my hands smell like dirt.

in retrospect, today was much better than i thought at the time.

almost thought i was losing it, before i realized that thats what its like to live as me, always in motion and teetering on the edge of balance like youre always just about to tumble over and somehow at the last second youre righted and did you do that?  or did it just happen?  and where am i going?  and where even am i? youre never quite sure but somehow you just keep racing forward aching longing for the next step the next step the next step.

sat out by the alumni gardens and read poetry for a few hours in the sun and felt rejuvenated, then took an in class essay exam in philosophy and walked home with joe rehashing each question and felt accomplished because i think i did better than expected.

(its night and the sky is clear, and from the park by yasi's house you can see for miles and she's twirling in the grass, arms out stretched, tipsy and buoyant and i'm lingering on the path watching her, half envious.  i, too, used to be able to do that.  in my small heels i'm teetering along the edge, swaying back and forth.  "i just... want kyle to come back."  i whisper.  i lower myself to the mud, remove my shoes, dig my feet into its depths.

"you know you just picked the worst place to sit down"  yasi laughs.

I shrug.  "no, i wanted this place."

kyle, january 11th, 2009: "i just miss you jamie.  miss the time where you could come over and we could so some good drugs, then pass out on each other.  how about destiny?  how about pure originality?  how about a classic example of intellect attracting intellect, body on body, you and i, lips to lips.  i am all fucking for you.")

i could try to continue an entry right now, but i think i'd rather watch the onset of dusk, admiring the shape of my shoulders under my razor back top in the mirror.   these are turning into just bullet lists of the things i've done and want, anyway. 

i say that like its a bad thing.  after a winter of constant self work, this plateau is nice.

windows, they contain what is best

of us, the glass your arm has arranged

into crystal by spinning eye, by alarms

taken when the rain has chosen a form

unlike the universe, similar to ups and downs

which vary or change as cowslips

in the meadow we cross have a natural tint

the planes reflect our hesitations and delight.