May Moons & Scorpio Spirits


I dreamt I was a pillar underneath a great table and my power was small but infinite. So was every other leg, and I felt a serene peace flow over me, knowing that I did not need to be anything greater or less than what I was holding up and made of.

Today is the day of animal guides, I am told

So I listen.

I see the mother bird watching me carefully but fully, perched atop her five eggs

I barbarously dig up a curled worm from our raised garden bed and I watch it unfurl in the sun.

She flys to a tall tree branch in the yard and I drop it into her nest. I tell her hello, and that she is safe. She comes down while I hide and she eats it. I wonder if this is a kindness. I think it depends on the chosen perspective.

I sign my name to a petition for justice over a death and I donate some of this government money to a cause that I feel rage and privilege and sadness over.

I wonder about the word “Justice”.

Later I park at the trailhead to Sun Mountain, the only car there today. A woman pulls up wearing medical scrubs and wonders aloud about a lost bandana mask she purchased at a plaza gift shop that is dear to her. We don’t find it together. I begin the hike and notice a giant lizard scurrying ahead then dip under the shade of a desert bloom. I see a bluebird fly over the path ahead. I feel Ryker’s tired sweet soul while we rest on the summit, sharing water and watching the wind blow over the wide world. He sees me and I see him. We drive onward and bask in the yard and I sing badly on the ukulele. I sauté vegetables for Eric and we smile and eat in silence, him absorbed with a deadline and me with the moon.

I write a letter to Sully who has the virus. I put my heart in it, I hope. I write a letter to my sister. I receive a texted photo of my mother and her mother’s face, smiling up at me with the same blue eyes and cheeks and grin. I take an abnormal route to mail a letter and I see an older woman resting in the shade of a curb, I ask her if she is alright and if I can give her a ride. She accepts, we drive down the short road to her home. She calls me an angel.

I think about everything. I don’t always say or do the right “somethings”, but it feels alright sometimes.

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 am 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 not my own will that is driving.

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

On the color blue


I am learning more and more about what it means to allow affection. About the difference between Effect and Affect. When my stomach begins to hurt I feel the need to listen to it, yet the urge to ignore the depth of what I will discover. Is it my intuition that causes that stirring? Or am I just a vessel in a sea of unrelated frequencies.

A friend talks of their experience with microdosing. Another talks of a new podcast about manifestation and expanders. I drive to an estate sale where each room is filled with memories. I touch Hindu books and brass candle holders and walk upon someones else’s Moroccan tapestry rug. It all feels shrouded in breath, as if the entire house was exhaling. Strangers jostle in and out of small closets and scour racks of mink coats and silk slips, searching for something they’ve lost.

I wonder about the old woman. There is a framed photo behind one of the bedroom doors . In it, a young dark-haired girl in a beautiful dress is smiling and hugging George Harrison.

I see people asking prices of beaded pillows, lampshades, and drums. I look around at these items and I imagine them traveling out onto the sidewalk, in the arms of new owners. I wonder about the books on the shelves, and how long it had been since they were opened and read. I ask about the price of a fur hat, and thank the grown children for allowing all of this.

The transience of materials. The years of collections that this woman has. I wonder if she remembers where the tiny Tibetan trinket came from. I wonder when she last wore the shoes that were soled in crystals. I think about the blue nightstand and the silk bandana that still is knotted as if covering her head, years ago.

I know that there is a connection with all these days and words. I’m not certain if finding it would connect my heart together. Perhaps it is the space that is left to discover that allows living. I’m remembering that the colour blue is always the theme.