Turning the soil


We all check our bank account balances as we drive to work or to the strange empty-shelved grocery store to fill up on canned foods and sparse eggs My heart hurts from watching the worry spiral with the bathwater. I listen to music and I begin to understand Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I soak up the spring sun in my little yard and invite new wants.

What I really want is to go for a hot and dusty hike, then shower put on a soft skirt and drink a cold bubbly beer on a patio where everyone is talking and laughing and there are dogs darting between the crowds and there is music playing.

What is that feeling when you are lonely and afraid of the shadows in the shower and suddenly the house seems too expansive and I am small like Alice in this wonderland and the wine is sweet and red but cheap enough that it doesn’t stain my teeth. My lips are stiff from thinking too much and the house is so quiet I can here the dog dream.

We talk of trust and of letting go to receive and I hear podcasts of illusion and enlightened but the yogis in line at the cafe seem to always be the least mindful. 

What are we if not silly sacks of flesh and feelings and we all carry our egos above out heads like that pancake that rolled out of the kitchen and was tricked by the fox into crossing the river on top of his furry brows?

I envy the ones who seem to be affected by slowing down, as if it is a burden. Why is it always a gift to me? I envy the ones who enjoy multitudes of busyness and want to push their passions in far off places and limitless notions. I always believed my perceptions of myself were true and I am forever being humbled by the realities uncovered in this erosion.

On the Social


These are moments when everything feels distorted. I see a woman driving in sheer plastic gloves and we are fearful so we all judge each other’s small and large choices. Perhaps to hold onto a semblance of control. But maybe the greatest and most simple thing to choose is release.

The chaos collects but we keep it at bay by routinely gathering and washing the cups that stack next to our laptops and writing tables. The dog sighs, they enjoy the contact and companionship. We place ourselves in different corners of the adobe house and shuffle our plans to make them fit this new setting. I wash my hair still and hold myself straight.

I listen to the neighbor play his drums in his driveway while the old radio prompts his practice. I smile as the spring winds carry it to my backyard and connect me to the ground, the grit and the grace of humanity.

On Here


It’s a mezcal over fresh squeezed lime under the old moon.

It’s classic rock blasting from the neighbor’s day party through the thin air over the juniper fences into our kitchen and it’s Xmas colored chiles on breakfast burritos and it is the confusion of a left turn 2-lane option.

It is the flash of adobe swatches and it’s the Blood of Christ mountains watching over the cooling desert. It’s the highway Descansos with their tended blue and red and purple carnations.

It’s Frida’s gaze painted on quiet street corners with 400 year old trodden roads and the corn house still lighting the path of the Camino Real. It’s the estate sales signs each Saturday morning.

It is bolo ties and co-op greetings in the bulk aisle and it’s Diablo Canyon climbs and gingerly tweezing goat heads from the dog’s paw. It is local Instagram connections and long songs on long drives. It’s sticky ponderosa sap and pinyon chimney smoke. It is venomous creatures and prickly plants against the expansively soft colour palate.

It is always a flow of release and remember. Release and remember.

Release and remember.

On themes


I recently found myself in front of a flat screen with the scrolling of ESPN 2 updates on it…flashes of faces in their early twenties, highly paid athletes speaking mumble from under a sweat-stained baseball cap into a giant microphone.

Underneath I read the stream of messages…”Bill Buckner dead at 69…ill-fated Red Sox player dies today”

I remember hearing of the ground ball that slid between his legs on the day that I was born. I remember curiously understanding very early that there was a link somehow between the Red Sox losing the World Series and myself.

I seem to aways be wanting to make sense of everything

I want it to fit into a space where I can say, “Yes, there is where that memories goes, on the shelf next to the other pink hues and those grey ones snug next to the indigo nights…”

I seem to be constantly time traveling and I wonder where we all are if not here 

One moment I am driving in a snowstorm of the Sangre De Cristo mountains, and the next I am scrambling to remember the old Pearl Jam lyrics and when I last sang them in the white Subaru driving through the Rabbit ears pass and arguing with him about whether they are Billy Joel or Eddie Vedder’s “Someday”. He always said we were singing a different “someday”, and lately this is one of the easiest things to understand of the past.

It’s strange how sometimes we seem to know what we will cling to, years later. How the moment seems to jump out in bold print and surround the entire memory, until it outlasts everything else

But I seem to never grasp the theme

I am beginning to fear that it is my own will that is in the drivers seat

I remember reading sometime in my early teens that it is the most simple of truths that startle people the most.

Being in charge shakes me from the dreamlike reverie and I am beginning to understand how skillful I have become at being in the passenger seat of my own life

I stare at the house corners and wonder, if I dusted them, would I write better?

If I changed my jeans and cleared the table top of mail and ski maps and keys

There is a saying for everything, and I fear that if I keep listening to them all at once I will not hear my own voice

On my twenties


I used to rub the warm dash and tell of the sweet spot

Every good car has

She likes it there no not there


Just get me a little further lovely little engines

If I play you the right songs

Scanning the radios on any state highway

While the wheels push through the ice 

How about a raspy voice to gain traction on those mountain roads

yes that’s it Lucero is working 

You weren’t ready for a ballad were you tough boy?

How many mountain tops have my headlights seen

How many passes have they driven over

enveloped inside the dark

of those west Americana nights

Gas stations cups of coffee

tired eyes seeing pink rabbits jump across the yellow and white lines 

Chewing cashews chewing tobacco chewing my hair if it’ll work

Just a few more miles please silent beggings

Those sweet old cars would always get me there 

Halfway somewhere

All the way home


“On January 18, 1915, six months into the First World War, as all Europe was convulsed by killing and dying, Virginia Woolf wrote in her journal, ‘The future is dark, which is on the whole, the best thing the future can be, I think.’ Dark, she seems to be saying, as in inscrutable, not as in terrible. We often mistake the one for the other. Or we transform the future’s unknowability into something certain, the fulfillment of all our dread, the place beyond which there is no way forward. Be again and again, far stranger things happen than the end of the world.”
― Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark

On the thesis


My dreams have been swirling in cold awakenings that I can still taste in the alpine trees when I drive up the mountain at each sunrise.

I dreamt that I was warm on a sandstone face, a thousand feet in the air. Around me only blue sky and wispy cloud formations. I was hanging by a harness, or a quickdraw, unafraid for a moment perhaps, until I realized the magnanimity of the scale. Then she was there. Everything was shining in yellow. A small bump of her growing baby visible under her pink skin. I wanted to tell her I was doing alright, but it seemed to be unsaid, or unneeded. Or maybe we were not able to speak in the same dialect. He was there too, somewhere else. On a sailboat? I was testing him. Testing the waters around myself too perhaps like a curious child. The words I pick up during these days seem to collect and spill over into each other. Terra Incognita, Theology. The ship of Theseus. Amarillo, Anaranjado, Durado. I am not certain any of these things relate to one another. Perhaps not in this world anyway. The music that has been arriving to me is filled with a trusted melancholy, like an old companion…like violins and saxophones and how the black ravens seem to fly alongside my car in the mornings, and I am grateful for the respite from understanding my own reality for the time.

Again I have had dreams where I must repair someone. A gentle man’s hand was sewn with red thread in the shape of a guitar string sequence, and the people were asking me to explain to him the severity of leaving the rotting strings inside of his hand. He was telling me that it was alright. That he was alright. To pull the strings would be to undo the spell he had sung into them, and that he would like to keep them.

Maybe all this ever will mean is that I would like to keep these words, and these days, for a bit. Even if they may not hold weight. Even if they wisp like the clouds in my dreams.

On December


and its the passing of time and Christmas cards on the fridge

and the way the faces shift and old memories scratching against new ones, jostling for their turn

and the vinyl gets bumped

and you walk the garbage to the curb

and inhale the cold stars and cry into nothing about everything

Vessel on this sea

Let it be