marked suffering

To be made to undergo, to endure.  To carry.  The root is the same as passion, and passion flowers are named for their resemblance to the crown of thorns.  This is all so very cry cry bob dylan cry.  This is what my phone tells me, on the way between here and there again, in the same cafe between two worlds, and everyone I miss is here again, in their ghostly shells.  I'm sorry I couldn't go to the cemetery this week, but there was a cleaning, and it's going to help me to decipher the words of the living and the dead, and by April I should be able to tell them apart.

On some mornings, my daughter is the one person that I need the most in the world, and those mornings are growing more and more frequent.  That's how it was this morning, I woke up and she was there, sleeping in the other room, the one where strangers' voices intercede on my dreams, but she sleeps more deeply than I do, because she is still growing a lot, and I'm just growing in different ways.  But after two weeks of waking up with a wish that I would be a little more asleep for a little longer, I am getting used to the idea that our bodies continue to grow in other dimensions, and I've needed a lot more food lately.  I'm terribly hungry, and that's just a small part of the reason why I'm here already, at the cafe, before I even left to trace my bones between the desert and the ocean.  The mountain is for ancestor bones, I wish she could see it, not the daughter, she saw it, the other one, the one who stays by leaving. 

But she's already here, in the cafe, and I'm trying to decide about whether or not I should finish my sandwich, or go and talk to her.  It should be an easy decision, but conversations with her are hard because they always end.  And then it's just me and my bones trying to find my way up into the mountains again, and the mountains always tell me that these things are set in motion long before I was born, and if all I do is live to track them, then everything will work out the way it was designed.

It wasn't very long ago that I thought that following the designs was a mistake, that I always had to make new marks in the clay, new fingerprints on the canvas, and new sounds in the rooms where no one had heard those sounds before, but today I just want to be able to make the sounds that are already there come through me.  It's a subtle distinction, but it's an entirely different view of the world from the inside. 

So I'm in the cafe, because I left early so I could escape, but everyone is here, and she's the only one I want to talk with right now, but there's this sandwich.  I wish this were more romantic, that I could say I got this sandwich with ingredients that reminded me of her, but in truth, I don't know if she ever really ate all that much, which is good for some discourses, because she isn't food.  There's someone in the corner, the one who is always still there, and she was always all butter, and everyone loves butter.  There's someone new, she's close by, and I think I could talk to her, but I'm not entirely sure yet, and this year I am only doing the things I'm entirely sure about.  You would think that this would mean I don't do very much, but that's not true, and I have to keep reminding myself that these are the things I am sure about.  The work, the images and the words, the dreams turned into poems to the goddess of dreaming, the food, this cigar, those boots that zip, and the ones that wrap around my calves when there's a war on.

In my dreams I meet her here and we talk about the war, so many wars, and while bombs are falling we're discussing the sexiest silhouettes, and the things we get to do when we're wolves.  But this isn't a dream, it's something else, something entirely in between, and something that separates me from the world like I were watching it through sheets of rain.

For too many months I've been thinking about things that can never be, and everything changed when I found out that the things that can never be already are, the things I wanted but couldn't have were already there, carrying a face buried in the back of my motorcycle jacket, reflecting me back to myself through smell, and all of a sudden, all of a sudden, all of a sudden.

Everything changes when we have our heads turned, and our eyes on the road beneath our feet.  And I want to stay, but these are ghosts, ghosts who are unfair or unconcerned that they take away from their counterparts who walk in real bodies in real time.  So I have to go to the ocean, to make prayers to the ocean with the rain that falls from my body.  I'm not alone.

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