an imperfect possibility

It is rising in me, the impulse to secede normative society and go back–if not to the land, then to some iteration of it that, even in my current state of wobbly and rather glorious confusion, must be said to be utopian. Here are the things that call me now:

silence

blueberries

sharply clean ocean water that, fuck you, IS pristine, IS profoundly alone and clean and still untouched, untouchable

swimming in the sharp clean green salt with death like an invisible dolphin hammering its desire for me at my side

solitude

blueberries

unravelling robins that need to be freed from the garden netting

grieving when they die

spending several days deciding when to light the stove

olive oil pressed constantly into my skin browning me along with the sun because too much washing wastes water and anyway I’m clean

spiders, termites, ants, bees, bees, bees, bees, wasps, bees, bees

snake fright and the I LOVE YOU strategy and if that doesn’t work, then naming them Fasty

cedar grove fantasy cob house with four story tower topped with a study that still catches the evening sun when everyone else is shivering in the shadows below, now there’s a utopian dream! it will probably be way too hot up there to do anything except maybe cackle

the comedy of dealing with other people and constantly fucking up and trying again and again because that’s what there is to do

the possibility of overwhelm

overwhelming boredom

reconciliation

deer on the path

night

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About owl

Disordered, reckless, persevering.
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