I am seeing my hair different, tied in a loose pony, casting shapes around me I’ve always felt. I will grow it to a longer braid. Yestereve I was called a hippie for using my father’s old leather wallet. Days earlier, similar, for smoking a cigarette sans filter. The back garden of the house I reside reminds me of home. When the nights become warm once again I will sit at the long table in the early hours, in glow of distant streetlight, tawny, no longer clawing at my window.
I see my ego borders in terminal data transfer.
~
Walked for hours, slept next to the water running from Sintra. Helped E make lasagne.
Clicking sounds,
or, it clicks.
~
I didn’t smoke. I felt more awake.
Heart radiates, spent with ~~~
~
Listening towards songs in the cold outside. Attempts to relinquish a grasping for action. I still fear what is to come. But I will write.
~
E having left today, working during his packing, sharing a final meal. Grateful.
, or,
Burgeoning love, ever reaching hand to connect with you.
Wishing towards constellations.
No more words.
A group of boys sung on the train, on their way to the casino, I think. An older man fingered a wooden cross and held a plastic tube for rolled papers.
I stopped feeding my ears, listening instead to worldsound.
I am pulling threads together, maybe.
~
In the sun I want to cry but feel it distant.
Confused head, or maybe I am hungry and running late to seeing a friend I love.
~
26 – With a divining rod, one doesn’t know the reservoir until they’ve found it. I feel sturdy. I will find what I seek.
I had a kiss.
I bled from the head.
Bare feet at times.
Sun becomes daily now. I venture to the beach in the morning, sending my belongings back to the city, preparing a move tomorrow. Nine flies stalled airborne in this room. I sit legs out, hands pre-blistering from carrying bag and brown suitcase.
The bellysnake creeps back when I think a week ahead, much less months, years, & whats passed. Fear slipping back into the whirlpool.
Much laid before me acts bigger in the head. Actuality is a simple task.
~
That I am holding myself braced, structured, careful, millimetres above soft grass. That I can let myself fall. Unguard
~
The ticket collector opens the small train window. Earlier on Rua Luís de Camões the trees lining were a bright green after months unarmed – a world restarting for the year.
Left a note with a guitar pick and a pressed flower.
It is warm wind and I am accountable nowhere.
In the Algarve drinking wine listening in Dutch, shredding my grandfather’s papers. A hole miscut in the side of the shirt while removing excessive tags. Printing words on my grandparent’s HP Envy 6030e, feeling this leading path. Playing guitar in mind of sharing. Playing my songs well.
In the breadth of the full moon where I have my visions – even with clenched jaw, even with ground teeth. I act not for the completion, with mind empty of the next step. To the full moon I look with my grandfather’s binoculars, or, it is no moon but a cold star with a six mask.
My hands smell of oranges now.
I am just throwing
pebbles in the pond.
I reread In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado… Vortex words. Violating use of second person. Obsessive, I want to write your story. I am a folk singer and you the abused.
~
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