If...

...there is a switch then I'm sure I've flipped it, because I walk blind until I find the light. We all do.
This is not a revelation.  This is not an 'everything that defines anything' because anything is everything and it all eventually means something to somebody. I could be nobody. I could be somebody.  I am a body that is good at nothing and then, suddenly, is excellent at everything.  It's all a 'thing' of some kind, otherwise, it would be nothing, even though nothing is a thing itself.  I'm trapped. I'm free. I'm me, me, me. I'm the record that keeps skipping while you sing songs from the heart, but the heart skips too, don't it?

Life. Life is a collection of words and actions, a movement of the mind, a sense of the heart, a kick in the gut, and then you strut, strut, strut. You strut towards something, hips and all, hair and all, eyes outlined with a thin trace of black. And suddenly, it is much harder to cry because you don't want to stain the skin that keeps you inside.

I am inside. I am outside. I'm at your side. Beside. Backside. I'm twisting and turning and laughing and and shrinking from everything that has anything to do with something that makes me aware of what I am, and who I am, because I'm too fucking good for everything and suddenly, everything is too good for me.

I'm skating on thin ice, you say, and I think, the water isn't deep enough for me to drown in.

And I keep going.

I am afraid of nothing. I am afraid of everything. I am fierce when wounded and I'm so fucking fragile when I'm fierce. You can break me, but you will not break me, because I have every right to be whole. Arms, legs, thighs, back, neck, face, eyes, lips, tongue, hair, skin and all these things that keep me in. Yes, they keep me in because I am not the trash that you take out. I am the trash that you take in. I'm worth something, because I am me, me, me, and I strut, strut, strut in your direction with the wind that pushes me along the sidewalk because I am light and it is heavy, just like the Earth wanted us to be.

I am a perfect...thing.

This weekend I spent a great deal of time watching ants in a vast space. They seemed nicer than people. Not once did they climb over my shoe or my fingers, not even when I invited them to. They are small and I am big and yet, they did not need me, as if they knew I presented them with nothing more than a hurdle over a genuine interest to help. And how can I help when my fingers are too big for the things that they carry? Yes, the things that they carry. How is it that I can carry something as big as a chair, but I cannot, cannot, cannot carry a fucking grain of dirt?  And sometimes it's as if strangers are sticking their fingers out mid-road for me to climb over, but the ants aren't stupid, they go around, and so can I.  These hands and fingers and games deter me. Who the hell do you think you are anyway, sticking your fucking feet and hands in my roadway, offering to carry what isn't yours, what you cannot possibly carry because your fucking hands weren't built for it, built for my world?

Wind in hair, sun on skin, song in mind, and all is fine, because the wind that shakes barley is the same wind that will drape night over day and bring me back to love in a wooden chest. Love cased inside bone.

Heart skips beats, but this record keeps skipping, it's a-ah- ah-ah skipping.  Now what?

The White Rabbit.

If I were anyone but me I would be you, but I'm not you so why would I be anything but me? I cannot be anything but me. I am me. I am me all the time. I sit inside my skin, like a seed inside fruit. I cannot be eaten, but I can be planted, if I'm not discarded, that is.
I'm losing track of days again. I had no idea it was the 31st. I had no idea it was 7PM. I had no idea that I had no idea until I looked at the calender and realized that I have not been realizing anything but what is inside me. Dates, times and headlines like coils and springs under my mattress line themselves along my spine and I must remember them, because if I don't then I must not be human, Humans remember dates, and times, and Japan(did the plant blow up yet?) Shit like that is important. Waiting for the inevitable is important. Standing and waiting and feeling your spine curve and buckle under pressure is important. It's what people do. When they smile at each other. When they say things to each other. When they go to work, and they go places and do things. They really mean to wait and remember and remember to wait, for the inevitable.
I must be broken, because I am not waiting. Because I have no idea what time it is unless someone else is coming, and I have no clue as to what the date is or should be, unless someone else is leaving. I am always late and if I am late its because I think I have time and then, according to someone, I don't have time, and suddenly, it as if I'm not me anymore because my time is someone else's and its incorrect, they say, its incofuckingrrect. And then I think it is Tuesday. And it must be mid March, but, it suddenly isn't because someone made an appointment to see me on the 2nd. April is in a few days. And I think, that's impossible. And suddenly, it like, I'm not me anymore, I am someone else. I'm someone else's day. I'm, something else entirely. Because my days and my months don't match what someone else has, neither does my watch, and suddenly, I'm someone else, because, I'm incorrect.
Not right.
Or, am I?
I want someone to find me and not tell me about time. I just want them to be happy to see me. On whatever day. Who cares?

SSP

Without title.

Things are changing at the rate of ten thousand heartbeats per minute, and I wonder, how does the Earth continue to spin?

She's the longest survivor in history.

And yes, the only difference between then and now is that I have stopped relying on expectation and am now filling my head with illusions, delusions and bright colored memos I hand out like tic-tacs. One for you, one for now, one for later. 

Yeehaw.

And no, you can't possibly walk a mile in my boots. Where I was and who I was has chiseled itself down into a shape you can't possibly misinterpret. I am a silhouette in nighttime. A stone in daytime. But I am the same shape, all the time.

On Monday I found myself in Key West, Florida, holding on to a hand, intertwining my fingers with anothers, watching the sun fall behind a liquid line, thinking, damn, this beer tastes good. And yes, we have all gathered here to watch you drown. But damn does this beer taste good.

The water keeps moving, even after the sun is gone,  and stones keep skipping, and the fish keep wishing they were me. Free to walk on this land, dodging nets like they can't. Try and keep me confined, my tongue will work its way out of the ties that bind because that's what I'm good at.

And you, what are you good at? 

Or are you like the Earth, spinning because you can't will yourself to stop? Sharpening your mountains, and peppering your waters with oil slicks that poison no one else but yourself. Think about that the next time you spew volcanic ash in my direction.  My physical being is the only thing that can perish. The rest of me goes on.

And on.

And on. and on. and on.

On Thursday I went to meet Elizabeth Mitchell. My pride would not allow me to sprint in her direction. Fingers frozen, tears at the brims of my eyes, there you are, in your brown skirt and high ass heels. And here I am, waiting. No, thats not how this story will go. I will meet you again, I think, when I have more to say to you. No, when you have more to say to me. 

Someday.

The rain keeps falling, beating on my eardrum. The clock is ticking. My words keep jabbing. 

Pay me what I'm worth.

Always.

And on. and on. and on.