notes from today's end-of-summer day

my sleep has been restless and uncompromising. i wiggle before bed, wiggle when i wake in the night, wiggle wiggle wiggle. something is awry. 

five days ago i concentrated all the heat in my body to my belly until i felt it turn my stomach into bread.

the sweat behind my knees is so egrecious sometimes i think i feel it drip down to my heels. and it doesn't. something else is crawling there. 

the mosquitos here. when i kill them, all i see is black. 

once, a friend told me he let mosquitos drink his blood. meditated on it. said it was his gift to them. they needed it more than he did. 

discomfort breeds cortisol. it is in my best interest to defeat myself. 

don't pick your tattoo scabs. just don't. 

when i can't defeat myself, i simply allow the reality of me to fall away. dream myself back to joy. 

in fort collins, my shadow walks three feet behind me. i wonder if it's me i'm afraid of. 

i've taken to memory in the present tense. as in, the power of constant reproduction. 

there are things about the place i am in that bother me. the cat, the smell, how empty. 

one day it might change. the cat, the smell, how empty it never was. 

if fullness is the absence of space, i am in the space i fill. getting in my own way. this is how i felt two years ago. i'm afraid i am two-years ago again. 

if a blog isn't a space to play and be bad, i don't know what is. 

this feeling: to scratch off one's skin and try again, to digest discomfort. it's not new or unique. so many of us have felt this way. 

the fly buzzing up my leg. 

scabs i shouldn't pick. 

these problems are impressive. so impressive we try to be rid of them. afraid they will best our bestest. it's funny. living can't know the difference between us. 

when it's right, i'll bend over, eat the skin i can't stand, breathe it out like sawdust. which is to say, blow it out of my nose. 

today i have to remind myself more than usual how sacred i am. 

what happens deep in our toes. that is the thing i want to remember. constantly reproduce. 

i wish i hated the bindweed in our garden more. 

i say "our" because i wish i had more time. more of me to deal with. that i had plants growing from my pores. 

what if there is no such thing as discomfort. or guilt. all suffering. all worthy of me.  

as strange as this may seem, i'm actually doing okay. 

just tired. remembering to open my eyes. 

the water of me is seeping. 


thanks for reading folks! smell ya next time. 

XOXO BLT

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