#camelights

[044kanagawa]

Where have I been...

Is it that the sunny wooden boards underfoot have brightened the corners of my passing inner deprecation, or --

Have I swung wide a burlap dust jacket from a virtuous and viciously clear lens --

A cleaning sunlight, a singular blinding and rendering, searing and clapping, a soaking and smacking and smathering relentless flood of disinfectant --

My regrets are feral, fungal and surreptitiously pendulous from every single ceiling and sky --

They scratch at the everyday might-have-been-alright blatherings and sink teeth into the would-have-been-good things, those things--

That try to come along for those who are looking for them -- and are able to see them --

It does not matter how many years it has been. --

The Sun will live billions of my years, long outpacing any capacity I might ever muster to set right my reaching fungal antithesis to living freely with my own heart.

---

I've spent the last decade falling down sets of steps --

Some of the scrapes are unattended to --

Even scraped and cut, I looked and thought --

Someone out there used to write in ways that healed bits of my spirit and body that I didn't know were hurt --

Maybe --

If I climb atop my heap, and wave that flag again --

Would I hear anything? Or will I be met by the void I've never not lived in and made for myself.

[miniaturecreatorhumanpersona]

One of my biggest regrets in life will always be not staying in touch with one of the greatest writers I have ever known. A girl out of the US who wrote about orange peels and the sunlight on the kitchen counter and the things her grandmother did. Her writing gave my soul something nothing else in this world ever did. I did so many stupid things growing up. So very many stupid things. This is one of the most stupid things I have ever done. Now I cannot find her writing. I cannot find her again. And sometimes I miss her writing so much it hurts.

[miniaturecreatorhumanpersona]

Soon

Soon, I have a feeling, I have in fact so many feelings, that I may die so very soon. I think it will be a surprise, a sort of, "oh if only we had caught it sooner," kind of thing. I think it is in my kidneys. A metabolic disease of some kind. A washcloth wiping down a wooden cutting board in a bit of sunlight. I think whatever this is, it is corrosive. I think about the raspberry and its buoyant little bounce, as my carefree attitude allowed one or two to stumble beyond my fingers, onto that same cutting board. How cheeky and innocent the little fruit looks. I think, when these things come to a head, it might be so much more sad than I think now. I wonder if it will tear through my loved ones, something they could never deserve, which, would surely plunge me into the very darkest days just before the end. I have always wanted to listen to slow violin and cello in a kitchen somewhere, the smell of grass and pine resting on the sill. I have always wanted to experience looking forward to tomorrow. Dew is like jewels, rarer still that they vanish in the sun's palm. Surely does my blood carry and course the riddance of me throughout my being. Every foul memory, each bracing regret. Yet perhaps on top of them is a kind of tiara, where it is spring time, in the evening -- and Carm is with me, in West Dean Park, in a thick fog. And we are dancing in a way, amongst the dense and dewy clouds, with fireworks like wands in hand. I wonder if he remembers that. The circulation in my legs is becoming vicious. If you've ever left an apple on the side of the road for a week and a bit, it might look like how things feel inside me now. What would I do? If I could go back. Would I hold my youngest sister again as a baby, and carry her around on my hip, constantly telling her how much I love her? Would I go back and tell my Nona that I didn't understand that she was her own person, and that I should have told her more often that I loved her, too? Would I stop myself from saying any number of things? Probably.

I think of the kaleidoscope I had as a child and how I really liked it.

I regret the one and only time I ever tried liver.

I want to hug my Dad all the time.

I wish I'd never crossed paths with Dr. Ross.

It would be nice to see Joey in the Cheese Boutique again, as someone hands him a fresh Jasmine tea and he remarks, "oh my word, that is so nice. That is fantastic, thank you."

I wish I'd never said a bad word about my Mother.

Wish I could thank Bill for being my friend so young.

Wish I told more people more often that I loved them so much.

Wish the world was not run by bad people.

Wish I was healthy.

But I'm not.

Soon.

[camelights-blog]

deducing a need to realize induction.

If you don't have one thing, Then you May have any thing that is other than that which you don't have. 

--

*May: absolutely Do (adjective denoting verb) have capacity for having ______ .

[camelights-blog]

wonderful.

I have no problem with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I'll describe my thus-far journey in my seat, on the train, as Wonderful. I've de-seated myself several times, for the washroom once, for my bag in the storage compartment, more than once, for my laptop, for my notes to be put away, for my earphones to come out with me. I have no issue with the use of those words which elaborate on, and allude to, shades of, offshoots of, happiness. And so I'll describe my trending motions of usefulness as being enjoying. As being supremely enjoying, even. My motivation broils enthusiasm. My enthusiasm broiled gives me excess, even, even. I am productive. I am productive. I am productive. I harvest my smiles in later-ness, pouring over my filing cabinets like the morning's leafy storages of dewy, plump rain-beads.

Slowly my mind-pot and hand-pans begin searing into oxygen, that energy will deplete, and that motivation alone will not suffice the bridge to Doing, without energy. The harsh sound of that brutal steel, heated as it is, needn't. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind's heart, that one that is slow in deep chestnut, long-board wooden flooring. Slow in dull shines of cleanliness amongst the aluminum appliances, dusked by the knot-wood cupboards overtop. Slow in the loving family, whose joy I am to be a toiling genesis for, that I've yet still to assemble and build preservatives for, out of Robin-bird wing-feathers, and in-tact Acorns, bound in the swing-branch of a Weeping Willow that dried in Pine sap. I evolve from my complacency to only breathe, and move to that kitchen in my mind's heart, that one that is slow, and deep, and long, and in honey-drizzled memories a'fable. I take the pot and the pan from their burners, by their stick-out handles. That burners are of use, is there, but if time is a geography of usefulness, I descend from that summit once hearing the absence of what end I climbed at all. The sweet whistling that was harsh sound is my socked-foot evolution, from a room into a room, across a floor onto a floor. To recall in the exhaustion and clean, well-water bucket of appreciation, at the chair, from whence you Did - to where you'll Now. Drawing the smile like the wetly-dew of a leafy green, that smothering your Forward in the coyly obnoxious redeeming gratitude is rich, Milk Chocolate, and your being wholly endured for, in your wealthy joy. 

I'll describe my thus-far journey in my seat, on the train, as Wonderful.

[camelights-blog]

menthols

I'm back on a familiar porch, riddled and knotted as it is in memory. Toxic in its remittance of questions ending in insufficient sighs. What will you do? And there's no Samuel Jackson about this place, no Robert Duvall from Get Low - but closer, I'll admit, to the latter.

I've got a cigarette between my fingers as I'm typing this, using my middle finger as my index and it seems to be doing the job. Tennessee Honey in my mouth. Who are you? Butts and casual indifference; still a friend pulls into the driveway out front, and I can here the 4.2 litre. 

What is this to me?

Even weaponized as you are, a tank on the lazy river only billows like exhaust. So, to suffice, I'm breathing. 

[camelights-blog]

some times

Like a blossom of mirth, a varnished token of good will knocks into bark as it tumbles down from a local canopy. A chorus of children's laughter - because it makes me happiest. A weeping willow and its light green swath. Rhythmic dancing beyond the shimmering leaves, o' way up high - by windy invite, only. The tugging thread-tangles at t-shirt's sleeve, o' grassy blades, were you emerald or fade, soft, soft, soft. Weaving lid-lashes across and closed, one close-mouth'ed sip at the moon-drink of tomorrow, and I'm slipping off my decorum, for a spirited peace. 

[camelights-blog]

Reading about Vicious Gay-Pride Beatings in Ukraine,

I cannot propose we exhibit alone our sexual, political, or ideological diversities - as a means to grow a safe environment for them. I propose a culling of the ignorant and unwilling. They are the exact opposite of diverse, the exact opposite of progress, the exact opposite of all betterment, even unto their selves. Fuck em.