The Deep

Recently, I've been writing down my dreams. This is partially because S. hates to listen to dreams, and partially because I find all dreams to be completely fascinating. Who are we, when we dream? Where do we go? What do we hope to find there? Why is this movie so messed up?

Brb, gotta go rescue King Morpheus. (I also suffer from chronic nightmares, which Little Nemo and I have in common, I guess. More on that later.)
Anyway, poems, as a form, lend themselves well to this type of thing: the fractured, vivid images; vague impressions; elements that morph into other elements; the stark narrative of disparate ideas stood side by side.
I love all of these odd little poems, but if dreams aren't your thing, you might not respond to them. This one is still fresh, very fresh, but I hope you find it as evocative as I did when I was in it.

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The Deep (September 2015)

“Is it lonely underwater?” I asked my dad, fear moving my lips.
He said, “Only when you see a shark coming out of the darkness.”

There were spiny rock fish as big as dragons, lashing their tails through
tree-sized anemones, floating crab claws like human arms.

I saw the lights of the bus tours ahead, people bustling, checking tickets, climbing aboard, drawing a

breath safely inside. They want to see nature, but not drown.
I heard my brother and sister talking, our tires deep in ancient grooves as we rumbled through midnight, descending.

Waves (I AM DOING THE SOCIAL MEDIA THIS IS IT)

Since my last blog post (nearly two years to the day!), I have had some thoughts I would like to share with you.

1) Nearly my entire life, I have been resistant to progress/the interweb/social media, and while that is fun and all—and being a hater IS fun—it has gotten me NOWHERE.
2) I have some writing. Lots of writing. Mountains of writing. You know the scene in the Sword in the Stone where Arthur has like a whole dungeon full of dishes to do? It's like that, but with words.

Pictured: my literal kitchen, my metaphorical bookshelf.

That being said, I'm pretty sure there is something in this pile that is useful. So The Plan (tm) is to tidy up the writing junk heap and begin selecting and presenting some of these words to you, in case you want to read them. I am optimistically choosing to do this on my blog, which means some of the writings on Facebook will be coming down soon, because neatness.

Oh! And this may take a while. I have a technological skills deficit the size of the national debt, so The Plan will have to be executed in phases. I hope ya'll stay with me. Here's a poem to tide you over.

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Waves (July 2012)

The crazy thing is:

your waves endure.

Today, your rushing by, your length, striding.

I thought: wind.

I remember what I loved,

how I floated on the surface you unsettled.

What is so real, now? Limbs lying in pools of sunlight?

What is so lit in memory, the drops of water on your face?

Your leaving and entering the world through the portal of a book?

There was nothing so mutable and yet so solid,

nothing so fast,

nothing that doesn’t blaze across my mind like bands of fire,

streaking across the sea toward the past, to where we’re still us

somewhere.