#entrophy

There's a desire, a yearning to process, and yet...no action. Why do you, my online buddy, think we're like this?

I, obviously, feel the same way about my runs and the races and the training. Like I really should be journaling, there's a lot to process. Like the dealing with the heat, dealing with my latest DNF, and just dealing with my mom's death, losing the house, squatting in the house to do the estate sale, and the complete lack of motivation.

Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator

and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.

Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.

Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.

Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.

Don't even sew on a button.

Let the wind have its way, then the earth

that invades as dust and then the dead

foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.

Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.

Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles

or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry

who uses whose toothbrush or if anything

matches, at all.

Except one word to another. Or a thought.

Pursue the authentic-decide first

what is authentic,

then go after it with all your heart.

Your heart, that place

you don't even think of cleaning out.

That closet stuffed with savage mementos.

Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth

or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner

again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,

or weep over anything at all that breaks.

Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons

in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life

and talk to the dead

who drift in though the screened windows, who collect

patiently on the tops of food jars and books.

Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything

except what destroys

the insulation between yourself and your experience

or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters

this ruse you call necessity.”

Louise Erdrich

you walk alone through the streets at night. the trailing vines of the lamps reach out and wrap aroun you many ankles, but you seem not to notice. above, the flickering dome of your hometown seems hardly able to keep out the howling sharpness winds.

you shiver. those winds, with their curling hands and nipping mouths, always terrified you. terrified everyone, really.

a dome of flesh was the only thing to keep them out, and it flickered, flickered, and cried. the soft wail of skin filled the air like a lullaby, lulling the world to quiet sleep.

perhaps the boogeyman would come around, sip the dreams from dreamers heads and quietly pull away their life unread. no one knew the boogeyman, just his long thing hands a miles reach, creeping over the sidewalks on tiny little feet.

you look down at your shoes in their clover shape, the yellow and punce and harlot hues glowing dimly in the silver night. the air felt cold, and wet, and sheyral tonight--winter was coming, with its cold long hands.

you shiver again. old man winter did not play night, but play you must his many games, the carnival waits for no man and snow would cover all the days. play to win, play the sun, play so if you win you might see your home again and not the circus' grin.

you look out over the buildings of bone, the light of blood shining and spilling onto the streets, turning them blue and warm. ah, what kindness, these buildings had; hollowing out their flesh to make them out homes.