twinkle, twinkle

i miss you across the bedsheets in the morning, when your alarm goes off and you tuck closer to the windows, the space between us leaves gaps for air and misunderstanding to seep in. i miss you even when you are the closest, when your hand is til intertwined with mine, your arm resting lazily across my tummy, my hips, i miss you, even then. i hate missing you in the same city and were only 7 miles apart. i cant imagine missing you across countries. across time zones. millions of miles. how do you fill those giant gaps, those air pockets between us. the thought is unbearable. trin says i have to take it one day at a time. and thats true, i have no idea what it will feel like to miss you from there. i will have to wait and see.

i close all the windows, light all the candles, turn the kettle on and listen to beach house. its raining and pouring outside and i think about all the things i wont miss. but there arent enough things to make me feel better about how alone ill be without you.

nights ago you say youre looking forward to being the only one to refill the ice trays,and its all these little tiny things that have changed me. ill never put tongs away face up again because of a story you told me from when you were younger when you sliced your hand open on upward facing tongs. id never want to hurt you. i whisper in vitos ear to kill any girl that comes over here, to never, ever snuggle anyone but me. i know that he will though, hes not as choosey as i hope youll be about who to give affection to. hes just a dog, after all.

and none of that matters really, the lonliness, the missing you, i feed off that kind of shit. i work well alone, in the solemn, the heartache. i thrive there, i grow stronger and taller, that darkness soothes me. for a week straight i see green when i close my eyes, everything smells of you. now that this house is warm and smelling of us together im packing up, moving on, i close my eyes lately and its not green, its brilliant flashing lights and faces ive never seen.

ey ey ey

and THIS

let your fingers make mistakes

just effin around on the interweb, designing my next nail designs, tattoos, outfit, going away party, watching laguna beach, etc.
my sis comes to town tomorrow which is more exciting that anything in the whole world! even more exciting than buying my plane ticket to santiago. i CANNOT believe its happening...a plane ticket makes it REAL.

xoxo

i didnt invent found poetry

i find a poem in the coffee shop, yo el ray, and while the sign on the bookshelf says "please read the books here, dont take them home" it says nothing about whats found INSIDE the books. so i stuff it in the pocket of my moms brown vest and ride off into the stark grey day, past the police station, the elementary school, past rachies house, over the bridge erin and i used to play under, past the mobile home park i took piano lessons at aunty jeans house, past homeplate with the best milkshakes where you stink the rest of the day from the deep fryer, to cp's house where we make quesadillas and watch real housewives for hours until i ride home, over the other bridge past carries parents new house and the golf course where i used to meet him in the middle of the night and never told anyone, and today it makes me think of b and a film and its dark and mysterious and magical, past my old preschool and so and so's parents where we used to party and n.oak street and calistoga high school to lake street where my mother and gramere are waiting for me with the cats and the dog and their funny pajamas and my moms funny shoes with springs in the heels that she got in like italy or something. and in my pocket all this time is the poem, reading it now i cant remember what i liked about it. but maybe you can find something. (ah i remember, the first line i like best)



no wonder she rips rooftops and throws cars

stiff section sheet howl
awning whip flap drip spray
slap against bar corner table window

army ant trail slime pulse
run shimmer grey down
night time lamp post

three inch drops splash road
like infinite reload bullets hitting
street from drunk cloud earth painters

premature leaf try finger hold on spaghetti oak limb
caught by late cold after early spring sun pretend
jerk like fish trying to spit hook in wild epileptic death throw

a dark wet exquisitely frightening natural uproar
nature shouting bending breaking dancing in wicked ballet
killing itself for ovation applause

i look around pointing back in wide eyed wonder
for any recognition but
all are locked in medicated hypnotic stare
toward torpid television commercial




now i remember...i like it ALL...thank you to whoever put this there for me to find.

here, put this on your USB and take it back to the city when you leave

every single shade
of green
was created in calistoga
the hills hit fast with
neon baby grass
ash green moss and
deep douglass fir

we ride bikes in the rain
your barefoot against
mustard shocks
poisonous yellow in vineyards
cigarette share acrobatics

lets pitch movie ideas
read poetry books
sleep on other peoples
couches
someone i meet five minutes ago
braids my hair
tiny little braids, i get
lost she says, in your hair, i get lost

unicorn cups and everythings
damp, i scuff my boots
on the curb and talk to
you on the phone, two little kids
ride by in plastic trucks
i get so distracted, i dont hear what you say
a tiny little boy with a fire mans hat
and overalls is waving in the rain
looking back at me as he scrapes his hot wheels
along the curb
thats all that seems to matter
at that point
i cant unlock
my eyes

my heart's exploding

seriously if you love me, or like me at all, you would get me one* or all of these...

and id love you and cynthia rowley 4ever.



*MOST ESPECIALLY: the bubble blowing necklace (!!!) and the heart rings. dE-VINE!

www.cynthiarowley.com

holy water

this morning my mother comes in and blesses me with holy water, a big fat two finger dollop on my forehead chest and shoulders. im half asleep and this is what i remember:
violets, velvet, damp hair like coarse raw silk, wide fingers, cold, almost marble chilled water, baby blue and lipstick smell. that chalky make up organic smell. it is the feast of lourdes today, where the three children first saw our lady over the grotto and pilgrimages began to that small country, miracles happened, people walked after decades of being bedridden, incurable diseases were miraculously cured, lepers were healed, sorrows were lifted, lives were changed by this water, this holy water, and although the sentiment is nice, it is above me, i believe in miracles but of the more concrete kind. i do however, love the unexplainable. that which happens without logical reason. and so i straddle the line of believer and non believer, thinking of all the tiny miracles i have experience and the big ones i would like to see.
this all happens before 7:00AM.

then i ride my bike to henriettas farm. i wear a wild outfit, a total mom outfit, purple stirrup stretch pants, faded bay to breakers vintage t-shirt, old, worn in hoodie, two different socks, moccassins, that brown vest she used to wear every morning to feed the animals and my new favorite hat, a knit cap i wore as a baby that i found at my dad's house yesterday. its blue and warm and pulls down over my ears and feels like a swim cap and a helmet all at once. once at henriettas she is baking bread, whole wheat with ryeberries and walnuts and we sit a while in the kitchen for it to cool. its the best thing ive ever had, better than the best bread in the world, with cool thick french butter over it and touch of boysenberry preserves (my favorite). outside it is cold and the ground is muddy and soft like powdery snow. the chicken coop is loud and awake, their day began hours ago and it grows silent when we enter. it smells of hay and chicken shit but not in a bad way, in like a grainy, earthy way. i remember the smell from being young and out three chickens looking wildly at me from the corners of their eyes and following me sweetly around the yard. there is nothing as great as picking a fresh egg from the nest, warm and perfect inside your hand, i hold it gently so it wont break. these have just been laid, henrietta says, in her thick russian accent. were in for a treat.

and so the day begins, oddly enough. i am time traveling. i have a 20 minute phone interview with bride linguatec school in santiago and it goes well. he asks what i have been doing lately and i tell him honestly, riding my bike and hanging out with my family. cooking and writing. this seems to please him. you are ready for the big city, no? he asks and we both laugh. yes, yes, soon enough i will be ready. this afternoon i will go back to being blonde and then work on prodigal daughter volume 2. thursday is shaping up nicely.

weeding and writing

its dark when i wake up, turning from dreams, my bed is like a bunk in a cabin on a ship at sea and im rocking rocking rocking like a baby. i take the bike out again, ride fast and quick until my body is warm, the sweat on my lower back, cold. while the world is still sleeping i take a memory tour of who i was and all the big parts of my life are swept up on one bike ride. i dont stop anywhere, i move too quickly to feel anything really. theres nothing left to feel really, its all new and different and a million other adjectives to describe gone.
carissa calls me at 9 after ive gotten back in bed to warm my toes and she needs me to give her a ride to her car, parked behind susies, where she left it at 4pm yesterday afternoon. i drive on empty cause im not going far and slink my way around town with my eyes closed, i know it that well.
this afternoon is pulling weeds from grameres front yard, thick green vines trail along the brick and surround the base of the huge douglas fir in the front yard and im on my hands and knees tearing out roots and digging up rocks and every weed is different, some with long trailing leaves, others short and flat to the ground, hovering out like starfish, some with little yellow flowers, some ugly and spiny and stick to my gloves, my hair, my clothes. i pull them all out, they are stifling the flowers and the ivy, choking the base of the roses. after she lost a lot of plants to the frost in january, the weeds are thriving. its amazing, if you think about it. in the weeds there are thick fat caterpillers and snails, long pink worms and centipedes, i get dirty and sweaty and it feels incredible. i feel like im doing something worthwhile, something good. gramere is almost 90 and is bending over by the sidewalk pulling out weeds, using a shovel to unearth them from the cracks in the curb. she is inspiring, i dont feel lazy here, not one bit.
shes more quiet since aunty lois died, more thoughtful. talks about the past a lot, places they used to go, her husband, old high school friends, where she wanted to travel, trips she did actually take. throughout the day i hear her reference "when youre gone" or "you might need this on your trip" and i realize this is all becoming very very real. its all happening.

what to do the rest of the afternoon? make banana bread? watch an old movie? sit by the fire and do a paint by number i found in grameres ancient desk?

we'll see.

R&R

this morning i tell my mom i feel like im on vacation and at home all at once. there is an abundance of things i havent had, toilet paper, clean towels, food, sugar and almond milk, warm socks and a fire every night. under the sink in the bathroom are a million shampoos, my favorite condition that ruins my hair but smells like 18, campfire, sex, chocolate, nag champa, everything that makes me shiver and shake. the bathroom with its blue tiles and i just have flashbacks of being young, changing into bathing suits, searching for baby oil to tan with my friends in high school. now the towels in my grandmas bathroom are for using, they dont hang stifly starched but are soft and clean and everything smells fresh and i bury my face in all the terrycloth, its so good to be home. i wake up and my mom comes in to smooth my hair back, she doesnt smell like coffee or a run and the room is not my own but a make shift room made up for me while i stay here, wont you stay longer? they ask. and i just shake my head. this is temporary, this wont last long, but over breakfast of farm fresh eggs brought over the night before by "henrietta" and organic coffee, soy yogurt and essential oils i think to myself, i could let this last a while, let my brain recharge, my system settle down, my body clease.
i take a bike ride around town, down grant street, over the greenwood bridge built in 1904, up the valley, riding as fast as i can and my legs turn red and i breathe out puffs of hot air, up the mountain, get muddy and slide over rocks, my bike tires getting caught, changing in city streets for the palisades. on the way down i stop pedaling, stop breathing, stop being, i turn into the mustard growing wild and neon, the wet gravel driveways, the mossy trees, the few cars that ride down dirt driveways. i become this town again, ageless, timeless, i miss everything and nothing about this place all at once. im ten years old, seventeen years old, im my future self. this town is so beautiful and i think, for the tiniest moment, i could do this everyday. i could live like this.
and i picture us here, a little home, a wood burning stove, the mountains for a backyard, our dogs and children running wild through tall grass and bright yellow flowers, muddy shoes at the door, reading at night and making love in a quiet, quiet world, fresh fruit and garden vegetables, riding bicycles in the summer and sitting on our back porch with grasshoppers at night. i want this with you and only you. there is something fantastic, something spiritual about coming full circle. i want to hold you on cold streets corners here and drive along vineyards with you. there is life to be lived here my love, its birds and animals and the sweetest, cleanest air ive ever felt. this thought is quick though, and i move through it. ill dream about these things, but never live them, not here anyway. that city calls to me, the pulse, the throb, the uneasiness, the variety. where oh where do both of these worlds exist.
back at home gramere and i fix lunch, organic chicken sausage tacos with organic black beans and homemade pupusas, ripe avocado and fresh juice. my shower is perfect, i smell like myself again, i feel, like a better, more simple, more clear version of myself.
we drive up glass mountain road to a huge house turned into a museum where the seventh day adventists began and im turned off by the tour guides preachiness but turned on by the imported stained glass, the tiles from france, the original hardwood floor, the second floor balcony of the writing room. the trees drape low across windows and moss hangs like streamers, everything is lush and green. the only noise is a golden retriever 200 yards away running through the vineyards. the world is right.
the rest of the day is spent by the fire, reading magazines and talking with my grandmother about her childhood, high school prom and how she worked in a chemical warefare plant while my grandpa was at war. everything is slower here and it feels nice to relax, to let my body heal. my brain isnt racing unless i think of you. and when i do, everything throbs, everything moves a little harder under my skin. you are in everything for me, its not just the city, every street corner, every shop, every memory, its not just there. its all over. and so i dont worry about the millions of miles i will travel.
i carry your heart with me, i carry you in my heart.