the self is where the breath turns around at the bottom of the breath. PLAY OUT OF THERE.

get upset, start walking.
walk until you're not upset anymore. keep walking.
walk until you're upset again. keep walking.
walk until you're not upset anymore, again. keep walking.
walk until you get mad you're walking. keep walking.
walk until you hurt. keep walking.
walk until you feel like you can walk forever. plan a route home.
make it just a little bit longer.

portrait of a friend from this afternoon.

i want more subjects as soon as school is out. let me know if you want pictures.

substance

every time i make pasta i think of my father.

or, to be more specific:
every time i strain out the water after cooking pasta and the steam rises to fill in my glasses, i think of my father. (now that i'm dependent on my glasses i am beginning to understand what a pain it is.)

it is the essential recurring memory of my childhood. pasta. dad. glasses like white cartoon eyes suspended in front of his face. i am watching him from the living room and he's the strongest man in the world, carrying that massive bowl of pasta, pouring out the terrifyingly hot water. plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and beard still mostly black. i set the knives blades-facing-in:

my father is brave and blind; i am a child. he sent me this picture of home:



these days, his beard is mostly white, when he wears it. i'm not carrying any foxtails, in my hair or my socks or my boots. i was talking to carrot-boy last week and he didnt know what foxtails were.

in the meantime:
pasta. wine. supervillian regenerate! back to work!

summer is at the edge of my brain and i cant wait to fall of into it.

Our unrelenting

Summer, 1933.
Your hat on a post,
and my --

a most exquisite exchange overheard this afternoon
amidst the soft falling
of almond blossoms
(the palesoft brush of spring,
that Tease):

"ey, dude."
"ey-dude."
"dude, we were gonna meet up last night --"
"ugkh, dude!"
"you get in trouble or something?"
"ugkh, dude."