Rush rush rush.
No one breaths or eats, just runs and rushes.

Sit, quiet, breath, rest, listen.
But instead you run, loud, choke, wrestle, and scream.

I saw a man today, dressed just right. Truly handsome. He walked in and caught my eye. I spent the better part of the night making up his story. He would be talented but humble. And strong but soft spoken. And heart warming, but have wit with a bite. He would love you and love his mother, too.

And the night wore on, and we caught eyes across the room and across the table and shared the same ground. And finally, we met. The moment rushed, I would meet him and he would remind me of new ways to be alive.

He opened his mouth and all hope was lost. Too high, and too sickly smooth. His name is Alex and he is playing the same games that all sweet talking men do. He was not a man, he was drunk on two glasses of champagne and called me sexy within two minutes of conversation. It is tragedy when we do not have men, honorable men.

Insanity!

I read a book worth eating.
MMM, it was good.


Write me letters, and I'd fall so hard.

sister.

Yesterday it occurred to me that I am in fact, alive.
Thriving even?

Everything bursting out of me and through me and to you. And this city's a big heap of broken pieces that are so sticky they cling to anything they touch. These people are dying for community. Their souls are thirsty, their eyes are straining for the refreshing places.

And you're there, overflowing and big and wonderful and approachable and terrifying and awful and wonderful.
I shudder, because it's too much to take in. It's like when I walked into Strand bookstore yesterday and flipped through pages of new books and old pages. The scent of stories told drenched the air and it makes you shudder. There's so much potential in that room it's frightening. There's so much of me and so much not of me. So many wonderful things I'll never have the time or brain power to read or understand or even touch.

That's how I feel about you. You're a giant bookstore.



My sister is a beautiful woman and she is strong and she is wise. She's got steel eyes full of truth that are the softest and most beautiful pools you can imagine. Her fingers work talented circles and lines through design and dreaming. Big dreams and beautiful designs.

And I can't say enough. But she is a reason why I thrive.

You work fast, eh?
A few hours later and I'm embracing a dear friend, who walks with me to Esperanto, has a cup of coffee and talks to me for hours while looking me straight in the eyes.

I didn't sign up for this to learn so much.
Or maybe I did.

All I know is that this has been a giant heap of shit and hurt and mess, and YOU. How does that work, right? I need a smoke, and a good hug. There's something that has been killing me in all this. I barely touch people here, everyone has their walls up and their arms out to protect themselves. When do I get to sink into someone's arms and just feel their body against me. When do I get to sit in quiet conversation and look someone in the eyes.

I need a new book to read, and some Esperanto time, and a little coffee on the side.

I know this heart ache. The one that got away is for the second time hurting more than anyone should hurt. And I stand apart from him, can do nothing but weep for him.

His heart is beautiful, it always has been. And I know you love it. I know you do, so hold it. It is aching. It is scattered. Worn, weary, and beaten. So hold him, hold him. Love him, fight for him YESHUA. And her, she must be hurting, too. They need your grace, your strength, your everything.

I never thought loving people would be like this. I never thought it would never end like this. I always thought it would be prettier than this.

Shit, we're all so messy.

blick

Here. Let's add to thing list of things that make me glow, and spark, and fire and fury, and passion and soar.

Dick Blick, or any other art supply store. Where I can smear pastels over test sheets and smell pads of 70lb textured drawing paper and dig my hands deep in bins of pencils and tickle my face with brushes that have never seen paint. And it's a giant good smelling overwhelming blank piece of paper. It's all the elements to relieve white space, all the tools I need to create something.

Heart rate rises again, and there's a good bit of drool building in the corner of my mouth.

If I do not draw soon, I may perhaps perish.

I'm really alive here. I am. Not discontent, not unhappy. I'm thriving. But sometimes, I get a whiff of free air, an echo from the wide open spaces.

Colorado, Oregon, Washington.
My heart starts beating fast, I start sleeping less, thinking and dreaming. It stirs me up, lights up everything in me that is dull or muted.

So right now. I am thinking and dreaming and wondering what all of this means.
In this city, I am constantly calling to life the things and people around me. Creating color in the concrete and moving with the masses of people.

I am thinking of a place more living, life in the very soil and musty earth. Full of color than pours into my skin and out of my freckles. Where my sun flower eyes are reflecting reality and not a dream.

rebuild.

YHWH, you are sweet strong arms that have held me so well.
I weep at your beauty, it astounds me. I am in awe of your glory, it humbles me.

Nehemiah worked with his hands and trusted in your words. I want to do the same. I want to rebuild walls and hearts and work my fingers through the soil. I want to stand open faced and in wide eyed wonder, looking toward you. Catch a glimpse of your robe, maybe maybe one day when all the walls are rebuilt and all the hearts are whole I'll look you straight in the face. Right into your eyes and I won't die. I'll live, be more alive than this broken walled world has ever let me be. Yes.

Hakkadosh, you are HOLY OF HOLIES. This city is going to live, live, live. Burn through it, HOLY SPIRIT, burn up the chaff and we will stand naked before you, waiting to be clothed by your righteousness. Ready to let TRUTH escape from our lips, and chase through the city every LIE and every DAMNED deception of old serpent, and destroy them. Every slippery half truth and twisted story and shaded lie, they'll be devoured by the TRUTH and the GLORY of Hashem, the ineffable name. Mighty God, YESHUA.

You have taken my breath away.

No words.

Sitting at Mud coffee, realizing I've been here for four hours and have accomplished very little, except consuming three cups of coffee and a very nice breakfast quesadilla at 2pm.

People have circulated in and out and in and out, always leaving me in the corner. If you had a time lapse camera, I'm sure it would be an interesting sight to see me remain stationary while dozens of new yorkers flow around and behind me.

I'm pretty sure Thomas Wolfe and I are going to grow old together. Or at least up together. That writer has my damn life printed on 938 pages of this old worn out hardback from 1935.

I'm getting a little looney from lack of human connection. Mud coffee is no esperanto. I've been spoken to a total of no times in all my lounging here. And slowly my things have crept out and spread out over this whole corner. Journal here, glasses there, book here, laptop on the floor, well not now, because I'm typing on it. And my back back wandered somewhere over by the first chair I sat in.

I'm finding that having very little purpose is somewhat excruciated and if I'm to retain any semblance of sanity, I'm going to have to find things to do. Otherwise, there will be pages and pages of this senseless writing about my mundane doings. And there's no Wolfe worthy fury or passion or everlasting earth in that. And if I'm to remain a protege of Wolfe's protagonist I must constantly be weaving through crowds of a million strange faces and remembering them for eternity. There must be fury, and everlasting earth, and gold, and magic cities, and shining lights, choking fury, and cold sweated brows from long nights spent pondering the train.

Well, maybe that happens sometimes in my life. But AHA! I have found a task. Inventory of the church office bathroom and cleaning supplies. Genius.

Check please, I can now live worthily again.

So much.
So much.
Too much.
I am not enough.
You are enough.
Satisfy me. Heal me. Help me. YHWH, I am nothing and I am vile.
Break the pride.
Break my back.
Break my lies.

I need you I need you I need you.
I need strong arms to hold me and a deep croon to tell me it's all ok.
Fight for me. Fight for please fight for me.

I am living with 9 strangers in a very small place on very uncertain and strange terms. Who are we, what body do we comprise? Is it yours, or is it someone else's?

Everything in my body hurts, my tongue is swollen, my throat so tight it may rip and so raw it may bleed. My stomach is in giant bloated knots of angry cramps, and my arms and legs ache from 5 flights of stairs ten times a day. This is what I get for a walk up. My back is achey, and my head is foggy, and mostly I'm just complaining. But I have no strength to do this. I am in pain and I need you.