Radio silence

It's been hard to write recently. Anything, anywhere. I have plenty to say, but I don't know who to say it to, so I don't know how to say it, how to begin. (Should it be a letter? If so, to whom? Shall I carve it down into a series of 140-character musings? Do I need to journal it out, do I wish to save it to tell to my love, could I write a blog post?)

I owe words. Letters especially are overdue. I hope my dear correspondents who are reading this will forgive me. Words written or typed sustain (and are the historical foundation of) so many of my relationships, I feel like I'm failing everyone a little bit lately with this silence, including myself.

Perhaps I just need to be less black and white, and instead begin somewhere (anywhere, anything). Perhaps I need also to pare down my commitments with regard to communication.

I'm still taking pictures. I'm behind on posting my 365, but not on taking the photos. You'll see them.

I'm still here, anyway.

Week in photos (288-294)

288/365. Clouds or bruises.


289/365. Looking towards the ocean.


290/365. Overhead fluorescence is finally vanquished.


291/365. BART with Einstein.


292/365.


293/365. Sunshine, streetcar stop.


294/365. First Daylight Saving sunset, after seven o'clock (bless).

Week in photos (281-287)

281/365. Plum blossoms, blossom shadows and streetlights.


282/365. Remy.


283/365. My BART station of choice.


284/365. For tasty: slice and sauté with spinach and garlic; add tortellini and parmesan.


285/365. Stow Lake. They looked happy.


286/365. Saturday morning with Remy and my love.


287/365. The Bay Lights.

Boiling it all down

I felt tense and overflowing this morning, like I needed to scream, so I went for a run for the first time in nearly two months. It felt glorious. Why did I ever stop? My body loves it. It's not even running, just jogging, which sounds like the most boring dutiful form of exercise ever, but it's not, not for me; after all this time and confusion still my body loves it.

And I at home again, meditating in my sweat because it can't wait for after my shower. Because why do I form the thought in my head, I feel like screaming or I feel like crying? Listen, listen. Breathe / what is the shape of this energy? Where do I feel it, what does it feel like? To search for it in my body and having found it, listening to it with fiercest attention, with no intention of quelling it or pushing it away, no intention other than to listen well enough to know it for what it is, to let go and rest deep (quietly, honestly) in whatever I find it to be.

News? Love, temporary employment, credit cards, fear, Lana Del Rey, first ever smartphone.

Be well, my dears.

Read in February 2013

1. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson, trans. Reg Keeland

2. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by Milan Kundera, trans. Michael Henry Heim

3. Love Poems, by Anne Sexton