Friday, May 24, 2019

Pig and farm report

The Surfer drove me to the dice & slice doctor last night & we passed the field where the unicorn & the black stallion & the Magic Goat live and suddenly one of the horses was a red & white cow near the fence almost at the road and I yelled COW! & The Surfer said I thought it was just a lumpy horse & I laughed so hard my stigmata woke up

he went to the store while I was in the office & bought me my four ears of corn

all is well here except for rolling panic attacks that have been looping through me for two weeks & the hoards of gigantic RVs moving on my beach in caravans like a creepy midwestern circus during the dust bowl era except they’re elderly & richer & whiter & meaner & minus elephants 

The End.

Thursday, May 23, 2019

All the Montanas live in me

I am becoming less human
Jupiter is on my bed the feral cats for once asleep in the library I pet her silky fur she purrs and talks in ecstasy and I smash my face against her to breathe in the remarkable fragrance of her black sleek body she kneads my stomach and I crush her with my weird love and cry because I am not depressed 

I am becoming less human
out here in the forest out here in the salt blue nowhere thick with leaves and wild unmanicured forest there is a hole in my side the size of a silver dollar that leaks and leaks blood pus the sour smell of the iodine wick that is coiled into it I bleed and bleed my wound my stigmata

I did not ask for pain meds I couldn’t move for three days after the incision and gushing blood down my side and the shot of rocephin that raised a hot bump on my hip I couldn’t even turn over in bed I was in terrible pain for three days I wondered why the young doctor had not given me pain meds my wound my stigmata

I am becoming less human

a rack of magazines hung in the doctor's inner room a young blond thin girl with bad teeth stuttered around taking my blood pressure I looked at the magazine covers and saw a gorgeous photo of Serena Williams hugely pregnant holding her belly on the cover of Vanity Fair and I said to the blond thin girl look at Serena Williams she is incredible and the blond thin girl said she's a colored and I yelled back she's a superb woman and a world class athlete and she's black not a colored and I was so shocked because most people try to hide their racism in public or they used to this is the stupid complicity of Terrible America once I am through with these medical procedures I will fill out the survey they always send after and I will tell the survey what happened in that office and I will name her I will tell her real name Annie but there is no place to put my outrage my tears my sickness

I am becoming less human
I returned to the doctor Tuesday to get the wound irrigated and stuffed again with gauze more than a yard of it I have no idea how deep the hole is I am afraid to ask but it feels like it is deep enough to knock on my rib my pain throbbing on the white bone like a miniature goldfinch then I told told the doctor about my pain I screamed my pain at him and so he ordered 15 Vicodin for me which came in a childproof bottle sealed in plastic and suspicious looks from the pharmacist she peered into my car window to examine my pain to judge my pain to determine if I was an elder criminal I threw my money hard at her shoved the little drawer shut and tore away from the drive through window kicking up dirt in my fast car

I had to race my own panic home

I am becoming less human out here on the north 48°

I have to go back tonight to have my wound reopened irrigated and repacked with gauze then again Saturday apparently the cyst had ruptured as I thought and pieces of the cyst sac floated under my tender skin (the doctor showed me a piece of the sac held on the end of tiny tweezers it was small very white and looked rubbery like the tip of an old cane) and became an abscess within five days decomposition is swift

I bleed and leak and bleed and change bandages
my stigmata

a beheaded goldfinch was left by the door on the deck I couldn’t bear to touch it in fact I cannot even bend over I don’t know if a bird of prey dropped it or if one of the island's feral cats left it as a gift I have been watching its body dissolve in rain and become brittle in sun now it is flat and white the shape of a tiny Christmas tree angel with one yellow wing I make myself look every day I witness its disappearance as I witness my own 

I am becoming less human
the island is fucked with flags and bunting and maga standards hanging limp for memorial day the grocery store slashing my eyes with rows of red white and blue cupcakes and cookies and flowers and cards and t-shirts and totes and hats a bloody sea the stigmata of Terrible America all I wanted was four ears of corn but panic overtook me and I abandoned the cart in the sliding doors and fled back to my car where I sat and thought of the memorial day when I was four when my mother wrapped seven coffee cans with tin foil filled them with water and stuffed them with irises what seemed like one hundred irises to me their sick smell as I rode in the back of her station wagon to the cemetery where Lark was buried and at her grave my mother saw that the little oval forever photograph of Lark's face on her gravestone was chipped in one corner and my mother flew into a terrifying rage flinging the irises on the ground screaming and pounding the gravestone with her fists as the whispering crowd of mourners saying hello to their dead backed away from us in terror

now Jupiter is on the window sill watching through the screen hunting in her brilliant cat way this is the longest I've been able to sit up for days I have green tomatoes and new sweet strawberries and my peony is so huge I think it may have eaten the planet with its roots and I've missed you as I hurtle toward summer

Wednesday, May 15, 2019


going to the doctor at 2:20 to get my ruptured cyst punctured possibly sliced into then squeezed then stuffed with gauze and left to drain down my ribs I just took four Ativan and a bath now I’m watching the clock I hope I don’t lose my shit in his office things like screaming crying kicking biting cursing or stabbing with my Swiss Army knife all these things follow you forever much like your grades in hs “weeping” and “hysteria” are n all my reports which I tend to grab off their plastic holder on the office door when I can manage it

pray for me

Sunday, May 12, 2019


Wolfie got her head stuck in a small square Kleenex box and ran around my bed for a good 10 seconds before she could shake it off 

Saturday, May 11, 2019

(this message has no body text)

reading as temporal insanity 
reading as gluttony 
reading as religion
reading as fuel and as love

reading as dearth when reading becomes impossible for me which has been happening more and more lately as my disease progresses when reading becomes impossible for me in the dull clomping dance of depression and words jumble and boil on the page I want to tell you how it is to lose this elemental comfort this joy that has been with me my life entire  and now it goes away for long stretches at a time and yet I tend the library in my house with its piles of to read again and not yet read books I surround myself with stacks of books in every room I wait for reading to return to me I stand in my forest watching the trees or sit in the living room watching the reflection of trees on the glass of my coffee table or on the black empty screen of my iPad I have these windows now that open when reading is alive my brain on fire with it and it's all I do and I luxuriate and rest and learn and eat and eat and eat always aware that the window can slam shut at any moment so I hurry to gulp it all up

I have been writing by sending emails to myself usually a few words in the subject line and so the email arrives with the warning (this message has no body text)

not being able to read means I am disappearing
not being able to read means I am in the undertow about to drown
not reading is a bottle fly inside my body
not reading is circular
not reading is a paper cut in the wound of my being it has tiny teeth that never stop moving
not reading is grief

(this message has no body text)
(I am actually disappearing)

sending my work to myself in emails is a way of hiding or burying it because I move the notes to a folder I rarely open if I keep telling myself it’s a hoax then it becomes a hoax 

out here on the North 48° I can feel the moon pulling my brain more specifically than I could in the city and I feel the seasonal changes more profoundly as well for instance I have always found spring to be frightening and harsh and savage but yesterday it finally got warm enough to put the screens up in my bedroom and the feral kittens got extremely excited talking and stalking the winds and the smells that came in pacing around heads up ears tilted forward last year they were so wild they only watched at the window in a pantomime of hunting that was actually a mixture of fear and desire which drives all our animal selves

this morning I woke to the owls and they called from 5 am to well past 11 am I drove to the grocery store on the island for apricots and blackberries and cheese then I drove to the library and I didn't have a panic attack until 2 pm as often as not I cannot drive inside this looping mess in my brain so I live on brown rice and yogurt today I made sourdough flatbread with Greek yogurt and chopped fresh rosemary

I keep trying to write here and I am stopped I keep stopping I have lost the flow

(this message has no body text)

here are some of the empty (bodiless) emails I have sent myself

because once a man told me I was perfect and I believed him
rotary Bakelite telephone as an instrument of malice
Alex Trebek vs. Jimmy Gator in Magnolia
on being a mentally ill child
fish farms in Spokane in the 1950s
the blue glass bunny
terminal lucidity museum dream nursery was I even then dreaming of my body of what was happening to me at night
my chaotic work
collecting canning jars as a way of warding off anxiety
my anxious blood
circuit rider
every small crime
my face is long like hers
refusing to mourn

it makes no sense I make no sense I have lost the thread of me
(this message has no body text)
but these lilacs

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

I tossed a pan of water outside into the forest and accidentally hit a wee cotton tailed bunny who shot out and up the path

sorry wee bunny

Pig and farm report

transforming the terra

I bought these struggling coleuseseseses for 99 cents on sale at the local grocer a few days ago I have always loved these plants I have one thriving inside my elderly terrarium they were sickly and weak and completely waterlogged this morning I drove to the Country Store and stocked up on  hummingbird nectar and clay pots then replanted the coleussessessses and now they look brilliant on the table in the redrum kitchen soaking up sunlight and forming a friendship with my aloe and my new terrarium here's my rescue op

my depression is truly gone for now there is always will always be a caveat and the only way I was able to get out of it was to spend three days in a religious stupor high on thc and cbd edibles the only thing that worked that made it possible for me to read again and sleep again and function as a human the cure for now

this new- not-new experimentation with pot as medicine coincides with our fucked government right now and feelings I swam in during the Nixon administration living out here in the North 48° extends the rightness of that era as I wander around the island every day every day every day I feel like I'm on the commune again the air that makes me heady blue endless water in my blue eye living at the edge of the world the trees and sun through the leaves that greeny dapple the sheer overwhelming beauty of the earth's skin the divine terra as I drive listening to Neil Young and CS&N and the Beatles mostly alone the main differences of course are that I have a car  electronica and now of course I'm old

I'm reading Kate Zambreno's new book Appendix Project a companion book to her Book of Mutter she writes about being a new mother and of photographing her baby girl every day of documenting her child's daily movements about Barthes' Mourning Diary and how she Kate continues to  mourn her mother in this incredible section titled The Winter Garden she wrote:

"I take constant photographs of the baby, of me, of me with the baby, of the baby with her father, of me breastfeeding the baby, of the baby and the dog, of me and the dog. This constant, casual, documentation. Perhaps I wish to remember something of how this felt, of the life of the thing. How to record the shifts of her darling face. A mournfulness that can suffocate me. The energy of my baby. How I cannot believe four months have passed."

the first thing I thought of when I read this was how lucky this generation is to be able to document so freely such intense intimate moments with a camera always at hand and the second thought I had was of Mary Moon how she so ardently and adoringly documents her grandchildren and how amazing it will be for them as adults to see this record I have so few photos of my son from when he was about 11 years old and up he the photographer resists the camera's eye on himself

the other thing Kate's book sparked in me is how the lack my mourning my mother might affect me in my deep damp thriving bloody heart is it a necessary mourning with a mother even if she was evil and I didn't not for one hot second I shuddered when I saw her box of ashes pale blue ribbon patterned paper with a cup ring stain from where my cousin must have rested his coffee I don't even know if my brother or cousin has scattered her ashes and I don't care

that's it for now I am long winded and busy today

love to you Darkling and intrepid travelers