I turn twenty-nine in eleven days and I think I can say I’m ready, whatever ready means. I guess you do get to a point of
self-tolerance–where after a while fighting the self is a battle beyond boring, and it starts playing out like
choreography. You can call every move and motive, every self-inflicted injury. You start telling yourself not to turn
around–soon enough going forward becomes a habit.

A couple things. Like tonight in the back seat of a car, in awe of a sunset as if I haven’t seen one of those suckers before.
The slow motion drift of flags on the hill, hands in my lap stilled, heavy with words and no pen because it’s just the
moment, all I’ve got and everything I need. I went to the neurologist and after an appointment that lasted past 2 hours
it was pretty much concluded–main culprit being genetics, a brain that craves chemical correcting, so I have another
pill to fight the inevitable. Injections to try for the attacks themselves. In other news my heart rate remains chill at 52
bpm and aside from some stubborn neurons in the reflexes and the predisposition, I’m okay. I’ll keep fighting to live
more than half my life, my makeshift midafternoon nights–I’ll keep rationing my coffee and leaving when I need to. I’ll
keep remaining humble to my good days. I’ll keep enjoying the hell out of them.

It seems like too much at once but I’m trying to maintain the view outside of my mind–outside of where things get tangled
and messy and a bit too fast. School is making me nervous but I’m plugging along, muttering “this is your last math
class ever” under my breath when I need to. The poetry readings have been steady and supportive–the new book is
officially taking form. I’m somewhere in the hips and next I’ll form the lungs. I believe in my work. Another exquisite
evolution with this age and experience thing; the solid force behind it just grows and grows.

So. Twenty-nine? Bring it. I wait patient with a handshake.

muhammad ali & joe frazier, 2003

“It was easier to get Ali to pose than Frazier. Joe still resented all the torment Ali had caused him
over the years. Ali had made all the money, too. Joe finally agreed to pose when we offered to go to his
gym in Philadelphia.I knew it would be a difficult shoot because Ali had Parkinson’s and, I learned that day,
Frazier had diabetes. Ali walked in, and I set a stool in the ring for him to sit on. Joe said, “What about me?
Man, I can barely walk. My legs are killing me.” But they were happy, joking around and hamming it up in
every shot.Near the end I switched from color to sepia film. I said, “Look, guys, just stare at the camera. No
smiles, no gags.” I did one frame, then a second, and there it was, the picture I was looking for: two
battered warriors who’d left their lives in the ring.” - Walter Iooss Jr./SI

There are moments in your life that you can’t forget, because they’re everything you wake up for. You start another
day for them, you connect for them, you create for them. They cover your heart like a layer of fat.

So what of these things: being anxious and nervous as you walk to the first day of your first college class in 9 years.
Worried about what turning 29 will bring. Standing on an overcrowded bus barely hanging on. The days and
activities you have to pardon yourself from because the head pain is too much and rules the world(changes the
world). A messy house, a skinny bank account.

Nothing of those things. They are nothing. There’s no room in the picture for them. The things that matter sit at a
table with other amazing women. It’s talking about the words as much as you write the words, as much as you
say the words and live the words. Poems for miles for days for seasons, for centuries.

Give me that photo booth from years ago and the gigs I can’t remember. Give me paper and pen and leave me alone,
go away. Give me a world that does not make sense so I can talk about it.

Let’s have more of the moments that define us, that work our lungs. Breath deserves us.

Driving through my home town at dusk, knowing my way better than I know anything. Stopping in the middle of the street
to stare. Kissing two fingers and holding them out the window when I leave. Of course I’m sentimental for it, of course
I come back and mourn what isn’t there anymore(the fact it’s gone reminds me I left, that there was a departure, that
time has passed, that I’m not the same). All of these things could crush or lift you. That’s the decision you make.

The simultaneous remembering and forgetting–that this is just a body and my limbs are constantly flailed out living on
their own trust–that my hands owe my feet nothing. That if I’m constantly too careful then I miss out.

Addicted and petrified by the pen, still shaking behind microphones. That I’m still carrying around a wrinkled post card
of Janis that Jim gave me years ago. Nine, to be exact. And I’m not the person he handed it to but I am a thousand
times over more than I can claim it.

Explaining to my therapist that it isn’t a means of seeking pleasure for me, it never has been. I get that–I can point it out if
asked, but it isn’t just pleasure. I tell her it’s movement, something like inspiration, something like witnessing and
being there. Things can barely ever be untwisted. I’ll take my moments like seaweed when forward motion means
walking out from the pull of waves.

I have memories backlit by a shadow of a water tower. A group of us on our backs, touching heads beneath it, dreams of
climbing in and swimming away. The rusted one next to the new. Leaning into a neck on the side of the gas station,
losing an artifact in my youth–the parents going back to the grounds to find it, coming back empty-handed. The crest
of hill where you can see the entire town.

I never so badly wanted to live my life, never felt so certain that I’m doing just that.

it’s free. we’ll have books. & new work.
as always thrilled and humbled, humbled n’ thrilled.

The snakes will have to be torched. Scales, venom and all. There will be no donating the fangs to science. We will not
wear them round our necks like drilled victories. We will cover our mouths with the necks of our shirts when the
smoke rises. Try to breathe a little less.

“Come home, to end and start.” Year of the flame. Year of the little bruised blue being born and growing–growing
feet a back and wings, growing cracking nerve ends that outstretch to none. A burial would not be enough. The dirt
can’t cover it–the dirt is an ingredient; there isn’t time to sift. Arms stand in a doorway carrying a knot of things to
the throat, skin against the shade of bent letters and brief triggers. What does gone mean? A wind you thought
about, shattered through with walking. There’s a time to be ready.

What is late if just right? Another year won’t come without the parting. No rotting net promising to catch, no womb to woo
you back. I’ll burn the snakes, the roots, the tubers, my fingerprinted backspaces. I’ll burn the stacks and box fillers,
the rusted boats filled with paper. The clicks, the twigs–the twine that binds them. Spit dries. Burn it all.

Memory. This, the most intriguing part of my evening–the connective tissue. First, after work, I sat at the coffee shop
for an hour and read Tait’s story for a bit before being tugged by the need to write. I pulled out a notebook and
started writing out memories(as a good memoir is prone to provoking). I wrote about things that haven’t crossed
my mind in a long time. Important things. The black and whites we keep in the archives. You know, subtle
proof. I was there.

Shortly after that, Tait and Renee set off to the park with me, and we talked during our long walk on trails and
concrete. One of the things we talked about is memory. What becomes of that memory as we get older and
reflect on it again–does each reflection reshape(or misshape even) the very experience we remember having?
What happens when you create something from it–like art, or you write about it. Does the very act of
expressing it also result on alterations?

Then. Renee and I stayed at the coffee shop as the sky grew dark and talked for hours. Bless that connection. We
talked about memory, took turns telling the chronological, and I told her more than I’ve told anyone in a long
time. It’s hard to just name one experience without mentioning the ones surrounding it, until the ripple effect
makes the entire body of water tremble and you’re nearly thrashing with it: memory. These three moments of
today were like steps climbing up to something, or down to it. Closer to the root or closer to the sky. As with
many things, the destination matters little compared to the journey.

More moments and days like this, please. As if a reminder that I am right where I need to be. The picture above?
Contains a burn mark. Someone took a match to it. It wasn’t me. I know a thing or two about the impossible act
of burning out a memory.

I like how I have to keep turning the volume up as I go running. That add-distance/add-decibels thing I do on instinct, like I
want the music(selected just for that purpose) to take my legs away from me.
Dressing appropriately goofy for the elements. See above.
Pick up soccer in the park.
I like how Abacus flips out every night, promptly at 10 o’clock.
Catching up with old connections. Distance and time, you funny things. Prankster brothers with brilliant moments of perspective.
Cleaning, and then sitting in a clean apartment completely alone and grinning.
Sobriety. Everybody’s different, and everyone has a preference. I do what works for me and 7 months in, it seems to be
working. Not just for health reasons, but also in approach.
New music. Songs on repeat, songs while scribbling, songs while walking and waiting and daydreaming.
Never regretting that I ever said “I love you” to anyone I said it to.
A new book festering just beneath the surface, love affair of mountains–the kind of courting with the work you know will
break your heart because you’re building everything around it. But when it’s done, and it’s out there…you know you’re a better
person for all that exquisite trouble.
Writing. I have three shows coming up and it’s been a while–I have a lot of work waiting for the microphone and new ears.
Knowing it’s never been about anyone liking them, honest(to the pit of my gut, honestly). Knowing no matter how
scared I get, as long as I believe in it, as long as I say what I mean…I’ll be okay. Who tells your story? Waking up with
that question and living like you know the answer. Because I do.

large couscous and cold water
driving with the windows down
the talents of others
getting my first tan of the season while playing soccer
outside seating at restaurants for a party of 8
natural lighting
time share with incredible individuals
new music that moves me
running, because i want to
playing hide-n-seek with my niece
vitamin c
throat singers
thoughts before falling asleep
walking home alone
the loudest sound
the tip toe of a side glance
ability to move, express, and make damn fine guacamole
mugs that say “Frank”
using my hands
listening to gutwrenching songs on the bus
internal forgiveness, writing cadence calls for time
(she marches)
happiness is not a conclusion. it is a feeling. it’s the jigsaw of heartdrum and brake lights. treating equal what
you remember, what you forget. it’s open for appreciation. it’s nothing in particular. it’s a list of whatever
comes to me. also known as giving it a chance.

sun on broken piano.

What is the best thing about spring? Surviving. Recognizing the winter at your back and inhaling. Air still
sharp and chilly. Existing through senses instead of plowing through the day. Grinning stupid-wide, the
practice of being handsome. Rediscovering the solitude of writing outside, writing sentences that mean
something. Fighting for a good life. Understanding that I can put my dukes down.