SOC Writing _ 18.9.21

A dog-eared life.

The life of a dog – complete with all this turning – the highway the by way – follows the scent of what leads you deep by the way of the burrow - deep in so far you could get stuck – but stuck you are not – am free – free as a bird – free to see and be and blah blah that we build our lives to be – still look on with glee - with joy that we could still make something, anything of our lives – the briefest of moments that we have. I am tried a little – wondering about what the hollow will fill with – the wispy smoke like haze that may sit around me for days – the tree with the rope and a few other ominous signs. Still, you’ll be here - not far from here - wondering with the spirits – speaking with tongues and nonsense speak – the words you must speak, write and perform – this long hiatus – a sort of proving ground – prove the bread, retard it as the French say – say your words in plain ways, using the mother’s tongue you have – do not dress up what you want to say – speak plainly your truth and let us decide then what we will do next – care for their precious own garden – to tend to what is growing, root up that which is not to be there and quietly always admire what you did not remember planting – something growing from a previous life – a kinship with someone you thought was a brother or sister – not sinister – but like family - wounding and loving, wounding and loving – my sister is pouring out her soul to her life - wondering what went wrong and why – and yet there is something in her that wishes it were just as it is – falling to pieces means you get the chance to remake as the Japanese do – repurpose the broken with streaks of gold. The utter preciousness of your life we have stumbled upon – like a gate opening a dam – the water rushes upon the dry rocks and parched land beneath – you are not, you are not leaving, you are just arriving.