my heart feels stiff today. recalcitrant. sullen almost. it refuses to bear weight, repelling thoughts that may invite the deeply felt. to feel is to grasp the gravity of truth. to grasp the truth of any moment is to make lightening; the whole world is illuminated for 30 microseconds. poignancy is my usual bread and butter, but i cannot see today. 

the night before you leave me
on a long work trip.
it’s not that i don’t want you to go; i just need you near
enough to whisper to the nape of my neck.

met Mozart on the walk home today. most kitties are hot dog shaped; he is cottonball shaped and mostly fur. he was quite busy, stalking and pouncing after two adolescent squirrels. large cute fluff chasing little cute fluff. he came to me straight away; scritches trump hunts.

i like our word games. cop a feel, feel a cop, Mr. McFeely is not a cop; at Dirty Frank’s i’m the vegetable, and he’s the wurst.

sitting at the window of a single-origin, farm-to-cup cafe cum roaster; drinking my Ecuadorian macchiato. a man strides past with 8 yellow roses in hand. he is thin and unkempt; his dusky t-shirt overly large; the flowers naked, free of obligatory greenery, wrapping, ribbons. my mind leaps to calculations about this man who is not the median of my experience; inferences about his incongruous bouquet. pity. then guilt–he is the hero of his story.

have to make it to that fancy flower shop by 7 tonight, just before closing time. it’s Bernice’s birthday today, and yellow roses are her favorite. has been since she was 5. they throw away loads of perfectly good flowers on Tuesdays; bound to be a few yellow roses. such beautiful things for nothing. mama will be proud. and Bernice will be tickled.

didn’t fall asleep until daybreak this morning. still sleeping at 9am, fitful and uncomfortable; trying to dream, but the dream refuses to work. the plots keep floating away; i continually forget my place. “i feel like a buckeye donut” M said; that sounded solid–ice cubes in a glass of water. “do you want anything?” i’m back under the covers, back in my bed. “pick for me. you know what i like” i mumbled then sank. i was here. you were there. the room was like this. play. a little later, i’m woken up with a freshly glazed donut and a freshly poured cup of Blue Bottle coffee.

BJ Miller talking to Michael Krasny on Forum: he says he is a devout agnostic and revels in not knowing. i fall in love a little with him and the neighborhood he inhabits. he says he didn’t inherit a perfection about his body. i think “good” is a good word, but “best” a dangerous one.

Aimee Bender’s The Color Master: the unbelievable wakes one from the mundane but leaves a lonely longing. compassion is not an invitation for disaster. sensitivity is not a weakness. you don’t have to act stupid just because you are sad.

the theme song to KQED’s Forum thrills me. it feels like something brilliant, something heartfelt is about to happen. like there is a cafe across the street full of people reading literature and philosophy; a bookstore up the block full of people discussing how to tend the world.

it feels like hope.

i feel guilty whenever i fail to enjoy an episode (it may be an overdeveloped sense of guilt).

pedaling along the Olentangy Bike Trail. on the way to campus. 12 bike lengths ahead, a young man rides slowly, probably headed to the same destination. a large doe leaps out of the woods a few feet behind him, crossing the trail and disappearing into the marshes in two bounds. she was a least a head taller than he. the young man turns to look behind him, a look of wonder on his face.

pedaling along the Olentangy Bike Trail. 12 bike lengths ahead, a young man rides slowly. a large doe leaps out of the woods a few feet behind him and disappears into the marshes. he turns for a look then continues on, wondering if it was a dream. when i catch up to the spot, i dismount, step on the kickstand, and gaze into the sedge. a pair of soft brown ears peeks from the rustling sea of green. i fold my hands in front of me; the left ear flicks a silent hello. i close my eyes and try to be quieter than the grass, kinder than the gentle stir of air. i stand like so for an hour. waiting. listening.

something nuzzles my right ear softly. i open my eyes; the doe is there. she wears a red ribbon about her neck, and her wide eyes are kind. she whispers a long phrase in my ear, but i do not understand it. she tries again, but none of the words are familiar to me. tears begin to pool above my lower lashes; she backs away. “see you tomorrow” she whispers, parting the sedge, disappears again into the marshes.