thaw

light the candles
focus on one thing

a light moving on the dresser.

washed hands
get into the bed again.

the fingernail polish is shiny still, glittering.
the birds are chittering in the other room, all day long they act happy.
large sweaters hold you, under the covers you hold three white
 stuffed kittens
a bed full of stuffed critters and a cage of birds
like bumper bowling, keeping me out of the gutter balls
the sucking down

the all aloneness of everyday

one long braid and dark eyes closed
i imagine my skin soil breathing
i become seeds and grow and feel air and water and am a season
outside a human body all day long is right now

color instead

I forget how much I love painting
until that moment when it's mixed just right, the canvas is already thick enough to handle it
so much has already been said then deleted
the shapes are clearer and the hand is smarter and less spastic
then the stroke comes, that defines the space that was floating.
one dot makes her face believable.


It's not a great painting, but it's good enough for now. It keeps me working and 
lets the sadness strain through me. 
The working opens up the pores of the creature basin- and sweat pours out, like running the mile,
drenched
the toxins turn 
to deep grey, 
light pink,
a bright yellow, 
her purple-ish flesh.


Days like this I am restless.
The same song on repeat all day.
The candle flickers manic-ley on the green dresser.


I think about being under water with my gills breathing, and the type of tough skin, 
shark skin- try cutting through that with a knife, it's dense 
salt water is like air to me.
Under here I prefer the darker places, schools of fish are passing like conversations in the city
Here I can be alone
non verbal
hair like this is harder to cut too, try ripping seaweed with your bare hands


Submerged.
Cover me with the weight of the sea today
salt like air
no language just the heavy echo
inside a huge full womb


schools pass by and I hear nothing, I see only color:
deep grey, light pink, bright yellow, her purple-ish flesh.


Days like this I'm better off just thinking in color.
Just focus on the light and shadow.
I have water creature hands, they touch my wet face
tears are all around me this far down.

"suck my left one"

I woke up and could still feel it.
A tugging.
Like a long thick braid down your back, the weight of a ponytail swinging.
The baby I was nursing on my left breast was just like that, a ponytail piece of me.
It was faceless, nameless, sexless- just a part of myself nursing.

It wasn't
"my baby" as much as it was me with me.
In waking life I thought it odd that I was not terrified of it, of accidentally killing it.
But in the dream it was natural,  a thing to do, getting my nails done,  unlocking the front door, nursing a baby.
I held it with one arm while other dream activities happened around my head outside of me,
it nursed and once I fixed it back on when its kitten like mouth face unhooked from my nipple, like a bike pump "pfffffft" -ing off the skinny tire


I was not terrified
I was just a human acting like a human in a dream

If I could in real live life be guaranteed to have a kitten baby I would do it in a second.
A pink fluffy kitten without dander or poison claws or fleas.
Curled up in a circle, on my circle belly, a sleeping circle
sleeping.

quiet shapes and colors I can manage.

I can still feel the sleeping circle attached, my left arm shaped like a "U", my breast loaded with milk, a ghost weight hanging there.

traveling, upstate New York late summer 2010

naps and terrible coffee

I have been cranked out as a Seattle-ite at last,
I notice it most when I travel
it always takes getting away to see where you are
I see myself all the time now
call times and show times and opening nights and radio shows and new acts are nice, important,
exhale
it's just the more I do this life, live this life
I know I want more
that there is so much more, and the stress I have carried like a grey cartoon scribble above my head is useless

breathing plane air, ordering terrible 10 dollar room service coffee, having a busted pedicure, loosing my laminate, not knowing what town or hotel room I am in, tucking myself into a new bed of strait-jacket sheets every night, daytime wake-up calls to get my drag on.


Pregnant ladies in summer sandals at the airport in the south.
A full airplane applauding for the soldiers on board just home from war.
Children wearing matching shirts, a religious summer camp logo.
Grandparents standing as close as they can, watching their grandchildren go through security, they keep waving, the babies just learning to wave, they stand there forever.

Looking for gay people, lots of places I travel to I feel very alone.
People stare at me, its the pink hair, the pink tattoos, everyone assumes I am about 18 years old.

When I was a kid waitresses always asked if I wanted a kids menu, a booster seat, like my 2 younger sisters, 5  & 7 years younger than me. I would be pissed, almost 13, almost 15 years old and given three waxey crayons and a paper menu.

I see families in the airports, on the New Jersey shore, dining in Casino Buffets and it feels so out of reach.
It's usually a ginormous turn off, copious amounts of consumerism, small town America deep fried in it's own sloth and ignorance, usually I shudder and pray for the arty ones, the little queer kids and hope they are safe and find community and a place to breathe.
Other times I am jealous, of families.
How I feel unable and cut off from that life: gays over here. straights over there.
outcasts alone forever in bars, online dating and pride parades,
and the main stream- they are down in the books with legit lives and legit laws, they make babies and have showers- with stupid games and get pastel crap, have weddings and toast with engraved champagne glasses. Buy homes, train for marathons, go to the cabin for holiday, keep a spare key in a frog by the door.

I know that no one ever "gets it"
you do it till you die

try try
try
harder

a million bright lights and faces staring at me
 watching me hit with stage lights, inside music and behind the third wall

sweat running down my back, lips stuck to my teeth in an open smile shape

making culture I tell myself

I have millions of ideas to give birth to, that's what I began saying as a teenager
too much work to do in this life

This morning in the other hotel I watched some reality thing about a girl who didn't know she was pregnant till she was giving birth and saw the babies head and ear.

I am 27 now, there is a bunch of this world I have not yet explored.
I tend to feel super alone when I travel, but perhaps this is the state that is most realistic for my generation, my culture, demographic.
The modern way.  

Sometimes I see strangers and I want to just love them, I want to crawl inside their lives
 I want to roll around in it, I want my hair to smell like them.
I feel like there are millions of people living inside me, sleeping still,
I could start over and create a new life, scrap this project

get a new sketch book

try again

become a baby
learning how to wave.

Houston, Texas

ACCOMMODATIONS: 

Our  hotel is smooth cool concrete carefully cut with expensive paint and light fixtures. Tall corridors of sleek, the smell of art.

Outside it is Texas, covered in concrete that is burning like a stove set on high, the cinnamon bun swirl blazing neon orange.

Step out the whooshing glass doors and it is thick hot air that holds you, gets into your bones and pulls the sweat out, beads pumped out- machine sweat.

Everyone says "yall"  here, which is so sweet and human sounding. 

My ears change as I travel and listen to so many voices, every accent slipping a little note under my door- surprising me, reminding me.

THE VENUE:  

It's a million degrees outside still, I walk into the huge fright elevator with my costume bag and Richard with his, it is a bit cooler. It's here that my eyes shoot open and narrow in, on to this elevator person who is taking us up... 

It happens to my whole body. 

Not Many People Have 

This Affect On Me. 

It's not a situation I have cognitive control over: The universe of chakras align, hormones buzz, mind jumps out the window.  Aura glows- spreads out like  pancake batter on the greased pan, expanding, creeping closer, solidifying.

Becoming.

This forming is serious, becomes tactile, it will need to be attended to- first watched, then carefully flipped. 

It now has a life of it's own. Wanting sets in like fire, give it oxygen and it's off. Whoosh, ablaze.

She is breathing and lives in and over me.  A cobra hood reaching around my human sized head, directing my motions. She makes me breathe hotter, she is the one that has this power, running inside my veins moving me closer. Sizzling my skin to the edge of the square pan. A new shape. A mission.

I am in the freight elevator, feet in heels standing on the industrial silver metal flooring. Huge doors open up and down like a monster mouth. In all this ridiculous make up and sprayed-put-fake and real hair, l feel like a popped off carnival head, dropped down the gutter, now bobbing inside the monster belly.

Where am I?  In Texas somewhere. Elevator. Hotel. Plane. Bus. Hotel. Green Room. Stage. Green Room. Hotel. Bus plane stage hotelbus stage greenroomplanebusstagebushotel... In this particular freight elevator everything stops for me.

THE ELEVATOR:

The cobra is booming and focused. My body is buzzing, my teeth, buzzing close to the ledge jumping brain. 

He is thin in the corner, huge glasses, leaning on the road case, eyes, deer eyes, staring at the mouth doors. 

He is ice cream sandwich beautiful, skinny, serious unicorn person. Seeing him is like that- you don't believe it's real

make-believe stubbornly before you, eyes blink blink.

No sound will leave your mouth, just a buzzing body.

There is a tiger staring at me on his bending and straightening elbow. Up and down on the elevator I see him, he is magic shaped as a human.

Over and over he moves big things and I stare, inside me every chakara is spinning wildly, I am levitating.

I remind myself to breathe, I am terribly aware of every corner of the room, the backstage area where my quick change is set up. 

The back of my head is watching, waiting for him to pass by. The room is all black and I am laying out my costumes, one piece at a time, black and blue fabric with little sparkles. I count all the pieces and keep my behind eyes open. 

Waiting,  like a hunter in the dark- He is Full Color. Glowing Sandwich. My mouth is salivating, rehab heart relapsing, clicking and clacking around in my heels. 

I am terrified to speak to him, I am mute as a clown, a bobble head with four eyes watching, floating.

Unable to speak to the elevator ice cream sandwich boy.

It was just an elevator, inside another blurry venue

but inside this one,  

was

this 

boy 

with an elbow 

and these deer eyes , huge bulky glasses, 

skinny sweaty tiny magic of a human with a hidden trap door  

I fell down it, the moment I stepped in that elevator

I got lost 

in him.

a visit with a wheel

I wake up searching for your body

the weight and mass like a building by the park, a landmark, a recognizable corner.

On the couch
whose couch? on the guest couch

alone

where is she?
who am I expecting? 

my eyes squeeze shut as my spinning blob body and my dream self mash back into a human blood and guts and soul body.

Reunited, dizzy, I am here on the island, in the guest room, on the white couch. 

Who am I looking for?

Who am I missing?        spinning

All I want to do is cry.
I am terribly sad. I am kicked in the stomach alone.

All day my dreams will haunt me.

We will go for a drive and I will cry

I remember her coming here last, her calling from the ferry, her laughing with my mom in the kitchen.
Her laughing

I feel like an amputee

I so solidly want to believe in it, I feel the phantom weight tugging me, 

my heart organ is crushing, it pumps tears out of my eyes like warm sprinklers

I am always crying on this couch.

My mouse trap body always does this- the missing parts ignighting the gasp- 

the kick in the stomach 

the quick inhale, the sledge hammer heart

the water park face with the turnstile tangle hair 

eyes stinging of chlorine

a mess in the parking lot after everyone goes home.

If I have a home maybe it's this white couch.

If I were to feel safe perhaps it should be here.

Last night she came into my dreams
 I was so afraid of her, I ran out of the club without pants or shoes on, down the white hall, terrified.

she chased me

and told me.

We both had the huge ferris wheels lit up inside
still spinning
after all this time.

 Like metal hamster wheels, cold, welded, that real, that simple.

We had believed the size and speed would dwindle over time, but they didn't, they whirled and cranked out lights and color and sound everyday. The spinning was constant.

It had been so terrible for us both to live with that      SPINNING

inside everyday

to try and ignore it 

we each had it, twin fariswheel chakras of energy, love, passion, magic, hope, future

spinning inside.

2 twin wheels of longing.

Why will it not fade? How can I muffle that terrible sound?
All it is is ache.

I was afraid, just like before but this time, pants-less and dream dipped- I didn't care
I could see it so clear, it matched mine

 nothing outside mattered cause I could see the spinning 

it matched mine perfectly, 2 cardboards cards flipped over. same same.

I cried, blood dripped down my thighs, she held me,
she came back.

in her truck we began again.

we were together 

finally.

We both cried as we spun together like a puzzle piece hamster race.

She looked like Elvis in her truck, in a leather jacket. I sat beside her in my huge pajama shirt and
bare legs streaked with blood, face dried with salt.

I woke up expecting her
looking for her.

Alone in dream island
alone on couch island
this morning across the carpet horizon,  


a desperate S.O.S. 

project outline

alone here in the home
sore eyes tender
a layer has been shed
I wake up early everyday at 6am for crying
my bed says only horizontal feelings
tear ear
stop thinking and go back to sewing
sew a thing pull it together stranger

I cant make it outside, so I open the door and allow the world sounds in
Buses whizz by, black crows cawing, air, music from rolled down windows, kids walking home, jogger feet, trees moving, sun happening
this opening
this is progress.

I wake up everyday and trace over the outline backwards and forwards
using every pen I can find in the kitchen drawers, in my purses, under the couch, in jars and left on the porch.
Every mark smells different. charcoal, fat candy markers, fine point sharpie, a freshly sharpened pencil.
the image is so familiar it unrecognizable
I am investigating
my face and hands come and go

in this state I am invisible land

horizontal still

anatomy of loss

Vines cover this house in shades of transparent green.

Alive with air and small bugs and tiny suction cups- holding the crawly earth to the wooden box, hugging it, death grip tendrils woven around the windows like Kleenex box cozies.

When you are always cold you forget skin has the ability to relax, smooth across the driftwood bones like melted frosting.

They say lungs are associated with loss.

Breathing

the involuntary oxygen action

Loss

the involuntary suffering state

we never wanna lose a thing

even when we try and deny the feelings or affect

it's still gone, the thing that was lost that we no longer have

Lungs and Loss

why did my breathing stop

?

This house is a block tied up in the toe of green fishnets

inside here I am inside outside

I crank the heat all winter, spring and into summer in Seattle

I refuse to be homeless in my home

My lungs stopped working

when I lost my home

my mom

my self

my loss left me empty of air

for 13 years I have been trying to calm them, the spasming, heaving, aching, tight and terrible lungs.




When I lost it all I lost my oxygen,

they say it's the trauma

the organ

the actions

caused the

organ

to malfunction




I do much better in the heat

when the skin pulled across my chest radiates with heat

a heart inside a vine house gets hotter

lungs release and open

everything opens and one million tears pour out of the houses upstairs windows

the hot rain traces the vines cross hatching the home

when everything is open the furniture inside takes shape

one can begin to make out the color and patterns

it's all soaking and salty

but sturdy under that hot water

a few receipts and wrappers flow out the windows

and lodge themselves like paper flowers in the vine maze along the walls.

She looks like a lady in a dress.

People see it that way, beautiful, decorated, floral.




when it's hot the house breathes

the velvet cushions hold water year round

the floor is warped in a crimped hair kinda way

when it's hot my vine house gets hotter

there is water and furniture lodged in the lungs

the loss left them twitching

a salt water fish left heaving on the dock
flipping flipping then just
heaving

 her lungs were loss

at home here

home.
From the perspective of the house, I can see it would be confusing, the beaten up wheels of the luggage always banging down the back stairs, the doors always slammed and locked.
Slammed and Locked.
leaving.
She talks so much about it, embroidered into her aprons and socks and coat tags. Hidden in love notes pressed between the pages like a butterfly preserved, corpse bookmark
It's always the topic she returns to.
A globe spinning, the little finger always seems to stop it in the same place, a little mark, like tracks on the yoga mat, worn out.
home
always the same spinning and stopping. a Smudge.

Homelessness can't be so terrible?? there are always trash bags and takeout boxes to be had- rain gear! dinner! what else do yo need?!  Shoes with laces or without, and even CD players can be found just sitting around on street corners, by a bus stop, maybe an EZ-Boy...

I get why it could seem crazy even,
all the going.
You see the trim, the floor the spreads out like an ocean, the curves of the lady furniture, a white counter, a red glowing dot on the stereo.
It looks like a house. Solid.
Windows painted shut. The hum of a fridge.

She looks like a person.

Just grab that doll and stick her in the nursery, on the top floor, put her in the yellow crib and turn off the miniature lights.
She's in the house. It's a house and she's a person. Turn off the lights or I'm going to give you something to cry about.

Being inside is nothing.
floating
locks on doors that look like the necks of birds, beaks, painted and chipped, spotted birds.
horizontal
bare footed,
just leave her in the snow, on the boat with the sharks, just turn on the t.v. for them.
sell her lady furniture
put on another sweater if your that cold.
weave your hair into a basket, we all need to do our part around here.

home
she looks like
a home
I mean a person

There is such a nice view from this window. You are so lucky yo live here.
Everyone must be so jealous, you can see everything from here.

flying to the West

last day in Thailand...I don't want to go home, I want to sweat forever here with dirty bare feet, matted curly hair and freckles connecting.
What was I looking for?
Why was is terrible?


We fly to Phuket from Chiang Mai, to Korea, to Seattle.

My heart is hotter here, in the East.
my fingers look different now.
My eyes are wider and the asthma has melted away
my bones are calm, I am going home

a pink girl in Thailand

Pink must be a color that attracts and targets little girls world wide.
Shopping in the upper level of a stuffy department / swap meet type store today in Trang I had a trail of little girls following me around.

Everyone seems very excited by my pink tattoos. They move their hand up and down making the poking motion with wide eyes, asking me "is it a tattoo?"
I nod yes and rub my skin real hard showing that it does not rub off and make a face in pain answering "yes, it is a tattoo, it hurt".
I bought a pink splatter paint shirt at that store for a friend, but as soon as I returned to the cozy B and B type hotel we are staying at I instantly put it on, it felt so good having my over exposed shoulders covered.

In Seattle my body never sees the sun. It sees lots of stage lights and photographers flashes but sun, no way. My Irish, Scottish, Dutch, French, Spanish, German & Canadian skin is pastie-olive, with a thin film of freckles and only one colorless mole, right above my lip like a cartoon character beauty mark.
My skin collects more freckles with the sun and I collect tattoos, pink, purple, maroon and red ones, usually when I travel, places I have lived.
I have seen beautiful all black tattoos on the dark naked backs of Thai men here. Their skin is like melted chocolate toffee swirl. The women are thin and powerful, the children are so beautiful I want to take them home in woven baskets and feed them peeps and attach pastel bows to them. So cute like baby animals on Easter, waaaaaay cuter than Jesus, so much cuter than chicks.

I smile at everyone and they all smile back. I love the people here, the town we are in is small and we are the only Americans. Today on top of a mountain we walked slowly around the Chinese Temple. Inside the air was thick with incense, waxy amber walls seemed to drip in the heat, and statues loaded up with garlands and beads filled the Temple that architecturally looked like a warehouse meets a commissary.  Quin Yin and other Goddesses I did not know posed grandly next to large silver industrial sized sinks and huge floor drains. The children inside the sweaty Temple fallowed me around.
Outside a few men "asked" to take pictures of me. I "said" yes and posed with them. When the tuk-tuk putted off they kissed their hands and blew kisses at me.

Later at a little basket shop we bought drinking water. A big monsoon type downpour began as we left the Buddhist Temple. By the time the three of us pulled up soaking wet we were dying of thirst still, covered in rain and sweat now. The women who worked at the shop where very interested in me, despite my soggy appearance. Two girls introduced themselves to me, they were both 18 years old and dressed like professional airline attendants.
I seemed so much younger than them in my drippy pink hair, see-though pink baby-doll dress and pink flip flops. 
I feel very young here. I feel so old here.

Thailand, Trang, night time.

feeling the body with this much sweat
like sitting in a hot pool, perfectly still you cannot feel the water
not dry not wet
 a liquid body made up of liquid and heat
on the bus from Puket to trang I looked at my hands for a long time
imagining how lifeless hands look
like a strangers once the soul leaves
it seems your soul fills out the shape you are
your hand acts like you.

Outside this internet cafe the waterfall drips over the stone carving of a naked goddess. 

my body moves thorugh this city like a white lady, my hips sway too much, my hair grows too long, my skin is very white.

My pink dress is soaked through, lizards are crawling franticly all over the ceiling, iced coffee is turning my heart into a crazy bird in a small cage.
It is Sunday and a lesbain was spotted in the shoe store.

Thailand: take my sandpaper feelings

It is spring in seattle and my skin is crawling, I am always freezing all over.
Tomorrow I leave for Thailand.
I am going to bury myself in the sand and stay there.
I am going to stare at the sun and cry.
What to do with this body? It carries heavy sandbags of sadness inside it, I try and untie them and drop them off the side of the bridge
I wanna hear them splash and sink into the water below.

fish can eat those things.

It always goes like this-
 from EVERYTHINGeverything Everything
to
just me,
 with all these ridiculously heavy bags
6 months is a long time like this
one year is a long time
27 years is a long time
being in a body
am I still fresh? Will I get tastier or spoil?
It's strange that this flesh is alive, it wont just rot, it's living and existing on its own, regardless of my thoughts about humanness, being inside a body, feeling more like a terrible dream with three million confusing characters,  made up of stories, none having bodies...
it will still grow, age, be a body in all sorts of body like ways

and inside I can feel like a sheet of paper
crumbled and blowing along a fence

just wind and dust paper sounds.

I will bury my body in the sand
I will close my eyes and turn to paper

rewind*repeat

repetition makes me feel safe.
put it on a loop
knit me into the length of it
keep it going
I feel myself growing older
my face is new everyday
I have no idea what I look like
keep doing it
one day it will feel real
one day this life will be un-hooked from the whirling machines
and just
run on momentum
stop peddling as it coasts downhill
air
and fast tears
 skin and hair
a person on a loop
a strangers face on a body
a body with a whirling heart machine
spinning
no matter what it keeps going
the fast tears and same song keep coming
the loop is always
the loop is for realz

river and raft

Every night I crawl in like its a secret page turning

Every day I dream of being under the covers. It's warm quiet pink soft empty of need- it asks nothing of me but to remain horizontal, it is very dark, non verbal.

How did this manic life end up in this slow thick dream river?

It's collecting debris alongside the tree roots and I am spotting lost rings, favorite pens, used silverware, battered linens woven in the mossy roots, crusted to the massive trunk.

Navigating this part of the river life is like trying to stay on top of a beach ball pushed underwater.

I am being tossed off as it pops up and flies away. I swim against the wind to get at it again. 

All my muscles are burning and my fishnets are collecting pebbles and doll furniture in the saggy feet.

I am trying to catch my breath in putty water land. Mist clings to my eyelashes and fly away hairs, each drop is grey with an ice cube world waiting

my limbs hang like poured cement into a girl shaped body cast. Each wrist, each ankle have baby floaties squeezed onto them. They are electric orange and the white flesh bulges out like raw dough.

But this will prevent the body from dying. This side affect is very normal. 

This is how it feels now. The body bread rising. Injected with blood thickeners like cornstarch water blood pushing against the skin, sculpted by the ripples, dented by the domestic debris.

This is the shape you have to exist in, a hundred barn animal sounds ring out as the arrow swirls around, the popcorn vacuum has condensed and moves like a space helmet down the river.

Every morning I wake up, out of the pages folded softly over my shipwrecked body, step out of my bed and into this cluttered river.

choking in the water, band-aides flapping open like  mini flags, audible breathing and treading water.

An all day episode of trying.

Every night  I escape to the mirage. Soft, dark, quiet, non verbal, a page slowly turning me in.

The Pastor said we struggle

Lets forget Easter ever happened
never call her again

ache

sleep in so late you miss therapy, the gym, lunch, working, morning heartache.
Lets pretend your okay with the silence
she leaves on her bike

clunks to the sidewalk
panties showing
lace dress and choking-this is pastel painful

her bike and your bike are not locked together


she never calls again

months


night after night

In yoga class all the tears fall upside down
run over your forehead and into your ears
your scalp is salty
Lets forget the feeling of tears working their way down your
upside down face
crawling rivers
exhale

Silence,
but inside it is terrible: the insulation is exposed
it's pink like cotton candy and sharp
the floor is just cold cement with a small spider moving in the corner
it has all capsized- it is really terrible in here.


Okay: crawl under the couch
in the dark shadow slit
and sleep

dream of anything but her

little egg

tears & stuffed

L word annoying
facebook kill me
taxi cab stop talking smells and slower than the bus
nails are long and shiny still,
leftover pineapple
Vitamin water

ALL I want is my pink bed to swallow me, digest me
I turn into tiny pink pillow hearts
collected
put in vending machines
picked up by claws
hugged by children
given to lovers in february

cried into

all my cotton is soaked with sea salt tears
washed up on the shore
a dog toy
pink fades to brownpeach
I am swallowed by the ocean
I am a sea sponge

Tiny sea bugs live inside me
from inside they see everything, the bubbles, deep sea parties and the fish drama
they fight and cry and swim away angrily
they go home to their cold coal reef and float about all night wondering

when you cry underwater the rays and crabs don't notice
you can cry so much
the plankton hear you
they float by and listen

It hurts like a handstand in the waves, crashing into your upside down body
all the wind knocked out of you
salty body sideways, water in your nose and stinging eyes
you lie there, foam crackling along the human shape
you sink into the sand
you are digested by zillions of sandcrabs
pink acrylic nails surface along the hard sand eventually.

Ten shiny pebbles shaped like fingernails, with faded glitter
The pink is very bright,
the salt preserves the pink.

zillions of tears crash horizontal

girls come here and cry all the time

sometimes they take little pink pebbles into their hands, squeeze them and wish for help
zillions of wishes happen like this

their necks are wet with pink tears
their pebble inside the tight hand is throbbing

(cat calls and running dogs and screaming children all happen outside the human shape)

she imagines a claw lifting her out of the sandbox machine
dropping her into a chute
into the paws of a white stuffed kitten with a pink bow and blue eyes.
Forever she falls asleep to dry cotton spooning and cartoon purring.

night 1 without

Magical things happened last night.

I looked down into the water from the library bouchany above. A single silk button up shirt swirled just below the surface, the caretaker said it had been swirling in circles there for years, weaving and unweaving itself. 

Silkworm swirl.

Along the surface of the water zillions of cucumber type creatures that zipped along in perfect lines like an LA freeway. 

They never stop zipping, it was like the water itself, always glistening, always moving. 

I turned away from the solid rail walked just a few paces to climb up a shallow hill. 

It was encrusted with gold picture frames, dolls, antiques, science experiments, exotic plants, inventions, trinkets. I leaned against the hill and it nestled me in, like sitting on a french couch, it held me as I watched the students below. 

No teachers were present. They sat in groups and had very nice clothes and good manners. 

The only real reason I snuck into this school was because I fallowed X here. She was down below spread out atop the moss, being lonely.

 I wanted to join her, but she was very busy in her loneliness.

 I decided to flirt with some of the rich girls. Every last one of them had on a highly pigmented jacket in wild patterns and shapes, they were the most beautiful jackets I had ever seen. They were made out of an unidentifiable material, they radiated. All the girls sat in a circle on the ground with a few boys inter-dispersed wearing ties and nerdy faces. 

I squeezed between two girls, sorta pushing them apart, both high school aged, no one knew I was years beyond collage, I looked just like them- 

only homeless.

Trying to coax one into taking me to the movies, I don't know what happened, but there was a vase and I suppose I threw it, I don't know how or why. But I was responsible for the boy who went running to the restroom with a large cut-hole taken out of his cheek.

Instantly I felt awful... perhaps it was an accident???

He eventually returned and the open hole was now just a pink swollen closed cut. I offered to get bandages or anything.  He said "nah", he was fine, maybe just a cup of coffee. 

I said he may want to avoid acidic things w/ an open wound, I couldn't remember if it was for open mouth issues or bladder infections to avoid acidic drinks and food, but regardless I wouldn't get him the coffee.

I snuck into the movies there on campus, I stashed my white trash bag of stuff in a hallway by the bathroom. When I peed the door would not lock and X came it. We talked about sneaking out of the building. 

We jumped out the bathroom window and ended up loosing our train tickets and belongings but strangely on the road below we had our pet dog back. It was more like a stuffed animal dog. I was not afraid of it. It was sort of like a half human baby, half stuffed animal dog. 

I never did end up making out with any of the private school girls in the jackets. It was a nice feeling of escapism being there. Being an adult and not having a home or job, being held in this fancy high school, pretending to belong, feeling free and young in that mahogany lined space.

again

dear dream people,
Please send me something else.
I'll do anything for a time out. Send me a sanctuary.
Why must she come every night? It makes the missing her worse, it's a cigarette burn on the skin,
every night re-opened.
every night just as painful.

dreamself and hermusic

Before I went to bed last night, my roommates phone, keys and puffer had all been lost or stolen throughout her evening, poof gone, not drunk at a club poof but, monday night sober poof. She was being hilarious about the whole fiasco and I was cracking up just before I got ready to hit the reading light and jump into my fantastically cozy princess bed.

I don't often have laughing juice running through my body before being horizontal for the next 5 to 8 hours, so I was imagining this was a good sign, an endorphin spell perhaps to ward off the nightmares that have a strangle hold on my subconscious as of late.

Every morning I have been waking into the human world, the sturdy bed frame, the shut blinds, the pile of clothes with stale glitter and hairspray clung to their insides, solid wood floor, crisp white ceiling with a cake trim crown molding, real world.... waking out of the epic, tragic nightmares. Tears all over my face, heart racing and covers woven around in a macrame sculpture cocooning my shaking body.

I asked the world out loud if I could not dream of her.

The past 2 nights it was unbearable, I awoke feeling ripped to shreds, a paper-shredded doll of a person.

The laughing juice did not help. I woke up this morning after seasons of dream time tragedies in one human night equivalent.

 I was in a class room and were presenting our work in the front of the class. The teacher said only come up if you had it completed.  I kept looking at the back of the CD and trying to figure out which track number matched up with which title, they where holographic and the alignment of the two changed are you moved it. there where colorful drawings done in maker and the font was all hand done too, animals and zig zag shapes, really beautiful.
 As I watched the holograms and tried to read it I saw her name
written: "all lyrics by XX".
 Just seeing her name spelled out had a tremendous affect on me.
XX
 no way to describe the feeling... like a digging in the chest- a low thuddy beating, a sledge hammer against  enclosed parking lot pavement, echo-ey, cold, a terrible vibration.
Had I ever left one with this feeling before??? I am so so so sorry...It is dry heaving, it is your face on the porcelain seat, tears stacked up like a shelf inside the eyes.

The cellophane wrapper was tricky with my dream hands, I struggled for a long time to open it, then the plastic case and popping out the actual CD, everything was laborious as my heart thumped, my hands shook and the tears became apart of my presentation outfit.

I picked a title that sounded familiar and sad, as I read it I tried to imagine what the lyrics might say, what it could sound like, what I would do for my presentation. I stood up and said I had never even heard my song, that I was going to improv and walked over to the boom box. 

I had trouble finding the correct buttons to make it work, my dream hands touched all the knobs, it played like a tape. I cranked the volume up to max and began my dance.

Rather than staying in the front of the classroom I instantly flung myself between a row of desks where everyone sat stunned. I had on a wet leotard and wet hair, bare feet. I was crying and crawled across the desks, fell off backwards and slithered between the desk and chair legs on the dirty linoleum floor. The music was erratic and I spazzed out, my hair all wild like vines wrapped around my face, no one could see the tears, it was all just one big cathartic mess, the teacher watched silently from the front of the room.

 I was all alone in it.

None of the students had faces, just a little gasp mouthes here and there.

Later in the dream I showed up at a club house in San Francisco-Olympia and had my bike. All the girl club members were super rude and said I couldn't lock my bike here or there. I was extremely nice to them as I kept moving along to different spaces in the wear house and ended up stashing my bike in this little hallway. The dudes were super rude to me as well, I was like a second class citizen because I was not a member. The rest of the dream goes down hill in a way that I'd rather not even think about it. I'd like to just delete it from my memory. The parts above are sadly the light hearted moments.

A shape: Long Bright Halls

Touring: 
Sitting on the bus,  looking out the windows with the landscape going by. I like the feeling of knowing nobody lives in that space, when it's just earth and animals and road. I feel free watching it blur into a color, yellow-tan, red-green, grey-white, in this color verb I am located nowhere.
How humans constantly fly through that space, inside their heated buses and trucks... but outside it is cold and human feet don't touch that part. Not too often anyway.
Untouched and open outside the tinted window, my breath heats it up, add tears and you've got a mini steam room between bus world and outside world.

 As a survivalist I think about being dropped off in those spaces, how long it might take to walk to the nearest gas station, what it might be like to sleep in that barn, climb into the storm drain, if hunting and gathering skills would kick in. I'm sure I would eat meat if I was a train hopping vagabond. But I would need a lighter, and I'd have to get a pocket knife too, and boots, and I'd want to cut my hair and pass as a boy... I'd need a couple essentials if I was going to commit to a outside lifestyle for sure.

I enjoy sleeping in hotels because I think the break of white walls is healthy to cleanse my visual palate' of the super intense colors slathering my home. White, grey, light brown and other boring colors are sort of refreshing and calming. It's always a calming feeling when you are in a space like a hotel where there is little history invested. It feels lighter.
It's like the vending machine of housing. The opposite of a kitchen at home food- with a real cook and real mouthes to feed. That is always a whole kitchen of a story- every appliance and dish hold time and memories and energy. But the hotel room is just the vending machine version of food. Its simply meeting the needs in this way, you cant get too invested in the Natures Way green packaged granola bar, you just press the buttons and open the food item. It's not super delicious. You feel less hungry.
 In the room you can sleep. No associations. No specific smells taking you somewhere in your mind. It is nice to have nothing there to feel.

Though, the hallways of hotels remind me of all the collage dorms I've lived in. It's that narrow passageway filled with light, it will always be exciting and risky to me. Walking though hallways in hotels is like walking through an airport. Everyones instantly sexier because there not from your city, and your not from theirs, and life is big and too wild to understand all the difference happening all the time.
Hallways have that affect, but more so, strangers behind each door, like an advent calender. Some sure to be friendly, some to be strangers forever, some to catch your eye and make your body become alert- make your eyes focus intently, like how a cat watches a bird, super still, serious; dead serious crushes walking in and out of doors. The smell of carpet. Your hand running along the clean walls. The sound of the lights on all the time, at all hours bright and wide awake hallways.

Sometimes I wanna go back to school just to feel that, perhaps this is why I am always traveling- wanting to feel the well lit hallways, hear the buzzing lights, wait like a cat for a dead serious crush to step out of one of those little doors, a little chocolate person.

Hati & Katrina

Perhaps this is actually a dream journal. 

I enjoy waking up and writing about my all night long, wildly vivid dreams alongside coffee and slipper feet. 

I find just being horizontal I can remember them- walking into a darker room, or even just tilting my head back and closing my eyes, letting my jaw go slack, they come rushing back like the tide, so much information filling in all the little divots in the sand. Soaking in, always the same, always new.

I go to great lengths to shield my psyche against most of the outside waking world. I decided when I was about 16 years old that I was the type of creature that wanted to be in the world, but not quite of the world, and should limit my exposure to mainstream culture, foods, sounds and environments that would clutter my psyche, and perhaps this is why I have this vast playing ground for nighttime dream worlds to run a muck. The textures and feelings and scenarios are so vivid. 

The histories of my selves and the characters are long and lush and complicated just like in waking life, but I know about them, in my dreams I understand why the people are doing what there doing. I have this inner dialogue with myself about it, and seem to respond to the situations with more empathy and grace.  

I am in Orlando Florida,  last night in the all-white hotel bed I, my hair stained the pillow case pink, I passed out after our first night of shows here.

In my dreams I was in a troll land that switched back in forth between being human and troll space. The whole structure of the cities were crumbling, we had to run for our lives, I was crying as I tried to pack my small bag with one costume, I had to leave my roller derby skates behind, they would eventually sink into the water as the flooding was coming fast. 

Cielo was my husband in the dream and he was a human when I was a troll person- we switched back and forth throughout the dream, never in the same place at the same time. 

It was impossible for me to tell when I was what, I seemed to be the only person not able to see my change. It wasn't that the characters looked that different, it was just a magical quality that changed there energy in this way, that you could "see" them, and the humans had harder edges to them, seemed "bigger", held space more like cut out paper dolls rather that closer to the earth and mossy vine-y, soil like energy... that the trolls had

As I walked up this one stairwell it crumbled around me. It was tight and spiraled up like the staircase in my old flat in the south of France. I was naked and was apologizing over and over about it. On the rooftop were other troll like people who ran and jumped off the rooftops and down into moving trucks and the undulating sidewalks . 

 I tried to collect my little sister who was little like a doll, my bag, my lover, in the end I lost everything. I was floating in the water, hanging on to a wrought iron rail on someones  stoop of their back door that was floating down the flooded city. I was hiding from the humans. Cielo was to remain human and me a troll. 

There was a dark beach and us refuge troll strangers walked down it, wet and devastatingly empty, watching the paper doll humans erect hard cornered paper-architecture where our magical spaces had once been, before all the crumbling and cold water flooding.

on the ship

I had these epic dreams...

I was on this huge ship that was moving through thick contaminated water. At the end I helped the men bring up the anchor, I had to squeeze though this terribly small space to get to the anchor room. Low on the floor, like a crack under a door, I pushed my body though and found myself in the red carpeted room. It was like the Queen Mary rooms, but larger, redder.  All the carpet smelled like boat.

 I was looking for Jenny all over the ship. I made a mermaid tail out of foam core, clear packing tape,  a blond wig. I was swimming in my tail through the water. I had a dance partner mermaid. She asked why I looked so much like a man. I was more of a merman. I caught myself in the mirror and I saw a stranger man face I had never worn before. I kept applying make up but I couldn't paint on the face I was used to seeing. 

The whole dream I was terribly sad. I knew she was on the ship. 

It was miles long. 

The last time I saw her we were in a room full of people rolling around on the crazy patterned hotel carpet, rocking with the enormous boat, bodies silently flailing. She didn't seem to see me, she looked like a stranger. It was a carpet party, at one point I asked the librarian DJ if she had any Ladytron. I felt like I was in fifth grade. The bodies all around moving like empty soda cans, I was drenched in loneliness. 

 I wondered about my tail. 

My mother, grandmother and aunt were all in one dark room, talking about my dad. He was going to jail and they all shook there heads knowingly. I kept looking at the alarm clock and trying to figure out the time, the day, where she was. I knew she was on the ship and I couldn't find her. My hair was all wet and I got off at the wrong stop. 

I looked the map and I was going south when the campsite was north. Along the beach I found washed up fabric and tried to make myself a home that would work. I knew she had shifted and I was lost along the beach with strangers. My mom was somewhere crying and I wondered about my sisters and what had happened to them, I knew about Jenny and her stranger face, and mine.

Pack luster

I did in fact turn 27, but I do believe that I am unraveling in a way that feels like I am turning younger. 

I never believed "I knew everything" as a teenager, or child or young adult. I always felt solid in what I knew I knew. And knew that I didn't know so much. 

What I went though and analyzed and regurgitated and processed and touched and painted and had feedback from sane trusted others; that sorta thing I could feel pretty secure with, saying that I "knew about it". 

 I knew what I did not want to be like, long before I knew what kind of person I wanted to become. 

People who are older and much older then me will know I am young. 

Children who look at me will know that I am colorful, pink fun like Bratz Doll and older, a lot older then them. They will think about when they are "grown up" and if they will know anyone like me, be like me, wonder how they might be. 

I think about children and homes and owning cars and having health insurance and payment plans and taking vacations, having a storage space or garage with outdoorsy equipment and holiday decoration boxes labeled and writing books and having big family friend annual get-togethers. 

I think about belonging to a thing that is bigger than me. 

I've always wanted that. 

To be apart of something. I have felt the most satisfied in that department when I was in colleges.

 One summer I spent at Cal Arts on the hot, eucalyptus smelling Valencia campus. It was the first time I had ever felt what that belonging feels like. I was surrounded by fantastic artists, queer kids, seen by them, loved in a way I could feel. I reeled in the company of the brilliant minds all around me. We were the 15 year old out casts of our public schools, but here, all together we could dance, make art, play music, write, act, do stuff we just know how to do more than we knew about anything else. 

 We were all going to grow up and make stuff.

I spent a different summer in another Pre-Collage art program at UCSB College of Creative Studies. A campus that felt generally dull, but the College students who were our dorm leaders or whatever, I loved. I was the "Diversity Leader"  for the Student Activities thingy for the summer, at the time I was an "Ally".  I was a teenage girl who kept falling for gay boys. I had never seen a "butch" or "gender queer" type female person, I didn't know about it. I was attracted to the "queer quality" the boys had, delicate features, boy smelling, eyeliner, chipped nail polish, messy hair, I adored it. 

At MICA, we worked, we all just worked so hard.

Roller derby in Baltimore brought about the most intense feelings. I became apart of this huge, crazy intense family, with a mission- skating. We trained, worked, played together. It was the most intense time.

All my perceptions of sports changed after that. I understood about what it means to sweat, that the body is a machine. What it means to want to cry and vomit and shit you are trying so hard. 

I would ride my bike around, see a roller girl I felt exponentially safer knowing they were sprinkled throughout the sketchy streets of Baltimore. It was a secret all girl gang and everything in my life felt buoyant, easier, lifted by being 1 of the 60 women in the league. 

Life is different when you move in a flock around and around in a circle, with your hair flying and music blasting.

 Life is peaceful with wheels humming around the rink. 

I am a pack animal. I fare better with the whole. 

For never wanting a normal job, I am such a team player. The idea of accomplishing a thing together is so much more exciting to me than to create just my vision. I always talk about this. Things are so much more interesting to me when I am terrified to do a thing that the others all wanna do, and I do it and the shape I thought I lived in changes again, and again I don't know who I am, I un-do what I thought I knew, and I am younger.

writing things is easier than speaking

 I wrote on old thrift store type writers for years. 

Even in collage weirdly. But I went to art school, so we carried things like huge paintings and super long rolls of paper around the city campus, not laptops in black bags with nice pants on. We smelled like turpentine and had charcoal all up in our nostrils, fingernails caked with paint and ink and everything else we used to make with. 

My childhood neighbor had a pen pal who lived in some far off place, from our southern California beach town. I was always super envious of the letters she would receive, with stickers and little doodles, boring kid updates about visits to the dentist or a school field trip. I never had a pen pal, but was always super intrigued by a relationship of letters. A written interaction with stamps and time and government workers seeing to the absoluteness of its delivery. 

The bulge in an envelope arriving in the mail, the odd shape tweaking the clean lines of the symmetrical paper still drives me wild. The way Valentines Day cards have a few pieces of candy, sealed inside the small red house, holding the colorful cornstarch shapes. Candy is disgusting mostly, but send it in the mail with a glitter glue note and its the most magical thing I've ever seen, to precious to be eaten.

 I remember in high school senior year borrowing this old junker of a computer to write my collage essay on... I don't think it actually was the kind with the black screen and the neon green all cap font, but close enough, painful. It crashed and froze up every 2 seconds and I re-wrote my essay over and over. I practiced being Zen and deep breathing, I tried to "let it go" and "find my center" every time it lost the whole thing.

That was back when I drove a car. It had a cassette player in it. I loved the way my car smelled, how I was all alone in it with my mix tapes stuffed into every crevice. The car was a home. I sang in it, I cried in it, I made out in it probably... though I remember the crying part more so than the make-out sessions. 

I was really good about putting on lipstick while driving, I guess I learned that when I was a kid though, the whole putting on lipstick without a mirror trick. Its easy, my older sister taught me how to apply a whole face of makeup when I was six, seven maybe. Red lipstick was the name of the game then. The inside shape of that car was a great shape to hold a crying teenager.

I have those long high heel boot shoe boxes full of rolled up, wrinkly, random journal writings. I would crank out the pages and fill up boxes and boxes of  paper, all misspelled and XXXXXX'ed out. One type writer lived on the front porch, one lives on the book shelf, one lived on Sarah's little wooded chest she gave me when she moved to Africa. I wrote her letters and stuffed them inside the draws of the chest. I never mailed those.

Two times in my life I have sent handwritten letters out to sea in bottles. 

The first time in the south of France, the second,  on Christmas day last month from Vashon Island. I have never found a message in a bottle before. But I think it's think romantic. 

Years and years ago when I wore short hair, in a graffitied bathroom of a San Fransisco club I wrote a love note in sharpie on the wall. I had never written that type of confession before, but I was love sick and knew that we would not be together; it was a private-public place I could put that. This blog is similar. a private-public gritty, layered space,  just behind the door of the booming music, a place to try and salvage the sweaty make-up face, wash the sticky spilled drink hands, perhaps experience one of those magical moments that you randomly encounter in ladies room. 

an idea of "woman" xo childself

Poni is flying to India today. 

Ben made a square for a quilt for the baby.

Mom had her phone turned off.

Krystal is finally happy.

I fly to San Fransisco tomorrow.

In my dream Breesea was in the house with her straight blond hair.

Did Kara ever come back from New York?

In my dream I jumped off the terrace to get away.

Crying all night does in fact change your face forever.

Cielo lives with cats and bunnies far away.

Inside my pinata heart everything knows it's exploding.

paper mache' and cut paper strips and dyed paper pieces and little hoofs and eyes.

Last night I was swimming in an overcrowded lap pool. 

It was highways of floating bodies, above and below me.

I jumped out on the side after many near collisions and found myself in my "WILD" "THING" cheetah one-piece I loved when I was six. 

I couldn't believe I fit into it still, my dream body was shorter, childlike but with my today mind inside, and unaware I was in a dream body, dream lap pool. 

Dripping on the cement I knew everyone could now read the words running vertical down each side of the swimsuit. 

"WILD" in all caps, on a clear plastic-ey strip that ran all the way down on the left side, and 

"THING" on the right side, see-through with the words in black font. I knew when I was a kid the see-through quality was risque'. 

I liked wearing it in my best friends back yard, when her super hip and dangerous beautiful mom would be laying out with her friends topless by the broken jacuzzi, horizontal under the California sun. 

We would jump on the huge white rectangular trampoline in our one-pieces, and I would try to look at them,  wanting to be a woman like that one day.  The Yard was overflowing with stuff. A shed in the back with pin ball machines, dead cars laced with tagging and vines, bikes and skateboards abandoned by her brothers "cute" friends that came and went, a huge aviary full of colorful birds, and on the ground, bunnies, with their holes and babies, digging their way in and out of the jungle house. A forbidden tree house, clothes lines heavy with baby clothes and sexy panties and bras. 

Beautiful little girls running around screaming about "where is the cordless!" and they are "skateboarding to the store!". It was The Moms House, and everyone knew she was the most beautiful creature in town, as were all of her many children, dangerously beautiful. 

Once she noticed my "WILD" "THING" cheetah print one-piece, I felt the divide between girlhood and womanhood, chasms separating the two. 

We jumped and my beautiful and mean friend would perform all the tricky flips, sometimes I would get on the springs and from there I would watch the tanning women from across the yard.

Stoic, tan tan oiled bodies-breasts like warm muffins, perfect vintage accessories, long neon acrylic nails, a boom box full of music, a cordless phone atop a stack of magazines, lovers that came and went,  a mystery. 

In my wet, hyper-vigilant adult-child state I looked for somewhere to hide, to get away from all the lap swimmers in my "WILD" "THING" suit.

on friday i'll be 27

What I was planning to say is that last night at my show the host was wanting to create an original moment with any willing audience member to play the piano while he sang. They would improve on a theme shouted from the drunken audience.

He found a beautiful young woman with super curly doll like hair to play. The theme they got was "you don't know shit about shit". 

I was hiding behind the thick red curtain, as I usually do at this venue watching the peoples faces watch the show. 

I like to stare at them for a long time. You can sometimes read their lips or think that you can read their minds, or how they are or aren't digesting the show. 

It's tight quarters in that club, high heeled crossed legs hit the front of the stage. Glitter flys out of gloves and panties and into drinks and onto empty dinner plates.

I watch them watch the dancers, so animated, exploding with energy and camp and bling and shiny cartoon faces and intricate, one of a kind ridiculous costuming that comes off their bodies in brilliant and thrilling ways. 

I watch the people watching, they are happy looking, free...tentative, judging, stone, confused, drunk, unhappy.

We don't always live in the world the people coming to see the show live in. They want to see a thing they may not know about. When you do know about it, perhaps it's less magical? No. It still is heart wrenchingly beautiful at moments to me.  

When you learn all about the thing that you are enchanted by, are you over it, or more invested, more curious, more energized to go deeper? 

On Friday I will have been bellydancing for 11 years. 

So yeah.

The host and the doll hair woman are going at it. He's struggling to get into her dark song she is improving. He finds a road in and I love it. From behind the curtain I know the song they are making is funny, but I am holding back tears.

This summer I began saying frequently  "I don't know anything about anything. I feel like I am zero". 

This was a really new place for me. freeing and terrifying. What about all the things I have tried and figured out and discovered and known and solved. 

No, everything in the house ended up in the pool:

The nursery furniture, the blender, the bedding, the chairs and bikes, all the silverwear and dressers and bookshelves. 

forget the house.

you don't know anything about anything.

that house was infested. burned, blown away, crumbled. 

What house? 

I'm not going to fish my pillow out of the deep end and insist on sleeping with it.

I'm not that crazy. I'd rather sleep with nothing. See if perhaps my head even requires a pillow at all, I don't know, not all heads want the same thing...

It's sad though, looking at all your things floating on the surface, ripply looking down at the bottom. All the books you knew about, touched, believed in, slowly warping and unbinding themselves, turning back into pulp.

What do you do?

How do you exist after that? Without even a hobo stick with a kerchief at the end holding a small bundle. 

Ideas are dangerous. I don't want to hold on to them too tight. I really don't know. I feel empty of knowing. What I thought I knew is waterlogged, I am floating in a life boat. Its unbelievable what i see below me. everything is green and blue and black. Things that I held in my warm hand, kissed with my lips and treasured, are covered in moss and muck. Everything is wet and everything wet is terrible and sad. my hair is soaked from the rain and tears and my hands are white with white raisin fingers. all my make up is washed off and underneath my mom says i looked like i used to when I was a kid. She hasn't seen me out of drag in 15 years. she says i look like my grandmother. I look like her grandmother, i look like the ocean, i look like the riptide I swam out of, i look like unrecognizable moss covered objects that sunk to the bottom.

I float out of the boat. Up real high you can't even see the ocean. From here it turns into a blanket. You can even pretend it's warm. I think about finding a pillow to match. I shake my head and remember about them. I float and think, still, "I don't know anything about anything, I am zero".