Month: June 2016

The 11th of June 201- – Raleigh, North Carolina

(found ‘neath the oak’s boughs)

I will leave this here, knowing you will find it. Maybe I will clip it to a tree limb or tack it up against the trunk. Maybe I will hide it beneath a stone, the weight of which will hold my love for you in place.

I know that, wherever I put it, you will, when you come along through here, know exactly where to look. That was your knack.

It was a mighty gust of wind. It must have been. Or a terrifying peal of thunder. Or a shocking bolt of lightning. It must have been.

I blinked. At least, that’s how it felt to me. Then you were lost in the shadows of the evening, gone in what the sun cast down where its light failed to shine through the canopy.

I haven’t moved, dearest. I haven’t moved much, and I’ve found a patch of this forest that is rather quite nice. The sun shines through around noontime and warms the grass. In the warmth, I dream of you, warm you. I feel your arms and the beat of your heart tremble faintly through your shirt and mine. I awake in the darkness with a cold sweat collecting in the small of my back.

There is a smile on my face. The dream felt as real as it did yesterday, as real as it did a year and two months ago. A yellow beam of sunlight shines through the leaves. The shaft of it glimmers into the future.

What a beautiful future.

I’ve found a hollow in this oak tree. I’m sure you will find this message there. When you come passing through.



The 23rd of June 2016 – London, England

(found under a Union Jack)

Oh World,

Oh, and so the time will tell. The years will pass. We will see. We will harvest what is left of the fruits of our labours.

We will follow paths. Will we make new paths?

We will follow people. We will follow persons. Will they be worth our following them?

I met a man. He was God. He was Brahmin. He was Creator.

He told me the way. He told me the path that I would make. He told me the road to disaster and communion and how to avoid it and how to find it. He told me. He told me all.

God spoke to me, Oh World. Spoke to me indeed. Told me all there is to know.

He said “Follow your heart.” He said “Look out for yourself.” He said “There is no path to follow other than the path that lies before your feet, for your feet are the only feet that you see to be walking, and so then your feet must be the only feet that exist.”

I believe. I have found the lord. I have become at-one. It is a dusty road.

It is a barren plain.

But I trust the God that I have found.

“The righteous are the right” is what he told me. “The beauty is beheld by the beautiful” is another thing he said. “Truly the eyes through which we gaze upon the sky are the only eyes that can be trusted to exist, for their view is the only sight we see,” God told me.

I do know the way.

The way is mine. Mine is the way. My way is the way, and there is no other.

No other.

But then I turned away from the bathroom mirror. But then I blinked, and God was gone.

And I was all that was left.


The 20th of June 1944 – Firenze, Toscana

Luca, bella,

Quoi? Que? What?

How did I get here all of a sudden, surrounded by old things, familiar things, all kinds of monuments that glow dull in the fading sunlight, fading in the sunset as the sky turns pink and purple, blossoming like the bruises on the petals of a rose, dead?

Do you know? Do I? Can anyone?

All of a sudden, I’m here on a path, walking on a path that I’ve walked on before, that she’s walked on before, that we’ve walked on before. Walking on a path that’s been laid far before I’ve even come here. Yet it’s entirely unique to me. I know because all that I see when I walk is exactly what I’ve already seen. The children. The laughter. The sunset that makes the sky blossom with the purples and pinks of a dead, dying rose petal.

All of a sudden, I’m here, flipping through memory, trying to keep my balance while standing still while the memories flicker past.

The smell of sweat and a sweet embrace. The taste of sweat. Sweat and a yellow shirt, zipper on the front, sweat – sweet sweat. Copper-tasting on the tongue while gazing into sky-blue eyes – the color of the sky at noon and long before the light fades and causes the colors to change to the hues reminiscent of the bruised petals of a red rose, dead and dying rose, dead.

Copper-tasting, blood on my tongue. Bitten through while staring at the brushstrokes of the masters. Strokes I’ve made before, strokes I’ve walked and rowed – perhaps rowed along the river – yes! The river, here and winding through the whole of it until arriving at an all-to-unsatisfactory conclusion.

Why? Por que? Pourquoi?

Gianluigi –

The 8th of November 2003 – Baffin Island, Nunavut

(found at the foot of Mount Thor, with shards and pulp)

Oh Maisie, Dear Maisie!

Just hold on a bit longer, your mother and father are on the way. We’re on the way, dear Maisie. I’m writing this from the car while daddy drives. We’ll be there soon, as soon as we can. Just hold on. With all your strength, hold on a bit longer.

We’re coming as fast as we can.

Here, I’ll answer your questions – written amazingly, I might add – as best as I can.

  1. Underneath a red maple tree by the church down the street from the hospital where you were born.
  2. I can’t answer for your father, but it happened when I woke up on the 17th birthday and could not stop crying.
  3. I’m always terrified at the reality I see but can never interact with.
  4. As moonbeams streamed down from the sky, and clouds swirled up in the sky, and stars shimmered through the darkness of the sky. The sky, mostly.
  5. Green has never made me happier. Red has never filled me with a deeper sadness. Hope and hopeless, I guess. The old clichés.
  6. 25
  7. I used to use the same pair of old scissors as shears in the kitchen. One day, your father went out to the department store and bought a new pair of real kitchen shears. High-quality. With rubber on the handle. With stainless steel. He sharpened them without telling me and left them on the counter one night before I came up to bed. It was the night before Thanksgiving – perhaps I should have mentioned that earlier. We had already been married three years, and I was considering a divorce – maybe I should have mentioned that too. Not that things were bad, but I did just feel as though they could have been better. So I came down the stairs the morning of Thanksgiving. I saw the shears. That was all.

Have someone read this all to you, of course. I can’t imagine you having to read it yourself – not in your current state, at least.

Hold on, dear Maisie. We’re coming as fast as we can.





The No-Time of Non-Time – DEEP in the blackness

(found in the space in fragments cracked and broken)

Ineffable. Huh?

Unsayable. Hah!

How’s this the place to be? How’s anything the space we’ve seen? Now or never. We go always and forever. Never.

I am sad now and sad permanently. Not for the general reasons like usual, the general reasons that just float off into the sky like the grey clouds of a rainstorm. No. For the specific reasons. The reasons that got drilled deep into the skull a long time ago. The reasons that convince them all to run – perhaps with regret, hopefully with sniffles – that convince them all to take at least a step back.

I’m sitting beneath a starry night sky, but all I feel is the inky black, feel it flowing through my veins and sucking out the warmth of my chest. If only there were clouds here, pillows here, on which I could rest my aching head, my sorry head, here. If only. Ha. If only. If only there were more sun and less rain, more of the moon and less of the frightful image of a bloody Mars. But Pluto floats away and has been lost as well. Pluto is gone, a nominal procedure certainly, and I am floating with it. Hoh. Hohoho!

What was the name we thought of? Late in the night when the sirens blared and jerked us out from sleep? Early in the evening when I walked away and returned to find you teary eyed amongst the mess I made? The name, again, please?

And I am so sorry. I am sorry now and sorry permanently.



The 17th of July 1988 – Ano Mera, Mikonos

(found by a large, round boulder)

Dear Hellene,

Quantity over quality, isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be, at least?

Do. That’s all. Accomplish. No need to do it well or poorly, only do. No need to win or lose, only finish. No need for smiles. I will trudge on – content, to be sure –  and be blank faced.

Reflection: was it good or bad? Did you enjoy it? What could have made it better, worse? No. None of that.

It was. If it still is, then it is. But there is only is and was. Not even will be, if I’m honest.

Make any sense? I’m not sure.

But really that’s all we can expect, really. That’s all we can do, really, is just do.

There are no stacks of medals for our necks. No plaques to hang on our walls proclaiming the triumph of our day. We have memories, sure, and dreams, maybe, but what – really – is the difference between the two?

Dear, Hellene, we really only really have existence, simple and mere. We only have the trudging, mundane, existence. Proudly. With pride. Trudging. One foot following the other.

That is our congratulations. That is our victory. That is our heartbreak.




The 13th of June 2017 – The Magic Castle, The Magic Kingdom

(this doesn’t matter much right now)

To whom it may concern –

When we all shout from pulpits, what is the value of speech?

I see no solidarity – not in the last year, not in the last decade. I see no solidarity, let alone any unity. I see only chaos, hear only tumult.

It is all so important, we would all like to believe, yet equally important as all else, yet unimportant as anything else. We can cajole, be angry, make grandiose  efforts towards rhetoric and persuasion. But there are a trillion voices, a billion sermons, hundreds of thousands of crowded mountains.

Those fettered the chains of irony, those who – just far enough away from the corpses – are capable of laughter, only add to the noise. Commands drown out tears drown out laughter drown out screams and shouts and so on.

And in the darkest crannies of the canyon of action, only echoes live.

Only echoes, all there is to hear. Only echoes. Yet important echoes.

Important insofar as the individual that is the source is so important. The individuals: important echoes.

We’ve been doomed for a while, perhaps always. Aristotle doomed us. Locke and Jefferson doomed us. The pretty snowflakes on our kindergarten walls doomed us.

There are more that have died than you. More brothers and sisters and wives lost that yours. But we are no closer to any understanding!

What do we hear when we talk if not only ourselves?

Find your pulpit, sure. Shout and keep shouting, yay. Maintain brashness and pose and presentation.

But what is the value of speech?