the itchy parts.

I encountered them.

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The peace water

-today, the itchy parts-

when someone hurts

near you.

I want to just

touch and make it all

ok again. I want to go,

to know, and improve.

but it’s so easy to go to

‘I’ll never be good enough.’

And yet in the mess

of the walls that we are

stuck in between. and yet

In all the mess of the different

parts of the world that

the others live in-

and it is hard to understand

why we can’t share.

 

In the mess of all the

frustration there is hope

because the frustration

was born from a dream

And the dream is beautiful

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The hope that is a setting sun

and free-

 

and in the mess

of all of this, we started

making something. something

new and free. A place

where perhaps those itchy

parts can heal.

To understand

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No clue- But there is freedom in that 🙂 

It seems that some things

no matter how often you’re

told. you can’t really understand

not yet – and although the authorities

have confirmed or tried to teach

the meaning of the word- it seems

that all of us are just figuring it out

as we go. ———– is perhaps one

of the things that is just words- unless

you live it and its the kind of living

that hardly goes with speaking

so then we don’t talk about it-

we just know, or pretend we do.

unknown rules

Sometimes I stumble through my words

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unclear- floor made of lose parts – fitting together yet coming apart

ending in places I did not expect- not really

sure what it was that I said. Sometimes I stumble

to days quick and without end not really sure

what has happened. And it leaves me feeling

unguarded sure that I broke the rules simply cause

I once again forgot what they were.

It leaves me feeling unguarded and like I’ve betrayed

myself by showing my life and my heart to the world.

 

I want to be in a place where I trust me enough to

say what do without fearing I haven’t thought long

enough. I want to trust me enough to know I did

what I needed to – even when it’s hard to tell the days

apart. and to look back in pride instead of fear that

I should have said less, I should have said more

I should have done less, I should have done more

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Quite unsure about what it is that I see.

I’ll never be enough to the core.

 

And while writing all of this. I know I am already

so much less trapped in the cage that I feel that

the very steps that I take are mistakes and yet-

it’s so easy to go back to that.

Days

The days seem to go fast

DSC05890And every day I take something

off the list, and do something

I just made up. And it is good

to be in a place were plans

are  not only made, dreams

not only formed, longings

not only felt but brought

to existence, into reality

felt in skin and bones and

mind alike.

And I wonder

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why somehow a midst

of this – I hardly write.

 

I guess that you can’t

hold a pen or touch a key

board and knitting needles

or a hand

at the same time.

yet – it’s strange right- how

what we do and how we

express ourselves can change

from time to time.

and yet today I felt something

Something I have felt for such

a long time from time to time

And I guess that sometimesDSC05907

I could be disheartened by

the fact it had returned and

yet right now, I’m just looking

at it thinking. That it will pass

again. And it did.

How to write (on houses, homes and language)

I feel somehow, or I feel somehow obliged to write again. Funnily enough, it is not that lately there have been no thoughts in my mind- I just think that sometimes it is hard to write if you know you have an audience. Or perhaps it is just also hard to write if you can actually share your thoughts with others. Or rather, that you feel you should tell your thoughts to others rather than just putting them on the web. It’s strange how this goes, how there seems to have to be some kind of space that allows you to write.

I was talking to one of my friends the other day, and she was looking for a word. She was looking for a word that somehow describes the fact that some words do not mean something unless they are shared. Or something needs to be exchanged. I was not sure what kind of word she was looking for- she was sure it would exist, me less, but it allowed me to go on a trip around my mind to find if there was anything I could connect to this. The first thing that comes to mind when thinking about language almost always is ‘Language is like the house in which you live’ I hardly have been able to find anything on this online, but once upon a time, a philosophy teacher of mine shared this thought, which originated with Heidegger. I like this metaphor a lot. Perhaps one of the things I like about it most is that it suggests that language is a space- that language has space, room, a place for exploration. That it is something that you can move around in.

And yet it suggests language that is something more tangible than simply a space- it’s like the house that you are living in. I like the idea that rather than ‘home’ language is the place you are living in. We can often live in places that are not necessarily home- or we can move from place to place. I am thinking of the house I currently live in. A beautiful large house that is beyond my imagination. I have almost all the same things there as in my previous home- my chicken, the cat, my furniture, and yet- since it is another house it all is organized a little different. Maybe speaking in another language is living in a different house. Sure, it is still where we live, we brought our clothes our wallhangings, our bed. But perhaps it doesn’t all fit the way it used to, and so we discard somethings, and invite new ones. I think of how much a space, and architecture creates a certain atmosphere. How much influence it has if the house has windows, whether or not it’s warm- whether we are alone, or if we share this house with others, whoever comes to visit.

Thinking of different languages as different houses, it gives me some words for what it’s like to communicate with others who speak another language. Those who live with me have the same house, yet they can experience it or use space in different ways. What does it mean if someone merely visits the house you live in. Or what if they can not come in, cause the house is closed to those that have no understanding of the language, and they can only look in. What does it mean to co-exist, or cohabitate with someone in a space that is new to both of you- the awkward moments of being in a new space just moved in and not able to find anything you knew where it was in the old house. If language is the house in which you live- what does it mean to be homeless? Perhaps that is what it is to be lost for words.

And just like that. I’ve found the joy in writing again. N

ot afraid if anyone does or does not understand what I mean. It is a simple marvelous thing to move and explore and find beautiful things in the house in which you live. To look up at the grand ceilings, to feel the floor under your cold feet. To just sit. And write down what you see.

Spending time with my muse

I haven’t written in a while-

But I’ve been exploring my

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storytelling side- I’ve been

looking around- to see my

muse. See what she says,

Why she is silent, or how

she speaks. I’ve been making

things. beautiful things. ok

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things. new things. old things.

And I’ve been sharing them,

Giving them away without fear,

without shame. They

can simply be- be- here.

Evolve, transferred and rejoiced in.

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And it is different- than it used

to be. And it’s the same in away

and yet. I thank the lord for new

things. and for everything he brings back. DSC03435

 

Private concert

The people gathered around

without me seeing it

for the longest time, I was the

only audience except for some

passers-by. he plays the cello

I think, improvising on

teardrop, back to black and

what not and me I simply

sit her enjoying this moment

as it is. secretly recording

some of the things he plays

so beautifully, roughly,

aided by the echoes made

by the arches that carry

the paintings above.

Waking up to the touch of the sun

Just like that. A month, DSC05817

Two months have passed

I feared the cold that came

so suddenly. But now,

the sun is out, and it touches

my skin and warms my

heart- like a lovers touch.

And like with loved ones

I too love her when she’s

gone. But when she is here

complete and utter joy.

The hope in being known

And she tells me.

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Making sense of the darks shapes and shades while doing to the light

I saw you do that-

 

I remember you doing

that before- do you remember

it too- And I didn’t honestly without

her reminding me, but as she says the words

I know she’s right. and there is hope in that because

it means that now, something else can happen instead.

Different new and same

Moving house is strange

The same objects scattered

around in a different order

because the walls have taken

different routes and the

rooms have moved to different

floors and I am simply here

happy to sleep, and wake

and stay in this new home.

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white house i’ll never live in.