Notes From the City of Brotherly Love (part 1 respectively)

Sitting at my parent’s house in Northeast Philadelphia, drinking a Yuengling Lager, listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, chain smoking in my dead grandfather’s pajamas and looking down at the first passport he was ever issued at the ripe age of 19 when he enlisted in the Navy and sailed off to Jerusalem. Thinking about life I guess. Wondering about death. Sifting through all the stuff in between. There’s a portable electric heater warming my too cold feet and the smell of smoke and my parents’ existence circling all around me. I’m thirty years old now. I don’t quite think I think about the actuality of that all too often. But I guess when you walk through your past and wander into some vaulted memories, well time just slows down and the reality of life and living and what that might mean to some comes sauntering into the old brain…and in the heart, the longing for some sense of understanding fights the synapses of logic.

This city has always had a hold on me. It shaped me, it taught me hard lessons, and it helped me to appreciate the deep beauty that lies within the ugliest of monsters. It’s never been a “nice” place in any sense of the word. And nothing has come easy here. There is no comfort that one should find in home. There is just the city. Its giant gaping mouth smiling in all of its harsh broken glory. Row homes, bleak and chipped and worn down shine like teeth in the most gruesome grin. This meaty heart is massive and pounding and rhythmically beats the days in and out of you. The train lines and bus lines and subway lines are the veins and arteries pushing the blood cells and the filth and the waste and the life that is the people through it’s insides. Tunnels carry us through the bowels and guts of the city, and graffiti of those dark wanderers lines the cavities…the space of no-sun, and the proof that we dwell exists, blatantly. You can feel the city breathing. You can smell its life force. The rivers, polluted as they are irrigate the pathways, and they carry new life and new commerce and they don’t stop, plugging away to the ocean. The neighborhoods change…so many diverse groups of people dot this metropolis. And each new place feels like a foreign country, or like a different organ in the body. No one place is the same, yet we are connected inherently by the “feeling” of this city, by the commanding DNA it orders upon us. We are blueprinted at an early age. A Philadelphian is a Philadelphian is a Philadelphian. Rich or poor, black or white, gay or straight, if you are here, chances are, you have SOME similarity to the others. And there are major differences, yes. But the same holds true if you are from here, or spend time here. And you can only understand if you possess it. And maybe in Texas, I forgot a bit. But when I deplaned at the Philly international airport, I felt my cell structure shifting. I heard my voice change. My thoughts moved differently. I was home.

I am in love with this place in a way I don’t have a full understanding of. I have no choice. I feel it in my bones; I feel it deep in my belly and in my chest. It works over me like the Holy Ghost. The grittiness washes over me every time. My palms get sweaty. All of my hopes and overwhelming intensity becomes heightened. My primal filthy instincts come welling up. My senses become ravaged. When I take to the street, I want to walk and walk and walk. I want to know every part of my devious, relentless lover. I want to match its unending lust. I want to soothe its destruction. I want to give back and I want to take and take and take. And I want to be able to beat the obstacles and pass the tests and make the shouting turn into whispers and promises.

I listened at an early age. My longing was created here. This city gave it to me. It tempted me. And I listened and I wandered. By the time I was old enough to know better I was exploring every neighborhood. I found streets and landmarks and histories. Each new place brought a new lesson, and a new tale. I worked every inch of the body of this place. I moved my hands all over and it became mine. And after I made my own promises, whispering over and over as I used this place up, I left. And after I left I came to realize, that I was not the user. I kept coming back for more, never quite being able to stay away. I moved to other cities and tried to love them, tried to let myself meld with them in the same intimate way I did here. My relationships were quick and lustful. They were instantly gratifying. I romanticized them and I lied to them and let them lie to me and I reveled in their obvious beauty. And still, I dreamt about home in the back of my mind. My memories playing out over and over again like images flickering on the wall from a dirty old projector. Dust floating about in the light that breaks the darkness. And when I come back. I am not forgiven. I must start over. And I may have my way, but the intimacy has changed. And I have changed. And I have changed. But I move my hands nonetheless, and I am alive no matter how hard or easy it is. I am forced into quiet reflective moments, and I often combat that with loud, violent protests of drinking, and yelling and raiding. And now, I am just quiet. With no rebel yell. Just with an understanding. A calm. Quiet. Strange. Unspoken. Understanding.

I listened better this time. I was forced to come here. I had to pay respect. I had to listen to my grandpa one more time. I had to hug my family. I had to pay attention. I had to shut my stupid foul immature boasting yelling unsure mouth. I had to wrestle my tongue to keep it fat and slimy in back, behind my teeth. I had to stop. Just stop. For a change. And I needed to listen. And not retort. Or give my side. Because really. My side doesn’t matter. And so I listened. I listened to everything. My body felt carried. I floated all over this place. And I was carried gently maybe, for the first time. Because I allowed it. And because I allowed it, it happened. And maybe because I’m thirty years old, I realized so much. And I saw things differently. And now, I’m scared to talk so much. Because listening is so nice.

My two dear friends and I shared a very intimate evening together. Our words working together in a song that hummed through my dreams. Their embraces seemed to last forever. Their laughter and knowing burned so bright in me. Our easy love passed around all night and awoke again after our dreaming time. Their simple touches, their tiny smiles, their dancing eyes, filled me with a feeling of closeness I hadn’t felt in awhile. I easily felt as though I didn’t deserve such a pure love and unspoken bond. But I gave them my heart in my own rough way as we sat and sipped beers on the rooftop, and danced to Roger Miller in the living room, and snuggled together, and woke together and ate breakfast and watched the rain slowly drizzle drizzle into the day. We laughed heartily and it filled me with such simple pleasure. And we reveled in this place. I sat with Erin on her front steps in South Philly and smoked and watched a woman in Muslim attire walk by, kicking trash out if the way in the sloppy wetness and talk too loudly on her cell phone, proclaiming “can you believe he tried to STAB me?” as if no one else in the world existed, and as if no one else could hear. And I walked along myself, alone that day, taking note of all of the angry homeless dogs who rule the streets, taking stock of all of the chicken bones stripped of their sustenance. I looked into the tired eyes, the somewhat smiles, the faces of many. I let the elevated train rock me back and fourth, feeling as though I was at church, listening, listening, listening to the Gospel of my city…preaching and preaching and preaching from those broken teeth. All of those neighborhoods beneath me holding the life of us all. Those streets carrying on with no seeming end in sight, with the dots of the people and the dogs and cats and trash all down below, all moving in the grey day. My memories moved inside of me and I started to cry quietly to myself right there on the train. It wasn’t a sad kind of weeping, and it wasn’t necessarily a happy or joyous sob, it was a slow irrigation, an almost private way of washing my memories out of my brain and from my body. This time home, I felt like the epic battle of having to have answers was not being fought. There felt no need. I was able to just be there. To take it in without the overwhelming overbearing intensity that usually feels pressed upon me. My experiences weren’t being imprinted, they were just happening. And I felt lucky, and humbled, and so quiet. And this was just the beginning really, of my journey back home, back to my family, back to my past.

I might be Doogie Howser

Wow. I’m pretty sure I’ve started another “blog” with that exact sentiment but I’m too goddamn lazy to even check for sure. My brain is swimming. I feel maybe more insane and unfocused than I have in a bit. It’s been yet another long and insane week full to the brim with adventures, emotions, a friend I haven’t seen in a very very long time, change I’m unsure of how to deal with properly, travel, and well, death.

In life it appears that there are always people who make a real mark on you, on us. There are always individuals who stand out, stand alone, push others, have strong stances and opinions, those whose stories, or words, or advice, or love or even hate presses a permanent stamp upon us. Those people tend to be the folks who remain, with us on our adventures, and our “paths” so to speak. I don’t want to write a goddamn Doogie Howser blog, but I guess I can’t avoid it when writing about something of this nature. My very close friend told me kindly that I’m not good at articulating myself when speaking verbally, but when I write, what I’m thinking seems to make sense. And everyone else tells me that I’m fairly good about tying everything in together, so the rambling began, and maybe the writing will commence.

My grandfather was one of the most amazing people I have known since my existence. I have very vivid memories of him even when I was a very young child. He had a way about him, and not in your typical “well, you know, he’s my grandpa and I love him kind of a way”. He spoke to us (my siblings and I) while we were children, as adults. And he expected us to cognitively understand him, as a human being. There was never any “goo goo gaga” with him. I can specifically remember him priming me at a very young age to ask questions and expect answers. By the time I was 8 years old I was given his already read copies of National Geographic. By the time I was 10, I was reading Smithsonian magazine. I was in the 2^nd grade when my mother, my then stepfather, my sister, my brother and myself moved in with my grandfather. He would sit and talk to me, answering my eighty million questions fairly patiently and recommended suggestions on how I could possibly learn more. My grandfather loved music, books and travel. He loved logic. He was passionate about things and subjects that I suppose the mind would call more rational than “romantic”. He created my love of geography, science, and philosophy. He was a man of the world, with epic tales of navy adventures, the way life was “then”, the common man’s dream, the super natural, the other worldly opportunities of the imagination and the ability to really, sincerely do whatever the fuck you really put your mind to. He was cut from a rare cloth. He contradicted himself in the fact that he was the most pessimistic optimist I have ever known. He taught me most things I carry along in my mental handbook for the living. He awakened me at such a severely young age and he expected the world of me…and I tried. And I still try mostly because of him.

While sitting around at Christmas just after my 16^th birthday he saw me thumbing through an album I created of photographs from magazines. I had been cutting images out for over a year and keeping them to pour over, enjoy, question, and wonder about. He asked me why I had made such an album and why I wasn’t making my own photographs. I answered simply that I had not had my own camera. He then decided that I should own a camera if I was that interested in images and that I should be making my own images, to eventually create my own “album”. He took me a few weeks later to the army/navy exchange at the then functioning navy yard in Philadelphia and bought me my very first camera. I remember feeling really quite embarrassed that I was given something of such value and then taking it to my secret hiding spot and trying to figure the damn thing out. I started making images because my grandfather believed in me. I wasn’t any good at it for a few years, but his sincere belief pushed me always to continue. He came to every show I had (in Philadelphia) and would stand and look at my work and tell me that when I was ready, he would help me publish a book. His approval was genuine, because, when I was dicking around and being lazy, he would never hesitate to let me know that if I neglected to work hard, I’d fall by the wayside, like every other “jackass with a shitbrained dream”. He expected the most, nothing less, and because of this, for the most part, I have never settled for anything less than I “want”. He did this with most of us. My mother would contest that he did in fact, change her life. He changed many people’s lives. And hilariously enough, I suppose most people would find him fairly disagreeable, ornery, slightly intellectually snobbish and sometimes too downright honest. He was a man who stood by his word, and because he believed that he lived by his word, he expected nothing less of others. He molded me to understand respect. He taught me the importance of keeping a promise and meaning what you say. He taught me to respect myself overall, and explained graciously over many years the extreme power of self-respect and self-belief. He was by no means a wealthy man, but seemed to live life to the fullest of his hopes and dreams. My grandfather really might be the most important human being in my life. And now he’s gone. Hilariously enough, I don’t feel as though he’s gone. He believed in life after death. I’m almost positive he’s standing over me at this moment correcting my grammar and telling me how to make this more to the point. I’m also sure he understands that much like him, I can never really quite get to the point, until I have winded myself.

We corresponded with one another for many years, both of us sending many pages of our adventures, our past, our hopes, our beliefs and our experiences. We had a sincere bond, and I genuinely looked forward to his letters each month, most often times reading them aloud to my friends. He had such a perspective, a vibrant way of linguistically illustrating all that was happening, or had happened in his life. Oh he could paint a picture. His letters encouraged me to write, to photograph, to live, to love, to travel to feel every breath I was taking in and pushing out, to observe and to document. They pushed me to not care what people think of me, to not doubt myself, to keep going, keep moving; feed the longing, to not give into the weaknesses. They reminded me to appreciate all that was around me, to tell those around me how grateful I am for their friendship. They encouraged me to reach into the actual depths of my insane imagination and believe in the unreal, the impossible, the ridiculous and the absurd. I suppose in a sense, my own letters to him provided him with entertainment and perhaps a sense of pride. Our connection and simple camaraderie gave me comfort in my darkest and weakest times. As his health declined, his letters became sparse. I would hold onto each word if in fact he did return a letter. I was expecting the worst after awhile, but I felt as though he was preparing me. In reality though, nothing could have prepared me. I feel strange. I feel older. I feel as if I am in some emotional vacuum. I can’t quite explain it. He’s gone…I know he’s gone. But I guess, when you’re a person of such magnitude, of such quality and such presence, you don’t really “go”. He engraved in us such a force of will. He instilled such a burning sense of “living” that it is impossible to actually let him go. And like those people who tend to impress on you, on us, their own way of being, they stick with you, through thick and thin, through the most amazing times and the most boring, through life and death. They just remain who they are or who they were, and you (us) are affected by them continually, not necessarily by accident or by fate, but perhaps by necessity. Thank you Karl. You certainly did always say, “if you don’t like where you are, change your mind” and you certainly always meant it. And I’ll be goddamned if I’m not grateful for that one…amongst all the rest. Spose I’ll see you again when I get there myself….until then….

-KG

Flying The Friendly Skies

American Airlines Gate B37 Dallas/Ft Worth Airport. Destination: Midland/Odessa Airport. Initial Point of Start of Journey: Rincon, Puerto Rico to San Juan Puerto Rico.

I woke up at 5:15 am next to a sleeping Johnny, who was comfortably sprawled out and breathing rhythmically. I occurred to me that I wouldn’t see him again for quite some time and I had realized that I somehow did not spend a proper time with him. I utilized most of my vacation to relax and over think things. The drive from Rincon to San Juan was nothing short of gorgeous. Puerto Rico really is quite a beautiful island. Covered in lush greenery and rising and falling brush covered hills all about. White beaches surround the bright green pupil of the island and the endless blue ocean spans out toward the horizon. Colored houses and dwellings speckle the landscape, and in the towns and cities, they are close cropped, all in together, like Easter eggs in a basket. I watched the landscape slip by as the sun came up and I laughed easily with my sister and her gracious and goofy boyfriend. I felt a slight tug of sadness; I would miss this place…and certainly, miss my family and my best buddy. The week really did move by quickly. I arrived early on Saturday morning, I saw Bjork wandering around at a festival by El Faro on Monday, On Tuesday I wandered around the town (overrun with many rugged, scraggly and homeless cats and dogs and some well kept horses, I sat in a catholic church, the shadiest place in the hot hot day, to perhaps make some words with God, and wandered into a Dive bar (like divers, Scuba) where I drank some Coronas with my buddy and watched a very old Puerto Rican man with gin blossoms dancing merrily to mash-ups of music from the 40’s and 50’s. My sister was married on the beach at sunset on Wednesday. On Thursday I slept in the sun, read most of a novel, swam in the ocean for many hours and wrote as much as I could. Friday I went “snorkeling” for the first time while my sister and stepfather threw up off of the side of the boat and Johnny turned as green as I’ve ever seen anyone. Saturday, that’s now. I left. And after a really shitty time in the San Juan airport (yet again) I climbed aboard the big airplane and took off into the morning sun, saying goodbye to Puerto Rico and to my family. The week contained so many details, and so much more that I just can’t write at this particular moment. It was jam-packed and relaxing at the same time. I thought about it all as I fell into sleep next to an extremely attractive boy who also fell asleep and snuggled with me (maybe by accident). When I awoke, his hand was on my knee…and he was still sleeping. I fell asleep and let my head fall to his shoulder. We both woke up and began talking to each other. He was leaving St. Thomas (where his family resides) to go to Wichita Falls, where he will be living until he’s shipped off to Afghanistan in a few weeks. He’s only 25 and looks perhaps a bit younger, A pretty face, smooth ebony skin and bright dancing brown eyes, he told me of his tour in Iraq and of the places he’s been stationed. He made the 5-hour flight more than tolerable, and we both fell in and out of sleep and conversation. He was polite and slightly adorable, offering me his snacks, offering to share headphones to watch the movie and offering his shoulder for sleep. I almost didn’t want to see him go, but I genuinely enjoyed our brief time and swapping of stories.

When I got to the Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport, I was immediately annoyed. I just don’t like that place. They seem to always have a goddamn gate change, and well this time, as I started to write this, the console at the gate that my flight was changed to (B37) randomly started smoking and caught on fire. At first I couldn’t help but laugh, but as the smoke really started pouring out and the firemen and police came, well, I know our flight would be delayed. Of course, they had to make sure this was no terrorist attack, and of course everything became quite a big deal, and of course, I was filled with ultimate rage. I am the master of the worst luck when it comes to flying, see the entry from my first day in Puerto Rico. I could spew them out. I’ve had some ridiculous traveling mishaps, but really? Fire? The console randomly blowing up? Seriously? Goodness. I befriended a man and a woman going to Killeen Texas and we made jokes and passed the time. I really loved those guys. They left me and I befriended a woman on my flight that is heading to Alpine after Midland, a tough cookie with a good sense of humor and a very wonderful West Texas way about her. Finally, after maybe 4 fireman, 3 Police Officers and 6 Airport Maintence folk determined that we were not under siege, we were allowed to board our tiny tiny airplane. I am sitting now, watching the propellers and enjoying the sickening turbulence and hoping that my dear, dear friend will notice that my flight is slightly delayed and be patient and not leave me in Midland. I’ve come to realize that I hate flying, and that really, if I did not love the story swapping of strangers so much, I most likely would not be able to even tolerate it. I’ve flown so much over the years, at times flying eight or nine times a year, and I have flown alone almost all of my time flying. It gives you to much time to think , and of course to contemplate the small (ness) of man, the huge (ness) of the Earth, the vast (ness) of space, the silliness of society, the patterns of nature and of man and so on and so fourth. Currently I’m freezing my ass off and wishing I would have pissed at the airport and I’m ready to just not be in fucking transit for a minute when I get on the ground…and I’m thinking and thinking and wishing I didn’t drink that fake ass McDonald’s Iced Mocha (which is churning in my belly and creating some probable damage in the form of gases and other awfuls).

I’ll think instead of how nice that place was that I was just in. It seems like a dream that I was there. When I first arrived I couldn’t believe that I was lucky enough to be staying there. The Villa looked like something out of a hip hop video, fancy. Marble countertops, plush leather couches, giant flat screen TV, exquisite cook ware (very nice sauté pans and knives I considered stealing), memory foam beds, a balcony in each room, each room with it’s own giant bathroom, open tile work showers. Each Villa had its only balcony overlooking the beach complete with hammock, a dining room table and a grill. Our families took up 4 villas total and so we all moved from Villa to Villa throughout our stay, and this was fun and exciting to see what everyone was up to and what the happenings were. The roof had a pool that changed colors at night, had jets for massaging and gave the illusion that the water was dripping from the pool into the ocean down below. There were hammocks and chairs and this was a nice place to lie in the sun and read until you were hot enough to sit in the pool and be massaged. The ocean, the beach, the swaying palms were all at our disposal, and we swam in the morning, the noon and at night. I floated with Jerry’s father in the ocean at nearly four o-clock in the morning looking at the stars and watching the morning trying to come. I swam with my family throughout the day, and I snorkeled with my brother, diving down into a reef, to look at funny fish and plants I’ve never seen. The ocean was the roughest I have ever been in, and I sincerely at one point thought I’d drown and the fear felt good to fight as I swam hard and let the violent waves plunder me. I love the ocean, always have. I stayed in as much as I could. And I was really, really sad to leave it, it physically pained me to leave that ocean. I was in the most luxurious place I have ever been. I was grateful for it every second I was there. My skin is tanned, my clothes still smell of sun block and beach, and my hair is a shade lighter from the ruthless sun. I’m wearing flip-flops, and this might be the first day I haven’t worn a swimsuit in a week. Goodbye beach, hello desert. Back to the mysterious mountains, the ghostly hot springs, my dear good friends who I missed so much, my chef jacket, my knives and my thermometer, and that goddamn line, my new roommate and my new home, my last month with Mark (which I’m not even ready to think about…it’s hard to love someone too much sometimes), the blooming cacti and plant life in the park and new adventures. The park is ours again, Spring Break is over, and I’ll start to say goodbye to Texas...and honestly, I don’t know if I can really let it go as easily as I think I can. This is my home right now…and for the first time in a very long time, I am excited to go back “home” after being away. And this is my home. The Chisos Basin, the Chihuahua Desert, the nicest border between Texas and Mexico….under the visible Milky way halfway between there and here and the middle of nowhere. And goddamn if I can’t wait to get back there via back roads and un-ending roads and whatever Texas and Mark have to offer me when I touch down. Well…I guess I can’t hardly wait. Until then…-KG

Existential Ridiculousness

I am listening to, or rather I should say “hearing” many different things right now. I’m sitting on the back porch of the villa we are staying in and the waves are crashing and smashing angrily against the wall below. I can hear the beach being pulled out toward the beginning of the night and the end of the sky. There are many stars twinkling up there above. Many many Spanish speaking children with shrill voices are yelling and calling out to one another, chasing each other and I can hear the scampering of their tiny feet on tiles as their voices call out and scream in delight as they play. It is 7:45 pm but it feels much later. I have taken a day of extreme rest, only laboring to go up to the balcony to read, or to situate myself in a hammock. I have achieved nothing today except absolute relaxation and finally, time to myself. I am surrounded by the echoes of voices and the constant repetitious sound of nature and the smells that are enveloping me are many as well, the salty sea air, rich and heavy in the nighttime humidity, Spanish food, thick with season and care, hamburguesas, papas fritas, the faint smell of perfume floating on the air, and the cheap wine I am sipping. All of this feels warm and comforting and reassuring somehow as I sit alone, typing in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of my laptop. I feel slightly lonesome, but I suppose this melancholy feeling does tend to plague me when I’m feeling observant and wishing to share experiences with someone or other.

It’s been a swell trip. A real life vacation. An odd time space continuum. My sense of reality has been changed greatly this year, the common and well-known foundry that I have previously stood sturdy on my entire life crumbling. This new way of sensing things around me, of being, can be at oft times very confusing as I tend to not recover my past or think of my future so much. And, it gives the sensation of floating, with no purpose or reason, to have nothing beneath my feet, and to only feed on the present longings of the heart and brain, and to only utilize and embrace the power of observation and of course, those observations themselves. Life is fleeting, and I have been grasping this more truthfully over this past year, and the exact understanding that permanence is impossible does indeed make complications within the lackluster human condition and the longing for security and comfort. To be around my family can at times throw a wrench into the gears, for they are the living proof of my existence and from whence I came. And they do provide comfort, however, the truth in my past is still intertwined with whatever persona I have created for myself. And this acceptance, of truth and love and human family understanding has for the first time really become a part of me. This is both amazing to feel and overwhelming at the same time. My family is my life, has always been my life, and I have somehow not been wholly aware of this. What a childish thing. I am an adult. I have been realizing it awhile now, but here, in these quiet moments, as I wandered around the villa alone, taking in all of the personalized scents of my varying family members, their left behind belongings building me a story, I realized how grateful I am for them, and how perhaps, I have failed them as a human being and maybe as a family member. I let this grievance only last a few moments and then I embraced them fully, my family, and I felt only a comfort of knowing and maybe a longing to be able to be the way they are with each other, close. I suppose I’m “close” in my own way, but as I get older, I become more awkward, and more comfortable only in observation. I feel closer to everyone when I am further away. It is a flaw. A weakness. Something I don’t understand fully. Being here alone, I feel aware. The consequences of my chosen lifestyle gnaw at me only at times. The realization that I have not stayed in the same place for more than 7 months in the last 5 years at the very least is both exciting and troubling. I have not been able to accurately maintain a constant relationship with anyone, save for the long distance friendships of love and affection via the United States post office and sealed only with a stamp. I have been in love severely with many geographic locations and have not been monogamous with any place on the map. I make promises under my breath, to these places, and I betray them not long after, as I look for something else, the rush of the western mountains, the sweeping horizon of a beach, the endless burning desert, the rise and fall of a constantly breathing dirty filthy city. I am unsure of how to stop. I’ve used relationships as excuses to set and become comfortable. Let the caress of an intimacy replace my constant longing for exploration and the need to fill the lonesome burning cavities of curiosity. And in those relationships, I have a deep knowledge in my heart (no matter how hard my heart does try to hold on) that all of this will be fleeting. I think of this as I just witnessed my sister’s marriage. I looked around at all of my family on the beach. Everyone for the most part was paired up in love. I could see my sister’s life unwinding, as she repeated her vows to her now husband. I saw the tremble in their hands and the intensity in their embrace and their kiss as they bound their lives together. I could see her in the next few years, with children, completing the cycle. I looked around at the other family, some with kids themselves, I looked upon our parents, who created this legacy. I looked at all of their lives, and I felt separate somehow (self induced). I wondered if perhaps, it may at some point be possible for me to wed, to love so permanently, to perhaps create my own living breathing legacy and not just the stale weathered pages of journals, r the glowing, flickering electronic tablets upon my laptop. For ten years I have been moving often. I am filled with a constant buzzing, anxious energy, and I lack the normalcy I so desire that folks have to accomplish, and conquer and make the world their own. I am fleeting, and useful for only periods of time, and I have said often, that I have an expiration date. I have made these things up, and I have done so as to fulfill my own wants and needs and that constant longing, which, I seem to feel no control over. I have tried unsuccessfully to settle, to stop, to lay my head upon the same pillow in the same place next to the same face for a very long (to myself) period of time. And that greedy longing sabotaged me. My belly all-full of fire too oft. My head full of rocks and false wishes and all of the daydreams I like to make my reality. I did in fact fall in love really, and I did see a future flickering, and I believed it for a moment, and it did not work out and somehow, I felt a sense of relief upon being set out to my own lonesome freedom. These days, they are all so long and so unsure, and in that unsurity, I feel such a comfort, because I know in my heart I do not have to commit to anything when everything is ever changing. I am thinking these things as the scenario out here changes this evening, the sounds muffling over time, the children quieting down as they grow tired, the smells of cooking being carried out to sea as it becomes ever later, the ocean the only constant, and that even, not as rough and tumble as hours before. The moon changing location, the stars twinkling in different places, as we, turn, on our axis, and folks set down to put their head to the pillow to dream. Things change, they always do. Change and growth are always. My sister is no longer a child; my brother is no longer (and hasn’t been for some time) my child. My mother is more my mother than she has ever been. My step father is more my father than just the man who stepped in and took care of us, my brother in law’s family has been my family more than I could have recalled. All of the things I have thought before are not as they are right now and in awhile, they will be nothing more or something better and I do not know what they will be or when they will be. Relaxing has a funny way of making the brain and the heart listen to one another. The full moon and the pulling and pushing of the ocean might be related. I haven’t allowed myself the leisure to sit and write like this in some time, so I apologize. I can only sit here and feel the tug, the longing, and find comfort in my solitude, because perhaps, I have not yet learned how to love properly, and because like an naive person, I can only sit and watch and be amazed by all this is around me. For now, g’nite. . -KG