We cry like anyone else.

Sometimes we wake up crying.

And oh, how glorious and deep are our tears.

We don't know subtlety or repression. We don't know half way or almost. When we cry it is the tears of one endless current pulling emotions in so the soul of all aeons can become even richer and more obscure. Looks like a liquid steel waif model in the mirror - like metal, too heavy to lift her eyes from gravity's floor.


When I am happy, or stressed or in love it is the same decible dialed on the reciever. This only goes to eleven.

I guess we are lucky then, those who know intensity and are too overwhelmed to hide it from their world, that the world likes to watch. It's like being hot branded from the inside out and it hurts and they buy a front row seat. They prime time tune in. They snap a front page photo. They hold their breath to hopefully hear through the walls even
one
genuine
wet
gasping breath catch,
hardly audible,
wept into the haven fluff of my silencing pillow.

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At our age, we go through the mourning of all our perfection projections once thought possible, even likely, and now laid to rest under shovel fulls of fresh graveyard dirt.

We simultaneously understand just how precious it is that we get an earthly body at all and what a limited engagement this flesh matinee really is.

So although we've chosen to not like our bodies, we are claiming them as our own and deciding to love them instead.

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January is a break in the breath of the hibernating bear. A fleeting, but quantifiable measure of brain activity. The first realization that there is more than this comfortable dreaming homeostasis we've chosen to succumb to. There is something to hope for, be curious about, put your faith in.

But January falls right back to sleep.

I remember one winter I stumbled across January curled up in dirty coats and not smelling so good in the park. January slept like the dread locked transient man - with all her possessions under her head. January anchored to the frigid ground - so heavy, this ship wreck rusting under the sea. So I kicked her (a little bit by accident but not entirely) and catch stepped over an aroma of fermented grapes. The suggestion of Sonoma Cab Franc convinced me that if we were to invite January out this Thursday, she too, would have exceptional taste.

So I kicked her a good one. And after three or more minutes, I was about to search her pockets before sleeping beauty finally twitched and breathed and stretched out and rolled over. And ...

That was about it. Fleeting, but quantifiable brain activity. Never to be heard from this season again.

I've seen January make an ass of herself and sleep walk. She tries to get up too quckly and loses vision momentarily - . falls like an inebrieted animal back to the frost carpet ground. Where she belongs. You can not rush January. And she'll never remember her dreams.

I hear she dreams in all shades of grape.

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