Wellfleet beaches twilight low tide, strung with stones like gazing stars you and I and the sun, seagulls setting and rising with the moon somewhere tiding rhymes around our wonder wandering, picking up the scattered verses of solid Earthspun rainbows daydreaming us the everything-children we are, exploring this allowingness at the edges of silver waves, falling awake in cold bursts within a warm heart-held nowhere (more…)
I’m still thinking of what was happening in Roadrunner’s mind the other day, standing five feet from the back door to the house, on a stoop two steps above the ground, facing the door as if wanting to come in. Every time I think of it, I feel sad – sadder than someone raised in a culture of scientific materialism blended with Catholic ideas about the specialness of humans is really supposed to feel about a chicken.
Recently, I borrowed five cars from five friends
over the course of four weeks
while mine was at a shop in Northampton
with everything broken.
Yesterday, I finally got my car back
it smelled like nail polish
and I felt myself wrapped in a metal blanket
crocheted by capitalism
back in control
and distorted by the separating lenses
of space, time, and money.
I wonder if psychotherapy loses its heart in the medical model, by being defined within a mechanistic paradigm of fixing, controlling, or manipulating a machine rather than of an essentially-mysterious and relational experience of nature and creativity.
The other night I accidentally drove your car until it ran out of gas. It stalled out on 91 North just above Exit 22, and I sat there revising a poem on my phone as trucks sent shudders through the air and your little car shook back and forth.