Access

This is getting hard – even to write here. The thunderstorms, the spotty internet –  and all the times I’ve tried to disconnect myself and now I want a connection. I’m a weather vane, the rooster in a yoga pose at the top of the house, my arm in the air for anything. i have to write. But I suppose I’ve always tried to connect myself to anything. I’d make friend with air if it didn’t always try to blow me off. But something about today makes me want to purge myself or throw up the empty casing inside me. And now the television is on and silence has become – I can’t even think anymore. How much of the world do I have to block out to really see it, to observe it? So much is wasted space – weeds and empty paint buckets in the closet their colors a viscous rainbow oiled apart.

I found a closer access point. Everyone said it was farther away and we’ve been walking with our chairs and surfboards and heavy burnt bodies down the street down the blocks. But I went the other way this morning and found a footpath a sand trail for small people up to the beach over a rise of green reeds and tall grasses that felt like horse hair. I want to collect it and cry. you can’t park your cars there – it’s just for people. But I went the other way and got closer.

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