Tag Archives: maturity

In Which I am Clumsy and Mature and Also Make a Trek


I hit my head on a cupboard door and at first it hurt and I felt funny, but now I feel giddy. I don’t know what this means, but it does seem significant.

Also, over the last few months I’ve been working my way through Middlemarch (George Eliot) and enjoying the slow reading process. It’s weird for me, because usually I’m a plow-through, addict type reader, but this might be a sign of maturation or decreased attention span. Hard to say really. Though I never used to be able to write things in my head before and now I can do haiku if I’m running without music, so I prefer to think of these developments as maturation.

New topic: the post below this one includes photos taken during a 12-hour drive that GT and I embarked upon last Monday in hopes of hitting all major Scottish tourist centers on the mainland in a single day. While I’m not sure that we were entirely successful, we did see a lot. Places where we stopped and walked included:

the Falkirk Wheel (weirdest non-invention piece of construction on the planet — it’s just a big non-useable lock to model a historic lock that actually didn’t exist between canals in that area — it was complete in 2002 — who knows what anyone was thinking),

Stirling Castle (cool, but we didn’t pay the 13 pounds to go in, so I don’t know much about that),

Loch Lomond & the Trossachs (fantastic — see pictures of the swan in the previous post),

a B&B somewhere between Loch Lomond and Loch Ness (we didn’t make it to Loch Ness because we would probably have died somewhere along the winding roads of the Scottish highlands — totally not a plus).

During the course of this trip I discovered that I can talk a lot and pretty much without major pauses over a twelve-hour period. I also realized that I am going to miss GT so much that it’s a little hard to contemplate without triggering the telltale throat knot. It’s ok though. He let me take a lot of pictures and this has been a good year. I’m lucky.

Another picture, to illustrate the essence of the ramble:

Scotland, as is

Or two:

In Leven… definitely something

Or three:

GT treated me

Ok, last one:

the kiss



To Drown a Tree and Climb


The tree is older than you are;

I read it like a death sentence.
The tree knows,
sees me for me
sees my thoughts
The tree knows,
what I am planning.
The tree is older than I am,
so I try to hide,
try to understand the collision of why and how
like a collage
of overlapping options laid out

The tree is older than I am,
so I feel small,
smaller than an ant burning in the sun,
I feel like a melted puddle of ice cream
that someone is trying to glue back together.

The tree is older than I am.
I am young and strong.
I take advantage, with a chainsaw
cutting into the tree,
letting it flop in the puddle of ice cream
I hope it drowns.
I hope secretly.
But my conscience breathes on my neck and I am confessing
in my sleep.

The tree is older than I am,
I am shouting in my sleep,
fighting the air
for an imaginary tree I killed with sticky hands.
I deny it, I explain it,
I try to drown myself. But I feel more disgusted than suffocated.
The tree is older than I am,
with reaching branches and scars from years of living
waves of dread fill me and wash me to an ocean
where I pose nearly naked for a camera and eyes
that disdain and discredit.
Yet there is something fascinating about being thin;
so thin that I am dizzy and
into the dark circle of the camera, the shutter, I think as I become Alice,
and tumble, feeling the ice cream dried between my fingers,
like the stain on Lady Macbeth’s hands.

The tree is still older than I am,
still alive and wounded. I have landed in the sewer
trying to be what I am not.
I sit down in filth hearing the echo of another bad dude
telling me to sit down.
This precious body,
chaos-covered, is not for desperation.

The tree is older than I am.
It wraps me in its arms
and grows to carry me
out of foul sewage.
We rise together.

When I plummet back to earth they tell me that I shouted in my sleep.

The tree is older than you are,
and though they might laugh when I say I have drowned a tree,
I will not forget that it saved me anyway.
They may say I am too small to drown a tree,
they may believe I am confused,
but I will not forget.

I look for the tree.
And I imagine meeting Jack,
knowing that only he and I
understand what it means
to look down.

look down