( A poem. Trigger warning: self harm )

I taught acro to kids today for four hours. There was one girl who was afraid to let me lift her up, not because she was scared of heights, but because she was afraid I would not be able to lift her, or that it would be hard for me to lift her. She was bigger than the other girls, though not by much. She did decide to trust me to try a few things, ( Read more... )

The wind chases leaves down the street ( Read more... )

Fuck. That's all I really have to say. It's what it all boils down to.

Fly into Logan at 4am. Get the T to Green Street station on the Orange Line. Walk a few blocks to Centre street in JP just before six in the morning. Knock several times on your grandmother's front door, and then try calling. When that also fails, climb up the back of her house and in through the attic, so you can set down your bags and try to ( Read more... )

In the pool, she laughs, and asks "is there anywhere you have not lived?"

The tent is still warm inside, holding onto the heat from the sunny afternoon. The generator outside is humming softly. The kingpoles creak every so often in the breeze. It smells of grass and summer, and faintly of warm vinyl and popcorn. I am lying on my back in the middle of the stage. The stage that I put together. The stage that I performed on ( Read more... )

Nine months ago, I tore my rectus abdominus. I thought it was just muscle soreness, and foolishly thought that I would be up to doing some trapeze training. When my partner's weight dropped into my hands, I realized that something was seriously wrong. Pain shot through me at a level that made my vision darken and my ears roar. But I could not let ( Read more... )

I'm sitting in The Kitchen by Wolfgang Puck in the Dulles airport. The last time I have been in one of these was in Boston Logan a decade ago. I was traveling with Teresa. I don't actually remember here we were going, or where we came from, only that we had spent a few days in Boston, staying with old family friends, and visiting my grandmother. My ( Read more... )

I know the secret of being happy. I mean, insofar as there is a secret. I know that happiness is internal. I know that amputees and lottery winners are, a year post event, both just as happy as they were beforehand. I also know that the people who are happiest are the ones who do not have either the chance or inclination to second guess their ( Read more... )