Small little hours ticking by the back of my hand in tennis back and forth hearing the grunts of players and cries of defeat as shields come crashing down on rainy Normandy beaches so many years ago. Ages of death and defeat and peat and freshly mown grass. Holding a moment in now. Letting it out so it completes a cycle of photosynthesis and evaporation and precipitation and gets its day on the periodic table of elements. Class then was only an hour, maybe 45 minutes. Was it ever embraced? Was it only dreaded? I’m not sure I can’t remember. All I know is an hour ago I was somewhere else. Confined in the blissful suspension of time. Gravity is suspended and it all just hangs there, hangs out. Jackie Wilson Said to just be chill. Freezing hours melt into minutes and evaporate, catapult up into the clouds and hug the Sun. The light is so bright and hot that the molecules transform on impact. I am transforming now. We are all in a state of transforming. Hours grow mold into days, weeks, years. But if time is a social construct, maybe we can take the 2x4s of our life, take out the nails connecting it to everything else and burn the wood to keep our soul warm. And have our anxiety evaporate on impact like those molecules.


Do you know what it’s like to be hungry late at night in the dark? Eyeballs peeled open at the sound of your stomach rumbling like a thundersheet? Like the palpitations of Eric Whitacre’s Cloudburst? The feeling of that rumble is like drilling through a pond; It ripples beyond the stomach so that you feel the tingle in your hands and chest. All encompassing compass, pointing North to your hunger. In past lifetimes, I have dipped my hand into wicker baskets of grain, cupped the spheres of wheat and barley, raised that promise of Lady Liberty herself, and watched those little hardened pieces fall one by one back into the basket. And in this moment I am a hourglass, Time herself. The pieces of hardened grain that trickle out of my raised palm each make a sound, making contact with their brothers and sisters, safe at home in their basket. This grain was harvested by my ancestors, cooked by my ancestors, fed.


salt flats. mal blum and Peruvian delights. Joseph Smith smoking under Utah’s gaze. Starlight bound somehow after death knowing nothing but this. Eyeglasses in circular frames watching clocks tick. Granules and molecules watching Magic School Bus reruns on TV. Entertainment and science with minimal effort. SuperPretzel daydream treats with yellow mustard. Baseball game wooden baseball bat cracks and cheers. Two glasses clinking. Satisfying sensation that can become overpowering. Stick out your tongue. Let me watch the snowflakes melt. Let me see your green eyes gazing into my own. Hold my gaze to see your winter hat frame your face. Your freckles almost don’t seem real, but painted on my some Monet-aspiring artist. Palette in frame, sugar in glass. Don’t you wanna know who killed her? Following clues, tasting iron on blood, salt in fever. Basic building blocks of life. Carbon. You can smell it. Decay and earth, tones of God. Washing your brain is making up your mind.


Nighttime scene. Popcorn machine painted red and yellow. Smells like salt and oil and everything that’s good with the world. Ferris wheel and the playful screams of children. A sharp ding and someone’s won a prize, changed their life, impressed their friends. Any anxiety I feel is swept away by the adrenaline of being alive, the sugar rush of cotton candy. Pink, puffy, unicorn clouds of pure sugar goodness because heaven is a place that knows no calories. Funhouse, distorted mirrors. Trash on the ground. Heart beats. It isn’t fair that I’ve had no one to hold my hand over the years. But I actually don’t mean that. Everything just actually is. And there’s no use in wishing. Pennies thrown backward in the Trevi Fountain. I’ll keep my money. Even if it is just change. Just change. But I won’t change. At least not deliberately; Meaning, I won’t step into straightjackets because someone told me to, or someone told me that’s how I should be, that’s how I should feel. I can’t do that. But I will change into dress or nice shirt if I like the way it looks on me myself. If it makes me feel good and powerful and nice and decent. Fairgrounds in the day time.


Grasping at straws, desperate and anxious. Trying to make something work, something fit. Figuring it out. I grasp out and your hand catches mine. Holds it close. Pulls me up. I was drowning before in a sea of people. Now I’m breathing sweet, sweet air. You are the one true stranger that saves my life. I can do the same; Grasp my own collar to pull myself out of depression. But sometimes spells are so severe, I can’t figure out where the collar of my own shirt is. Seltzer water and the ensuing carbonation. What happens when you add baking soda? Let’s make some noise. Captain Kirk and Sabotage and Beastie Boys vs. Bill Shatner. Star Trek Beyond and mediocre dinner. Candlelight by the fireplace and we hold hands to say grace. We take it for granted. Circles are holy. Grasp at ideas and past thoughts – history, really. Open the book. “Turn the page” – Jean Luc Picard, baby and I will never go back to the way I was. Stop deleting, stop correcting, stop time, stop everything. Pulling back now, away from Pensieves. Harry Potter and green light. Green light means GO. Let’s GO right now. Anywhere we can. There are no limits, just consequences.