1. sweetest goodest

    So there. I am an organism made of cells made of molecules made of atoms so surely the spirals of stars were meant to be a shifty nesting doll of layers connected at bridges like three-dimensional mobius twists and blown full puffing with air into spindles spherical. Which means that shifts in the space time of layering are inevitable such that I am also a cell in a larger organism collaborating and closely connected with all the cells around me inside some larger, though seemingly invisible membrane. A membrane that defines a unit of life, an organism.

    Surely I’m truly capable of seeing this organism just with some other sense than my poor cellular vision. I have to learn to tap into the organism’s power to perceive more from the us-as-a-conglomerate-of-cells than the I-as-a-single-cell can capture. Just like the nerve cells of the body converge in the brain to become meaningful, so too we need to collectify our perception in order to get the message. To understand our place, as cells in a single organism, within the membrane of the universe. That is our life. Our existence depends on the truth of this. 

    We cannot yet conceive this understanding but we are on the verge of it. We feel it, deep in our interaction, beyond words. We sense it. We know it exists just before we have any evidence or collective-cognitive “knowledge” of it as parts of a single unit. The way some animals sense a storm, we are aware, certain in it. This understanding will leave us experiencing our connection, full-blown, first hand when it comes. 

    Let that sink in. We will experience our connection as undoubtedly real and infinitely intimately close. We will know how closely. How every breath and every choice and  every action are to the benefit of every other. We will be inside the fact that when you are cooking you are nourishing me. That when I am sleeping I am accumulating part of the rest that you need. The exact part you cannot receive from any other source than my sleep. We will both understand the same way we understand our “own hands” to be our own objects of agency, that every move of the other’s muscles is tied, woven, threaded through and within each and every cell of each. 

    Then we will feel each other, constantly. Each touch will include me and everyone I have ever touched before and also everyone who has ever touched me. It will include people I am not touching through the connection that we share in other ways. We will be inside the boundary of awareness that includes total consciousness of how we are not separate ever, never were, at all. 

    Our awareness of our collaboration with each other will be the same as our understanding that every single second is an utter multi-directional collaboration with every other thing inside our organism. No matter who you touch, you will be touching me. No matter where I connect it will be a direct line tapping you. 

    There will be no more cursed then. No more cursed sleep. No more goddamned job. No more mortgage or ownership or locks or keys. There will be sharing. The infinite realization of intimate sharing. 

    It will be a librarian’s dream. 

     
  2. if i were a flower
    i’d have an imaginary friend
    named Fern

     
     

  3. witlessnessing

    my body is ripe
    swollenful of me

    you are milk
    thin and icy
    cold quenchly

    my heart
    explodingly
    shivers jiggly
    lure on a string
    pullnessing

    skinbursts
    flesh fire spits
    clouds of texturizely
    puff poofing cell hairy
    like a whole body of bedhead
    {or hairfuck}

    just maybe

     

  4. i want to speak all the languages of everything

     

  5. "We now know that 24 hours without sleep, or a week of sleeping four or five hours a night induces an impairment equivalent to a blood alcohol level of .1 percent. We would never say, ‘This person is a great worker! He’s drunk all the time!’ yet we continue to celebrate people who sacrifice sleep for work."
     

  6. a very nice guy

    Mary wasn’t Catholic,but the rule was you did not tell her mother that. Neither did anyone in the neighborhood go out of their way to mention Mary’s occasional lesbian lover to her mother. Plenty of people did, however, go out of their way to avoid mentioning it.

    Fortunately or unfortunately, for whatever it was worth,  Mary was not one of those people. 

    She did not avoid mentioning her preference for women at the bowling alley, where she and her mother both played on ladies’ league during the deep winter season. Nor did Mary go out of her way to avoid talking about her resolute queerness at the nail salon, where they both took their regular mani-pedi’s, quite often scheduling them together. She was not squeamish about reminding them at the service station where she and her mother both took their vehicles for oil changes. Mary had even once brought a date, a woman from the nearby city, to the local tavern for beers and pinball after a weekend of camping and hiking. 

    It seemed the only place in town Mary never once mentioned being a lesbian was at church, mostly because she hadn’t set foot in the place in over ten years.

    Regardless, you never discussed her daughter’s lack of religion with Estelle, Mary’s mother. It might not seem like such an significant oversight, except that Estelle was always, loudly, keeping track of everyone’s religion. Not that there was that much to keep track of. Everyone in town was either Catholic or Public, Catholic or Protestant, those were they only major denominations represented. But in Estelle’s mind, there was a clear, church-by-church social structure based on congregational membership.

    A structure impossible to relay without unintentionally offending someone. If not one of the Unitarians, then surely the Lutherans, or the United Church of Christ folks or undoubtedly the Baptists and the First Congregational Fundamentalists. Dunkers, dribblers, sprinklers but no Jews or Muslims that was for sure, not in Estelle’s town.

    Whatever Estelle’s official pecking order was, one thing was undeniable as far as she was concerned: Catholics were morally and in every other way superior to all other denominations. Furthermore, the good, rule-following, ritual adhering, volunteering to maintain Perpetual Adoration shifts Catholics were clearly the very best people in every imaginable way.

    Apparently, monumental powers of denial also afforded you bonus points on Estelle’s scale, and in this arena, she herself excelled. However, she never seemed, even once, to fathom a single reason to extend the harsh judgments she applied to all others, including herself, to her daughter. It simply never crossed Estelle’s mind. Mary was totally exempt. 

    For her part, this seemed to infuriate Mary, who hated her own unintended “passing” more than anything. She hated being considered one of the good, God-fearing, faithful almost as much as she loathed being mistaken for straight. 

    I met Mary’s best friend when I took a photography course through the local parks department. Like me, he was in the class for fun. His name was Evan and he had known Mary for almost ten years. They were the same age and met at the dog park in town shortly after he relocated here, post-college. 

    He told me being mistaken for straight was Mary’s one pet peeve in all the world. Passing as heterosexual, he said, drove her crazy. I guessed this was why she was so open, even in her mother’s presence, about her love-life. He agreed. I wondered out loud, then, if she might settle down now, with the laws changed. It seemed to me she might like to settle the whole matter once and for all by getting married to a woman. He shook his head vehemently, and grinned, more or less sheepishly, at me. 

    "Naw," he said. "She won’t do that."

    "How can you be so sure?" I yelled at his back as he left me standing in the parking lot outside the community center.

    He ran off ahead of me, then, to catch up with his wife, who was taking a drawing class on the same night. He put his arm around her shoulders as he came up behind her, then turned back to answer me. “Mary won’t marry a woman because she’s in love with me,” he said. 

    I saw them all together once about a year after that. I saw them from a distance at the July Fireworks Celebration. Mary was with him and his wife, she was sitting on a blanket bouncing their infant daughter on her lap while they wandered nearby, holding hands and laughing. I could see by the look on Mary’s face that what he had said was true. 

     
  7. also ~ the girl’s bear sketches

     
  8. five Swiss rappen mysteriously appeared in our washing machine tonight ~ the girl found it while I was at skates

     
  9.  

  10. wet mind
    spilled invisible liquid

    fiber body blotter

    meeting
    paper misshapen
    maker

    pulped tongue
    bit teeth
    need

    flesh jealous
    of the writing

    writhing inside
    twists
    squeezed

    without relief 

     

  11. all
    hope nailed
    to stone over
    cold rocks stream-
    ing freezing water
    and laughter
    staked to our hysterical
    bed

     

  12. how ever

    wearing the signs
    self hypnosis
    prickly sun beams drawn
    from a fiery orange core
    by a five year old hand splayed
    across the faces
    grossly interested
    onlookers
    gazes

    caught

    oblivious
    swollenful
    making
    a stand

    however wobbly

     
  13. explore-blog:

    Andrew Sullivan on why friendship is a greater gift than romantic love – such a beautiful and important read.

     

  14. entering

    my hands said
    less shaking held against

    my hands said
    here is my sweat

    my hands said
    i have been there somewhen
    then someplace else

    my hands said
    strength lives under skin
    pressed

    my hands said
    who have you known how
    i met them

    my hands said
    please and thank you more
    then less hold and grip

    my hands said
    come in

    flesh listens
    in answers

    Tagged #poetry #jillc
     

  15. as strangers
    sharing language
    in an alien land
    truth speaking to
    truth

    listening too

    Tagged #poetry #jillc