my

b d

o

y

reminds me

of you.

...

They were in the car, it was her favorite place to be. Movement, to her, was everything. The speed with which the tires drifted along the slick cement roads, the golden droplets dotting the edges of the windshield, magical like fairy dust. She wanted it to be magical, so it was.

And so was he. She turned her head left to look at him. There was something about that day. This day that has happened so many times. It’s always a different car, a different him. A different her, even. Nonetheless, it was the same day, and it happened so many times. It was her favorite kind of day.

The rain always has something to do with it. There is more world when it rains. There’s more emotion and vigor and realness, like when he laughed and moved his hand over to the dial to turn up the volume as they slid to a slippery halt, a pool of bright maroon flooding that delicate little fairy dust. No thoughts about the future, no feelings about the past. What is now is now, and it’s coming down in cold rivulets from a dark, strange sky.

Most times, he had black hair. Sometimes, it was brown. Once, it was long and blond. I think he had glasses one of the times, sunglasses (even though it was raining). He was always driving. Sometimes, a BMW. A Toyota, a Volkswagen. A beat-up Honda Civic. And the music. Standing In The Rain. Constellations. August. Cherry Wine. Sparks. Favorite Crime. The artist, didn’t matter. The song, didn’t mean much. On any given day, those words and those tones could be good, could be bad, could hit, slap, cause tears to flow or be an instant skip. But in this car, in this moment, with him and the rain and the cold, slick roads lined with reds and greens, these were the best songs in the world. She could feel them in her gut, deep, deep down at home, a place that was there with him in that car, a place unparallelled, a place where she longed for in the depths in her soul which came out every time she found herself in the passagner seat, in a car, with a him at the wheel, with soft, soothing, comforting music, warm with not a care in the world, with a lightness in her heart and pure happiness running through her veins.

She would get home later that day and lay out on her bed and put on her headphones and elevate, back into that car next to him. It didn’t matter who he was, or what they meant; just that the time they shared together in that little cockpit with the flowing water and the smooth vibrations was one of the best feelings in the world. Nothing before or after mattered, nothing but now. There was no thinking about the past and feeling about the future. She closed her eyes and

I feel sick. I feel sick to my stomach.

Not in a bad way at all, strangely. But in a funny, stake your life kind of hard falling stop thinking start feeling lie on the ground and cry of fear and happiness at the same time a h h w h h h h

It could be my allergies-- the wind's been howling and I've been feeling the chills all day. There's a hurricane coming, you know

Hurricane Lee

the world's stomach is as churned up as mine

but not in a bad way at all, strangely.

It could be because I haven't eaten. I've felt better than I have in a while

I can feel myself getting slimmer, not in a toxic sick way but in an accomplished, I've been working out and I'm actually seeing results kind of way.

It could be the guy at work. I'm not trying for anything in particular, what happen will happen and I don't know what I want, I'm not assuming or pressing or hoping or trying too hard-- I feel fine one moment, it's just when he looks at me I feel sick,

I feel sick when he shows interest in me,

I feel sick to my stomach,

but not in a bad way at all, strangely.

It's not all sunshine & love either, its probably a mix of fear and discomfort and misunderstanding, but I've never felt this before.

As bad as it can feel, it's that funny, stake your life kind of living.

There's no denying the connection I can feel the world lapping at my ankles, the ankles I scan for ticks every night,

the world lapping at my ankles like waves on the shore at the marina in a hurricane, Hurricane Lee,

waves and winds that are churning up the world, a now empty harbor,

Episodes in Oceanography

looking at the orange-stained sky

and if I think about it all too much its no longer fun

the fun for me is in the unknown--

once I understand, I know too much

then there's not enough left for my imagination

that's why I like planning for the future

and that's why I like dreams

two equally real worlds

I feel sick. I feel sick to my stomach.

Not in a bad way at all, strangely.

I'll grab some dxm, or some white wine

so I can feel even sicker.

I love you

for sentimental reasons...

but when I think of them

they w e a k e n

into dried out pieces

like history museums, and the tales they tell to

just

you

how much of your love

is based in fantasy

on you and not me

on society

and the films they create

I think of you every morning

dream of you every night...

so many people out of my sight

only are because of my fright

relationships can't be put into words

but they shouldn't be.

every connection,

NO MATTER the AGE or GENDER,

is worth more than what you can make

other people

-- and yourself --

understand.

I hope you do believe me

I've given you my heart...

everything I thought is falling apart

but I like it that way

it's what makes loving

feel like an art.

I’ve been to fifty different high schools, the wild west, gone fishing in Panama, and sat in a Stanford lecture hall.

I’ve seen people fall in love more times that I ever will, I've seen heartbreaks and divorces, I've seen love and all the sorts of strange ways to show it.

I’ve saved friends from a burning building, performed life-saving surgeries, I've walked through thick jungles without ever being afraid of death.

I've seen bodies being cut up, I've been in an ambulance on the way to a hospital, I was there as a woman got punished & tortured. I've witnessed death in so many ways that it is a theme rather than reality.

I've seen all of this, and more, more than you can even imagine.

And I've seen it all right in my bed.

The Fourth Industrial Revolution, The Fifth Paradigm, whatever you want to call it,

cyberspace is not a fabrication; it is a form of reality.

how will you create your reality?

who will you let code the Metaverse?

what kind of futures can we imagine?

slippery slippery slope

I just keep sliding

this ground like soap

I can't keep slipping

I continuously mope

on this slippery slippery slope

I am but tied to a rope

I'm on hard ground

and I see you

in this soft thick forest

I'm close to you

I'm with you

and yet I say nothing

slippery slippery-- nope

I'm here and it's now

there's no more waiting

and there is no rope

I can't keep sliding

this ground like soap

slippery slipper--

I only see you once a week

and now you're in front of me

you're my goal

but fear is in the way

slippery slippery slope

I'll sit on a log and mope

hard ground,

I'm better than this.

I might die tomorrow

so I'll get you now

but all this sorrow

is stopping me

and I'm just sliding down

this slippery slippery slope.

Tell me--

what am I waiting for?

what greater time than now?

to its deepest end,

life is at most a single moment

a slippery slippery slope

nothing more than what I wrote

all I can do to keep from falling

is clinging to your shoulder

grabbing onto your hand

and asking what your name is

what's your favorite band?

whatever it is, just say it

life is at most a single moment

this slippery slippery slope

and if I would only talk to you

just that would give me hope.

Something to strive for.

Someone to strive for.

Closer by one step.

Something to strive for,

the black shoes and red jacket

the blue eyes and short brown hair--

Someone to strive for,

and those eyes.

Someone to strive for,

closer by one step.

Something to strive for, yes

Someone to strive for

closer by one step.

Someone to strive for...

A person.

(_____.)

no thing is as good

for me

as good as you.

no song on the radio

except the ones you play,

no movie as exciting

as our experiences,

no food as sweet

as the light in my stomach,

no, not even twitter

gives me the rush

the happiness

the love of life

that I feel.

no thing is as good

for me

as good as you.

what's the point of having this body, if I'm scared to do anything with it?

I didn't ask for these curves

or these breasts

or my stupid long hair...

what's the point of being pretty and dainty and girly, what's the point of batting your eyelashes and licking your lips and swaying your hips as you walk,

what's the point of shaving your legs and wearing bikinis and long dresses and curling your hair and putting on make-up,

what's the point of bleeding once a month and worrying about tampons and having hormone-caused mood swings...

what's the point of being female, when you don't have a male to be a female for?

do you know that feeling of immese joy when you see them?

it's not the lust for their lips

or the desire of their affection;

it's the pure art of gazing

at their handsome constructed face

the way their hair falls around their eyes

the way they walk,

the charm of their words.

an immense joy, you're living on a cloud

and no one can bring you down.