants though? There are plenty more!

I decided to change things up this time around. I have always had spider plants--I just love the way the reach. But it seems, with cats as hungry and curious as those I live with, a sturdier species might be nice. So that's why I have two bulky new friends.

World, I would like you to meet Kelly Plantle and Vinevacious.

Now, you know I'll always serve you face and neck--well, not always, and you'll be privy to some debaucherous photos later--but I think I am being out shown by my new companions in my Sunday Selfie! 

Aren't they nice? 

I like plants because my world feels fresher when they're around, especially if they're inside. I keep both of them in my room and it just feels like a better, cleaner space when they're around. There is very little upkeep with them, but the rewards of caregiving, nurturing, and supporting are boundless. It's not much, I know, but keeping them alive and around somehow brings out the adult in me. He is in there somewhere, after all.

It's a gloomy Sunday night. Rain is drizzling in through my open window, and the light from the yard across the fence is flickering with the passing drops.

Flick, flick, flick.

A lighthouse, welcoming the new work week, summer hours, and a chance at seven new days to get it right. 

An additional shade of green, a extra bit of life contained within these walls. 

Tonight: I am hopeful.

Day LXXXV: Touch

Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm,

we were always just that close.

Scratching at the sky--branches, twigs, sticks clawing at space--a tree waves hello from just beyond the window. A waltz, maybe, or a foxtrot, partnered with a gray, gray cloud and moving to the sound of rain. Lots of rain. A torrent. A downpour. How the buds, the fingers manage to keep up is beyond me.

I see hands in the tops of oaks and maples. Lithe, toned waists and arms in the bodies of pines. Powerful legs in the trunk of an elm. And they are all twisting and melting memories of you. Of them. Of every moment in bed, waiting for the day to turn out, to brighten up, secretly praying that, perhaps, the clouds will linger for twenty minutes more and keep us entwined. 

a memory 

Wine. Too much for the afternoon. Whites and reds, my favorite from New Zealand. 

King's Road. Bustling. A marked taxi honks a warning, steers slightly rightward, curses with its driver. 

Rain. Quiet, but present. Always somewhere. Asking questions: where's your umbrella? Aren't you cold? Am I ruining your day? Did you leave your keys at the library? 

A library. What a funny place for a wine tasting. 

Inside: we nap. Or try to. It's tough in a twin. Stirring succumbs to hands, to locked fingers, to locked lips, to tangled sheets, to troublesome denim. And the very edge of touch, soft, finding a new landscape.  

Hands. The cartographers of the body.

The louder the wind, the more deliberately it drags the limbs of trees against the sky, the more closely it resembles an angry voice shushing the world. Bullets splash against the sidewalk. A draft shakes the room, a door closes. A bell rings. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Repeat.

a memory 

Thunder. 

Thunder. 

More thunder. Lightning. Stars? Or spaceships? Or visitors from beyond?  

You were curious, meant each question. 

Wine. Too much for the evening. 

Footsteps through a quiet, sprawling home. A single room. One bed for you, the same one for me.  

Our bones wrap. Your hand on mine, warmer than a smile. Warmer than your legs, painting the back of mine. Two feet tapping, retreating, playing beneath the sheet. Inhaling, exhaling: noses pressed together. Shift once. Shift twice. Embrace, nudge, relax, melt. Repeat.

I wonder--often--if the memories we share exist with you too. 

I worry--seldom--that they live only in me.

On rainy days, these cuddly, nuzzly, evenings and haunted afternoons, I think of touch. 

And I wonder if touch is doing the same.

Day LXXXIV: Diary

It can be an uncomfortable thing, blogging. You spend a lot of time thinking and rethinking about what you're willing to share with the world, what you're not. There's a lot of choice that goes into disclosing a particular thought to the rest of the webverse. Sometimes I find myself backing up, tapping the delete button just one more time, before hovering the mouse above "publish" and clicking my life on to the Internet. 

But, mostly, I find it rewarding. I enjoy sharing my life with the world. I find a somewhat rewarding level of vulnerability, of courage through offering these moments to any and all of the readers that wander over.

In many ways, this blog serves as a daily diary. A way to reflect and ponder. A means to end the day, to wrap up a week or a day or a thought.

And I find it empowering. There is something frenetic and vibrant about writing every day of your life, however brief. Who knows, in twenty years, I may find these ancient blogs and think, wow, look where I was. Look what I did. Look who I used to be!

I hope that I am proud. I hope that I have changed for the better, for good. 

But, truthfully, I am pretty happy right now. Of course, there are pieces missing. Days pass without reset buttons, no matter how badly I wish to press one. I'll fake a smile here, or try harder to laugh there, but, mostly, I find myself in a pretty good head space.

Today was not a day I would reset.

I started a new show. (By "started", I mean I watched 9 episodes of The Vampire Diaries with Kyle and Jessica.) And, as much as I should feel embarrassed, it was a damn gloomy day. 

And that show? Addicting. 

Like, meth levels of addicting. 

The week is starting. Who knows what it will bring? 

The only certainty? I'll be ten days away from 100 by the end of it. And that, dear reader, is a strange feeling.

Oh, look, a haircut!