Thin Glaze


The little bird has flown to the window, spits out its three seconds of song, and flies away, certain it has spoken the entirety of its truth.

Sometimes I feel like these posts are my three seconds of song.   It’s pretty imposing to consider everything and try and consolidate it into something portable, memorable, strong.   Especially when the day seems much less a framework of time and more a fixed point I can only approach, never actually reach.

It’s weird right now.   I’m eating badly and I am hating myself for it and I’m making it into a thing it doesn’t need to be.  I was in such a good groove and then this giant 8-ball of stress came rolling up on my ankles and while I have been wearing the fitbit the past couple of days, and doing my situps and riding on the bike for ten minutes, I haven’t been pushing it.  I haven’t been doing the extra I need to do.  And I’ve been forcing myself to eat, really, more than I want of things that I don’t want down my gullet just because I tell myself it’s somehow justified right now.

It’s really a whole pain in the ass mental showdown I keep hosting down the OK Corral of my mind.  I know I can do it.  I know it’s nothing at all.  I am just getting in my way because of the stress and because of the fear.  And the rest of this month offers no respite for this.

So, keeping up with that cycling and situps, striving towards 5000 steps a day through August (especially once I get back from Bristol and before  Red Rocks) and hopefully, stay on relative course for September when my hours will be a bit more my own.


So that’s the news about the diet.

I’ve so much to do, really, I cannot keep laying here.


It’s been a long time, you know.  It’s been a damn long time.   You are persistent in the way any good appliance is so long as it’s given power to operate.   And I’m unable to pull the plug.

There are no real alternatives, but to keep the juice flowing, the light in the room warm and steady and hope that you’ll come home to nest.

It’s not unlike being dead myself.  This waiting.  But if this is death: your still-growing nails running down my back, my memory, my summers and my autumns, if this is what I have to fear.  Then, I don’t mind so much.  Because although it’s not enough, it’s something.  And it’s something that makes me feel so good, so tall, so much myself that it seems like living twice over.

Funny to be living with your corpse, and me spending half my time how to dump myself in your Hudson.

A girl should seek the future, not ghosts and zombies, shambling mounds of blue-tinged flesh and yellow-bellied mythology, but no Rocket Man has ever given me such good company.

I can sit at your bedside, read the love poems you must write out in your EKG.