Documentation

Things written recently:

“I am re-entering the USA. I am less than thirty minutes from American soil, and my heart is racing.

New York City… goddamnit. I’m back. For a week.

Claire on Wednesday.
Patrick on Thrusday.
I think I will take Caroline her Pee-Wee.
We are very done.

I can see it.

I’m shaking right now. Why?

I don’t think I want to be here. I’m pretty sure that American is not my home anymore. The world between my ears and the joy in my heart are officially my new permanent residences. Just as my job is now (quite simply) a writer, my home is (quite simply) wherever the words are that I am.

Good-bye to angst-ridden questions of where I ought to live. Wherever I find myself, that’s where I’m supposed to be.

Funny that I make that already clear distinction right now. Keep in mind that one can never know the future.

Do your year in Korea again. You must, must, must.

What now? What comes next?

Last night at the Ramble Inn, they brought out a guitar. Why is it that when I start to play, the people are happy, or (as it happened at the Jisan Valley Rock Festival) wind up sitting behind you on the hill, clapping for you, and sitting through an entire impromptu set only leaving when you stop playing?

Ah… stupid question. Change: “What is it about my performance?”

Perhaps there is something there isn’t there? The key, now, is to find a way to make a living out of it. On the road? On Tour? You can do it my boy. You can do it. Rock and Roll!”

Written after Seeing You

Seeing you well
makes my heart
quake.
Can you ever know,
really, what you
meant.

You and I, we were
not meant to
be,
and yet we, yes we,
were something to
mean

that for which forever
was built to
stand.

What does that mean?

We, as in us, isn’t
a thing we can make
real,
and yet we, as a
thing that cannot
be,
some ways manages
to mean more
universally.

You were perfect for me at that time;
and I would be a fool to resent it.


Isn’t this what you wanted, really.
Cautious leap of faith into skills.
“Would that it were a home
instead of a house,” one might say.
Interlocutor reply,
“But a house IS a home,”
“Explain yourself,”
and the like.
Thusly to the breach, we fly!
A well-flung phrase,
a thrust of wit,
and the game dances itself
across its own hardwood floor.
Who thought these things?
Who thought into him?
All pieces of game,
all the smackings of might,
suffer a neophyte learner
to sink ever more and ever more
into my being with
__________________________.