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amazing the way that people carry so much living breathing history. remember that time.....? yes. no? well i'll tell you. it's wonderful the way you take along everyone you've met or known. the way they tip into you ear and, later, out of your mouth like the dirty pearls in mussel shells. mussel shells and i've already thought of her. her ( Read more... )

a believer in midnight snacks. leaning into sleep for only a few hours, and then sorting your way to the kitchen. not always snacks. waking up and thinking, wow, everything's quiet now. sometimes smoking cigarettes, reading more of that can't put it down novel, painting toes, watching the news, or listening to tom waits. only a few of us out ( Read more... )

Finally emerging from the water we tramp our way to St. Augustine and quickly seperate to explore. At my first stop, Ponce de Leon's Fountain of Youth, I drink glasses of the infamous sulfuric water offered by an indian of Timucuan heritage. He slides a warm slender hand along my arm when showing me how to feed the peacocks. He beckons me, and I ( Read more... )

everyone is alive here as nowhere else i've ever been, and people call out jovially to each other when passing on their way to the beach. under a different umbrella, our "beachneighbors" come bearing gifts of glasses of wine for each of us that waft fiery under the salt air. my usual pale skin has taken on a resonating honey color, and my eyes ( Read more... )

a week until i'm back, side by side, with my favorite ocean, the atlantic, in my favorite place, new smyrna beach, florida. i cannot wait to spend evenings swinging in bethune park, sipping 40s, scanning the bay for manatees and porpoises. i cannot wait to collapse in the night with salt in my tangled hair after days of swimming. when we need a ( Read more... )

and the truth is that i'd like to put my fingers through your ribs, laced like holding hands, and pour into your organs like steaming coffee. i'd like to get to you the way you leave my thoughts splintered with bits of you here and there. i pray to you at night as i did to God at six, "if you're out there, if you're real, give me a sign." ( Read more... )

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that summer i listened only to french music and smoked clove cigarettes until my fingers were permanently stained. i wore my hair long and tangled. i piled in the laps of grown men, unfurling like a flag. i was precocious with full grown red lips. we curled together like cats: sometimes sleeping together, sometimes listening to records in bed ( Read more... )

watching godard's breathless in the midst of a storm, and turning up the volume to block out the thunder; why does it matter if the volume is up, if i don't speak french and am reading subtitles? really though there is so much in tone; how things are said, rather than what exactly is said. i have to know how michel's voice sounds when he is ( Read more... )