"And the world's got me dizzy again/ You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin."

...I'm spinning like a mother effing top.

(Listen to Bright Eyes- Landlocked Blues. Pure poetry.)

We're off to see the wizard...

I'm going to start spelling like an Englander, "colour" instead of "color" and that sort of thing. Then maybe I'll start talking like one too. While I'm at it I might chop my hair and get a tattoo and change my name.

List of names I would like to change mine to if I at some point needed a disguise (or became famous):

June
Cherry
Indiana

Sometimes I think about waking up and being a different person. And this whole life is just some extremely elaborate dream. I'm tricked into memories but really this whole story has only been happening for a little while inside someone elses head which is really my head, but I'm not me I'm the person who's dreaming all of this.

I categorize things into surreal and extra real. Tonight was extra real in the cemetery with all the lightning and holding hands and the wind. The wind liked playing with my hair tonight, maybe I won't cut it after all.

No, we were. We are.

August

The lazy sixth month
to the burning eighth.

I'm a wreck
a shipwreck
a home wreck
a car wreck in the front yard
with sleepy spectators
in scant clothing
no socks
drawn in by the smell of metal
and the light
like moths.

Life ending
and summer ending
when I looked at his lips.

Why wasn't I crying?
His everywhere hands
putting my body on fire,
my body's on fire!
He's safe and
he's home.

The house is catching fire, too.

(I apologize for the lack of a beginning)

and say "I'm back, I'm back" and
with clumsy eagerness trip and sail
across the kitchen floor like little ships and land
similarly so

and they are back.

and smiling.

Running and running.

There's a kind of music that I think must have been made somewhere somehow, before all this. Maybe before any of us were born. And it's dancing around in some mystical, magical place. Or just the pieces of it are, moving around all jumbled. And certain artists are able to somehow pull it from that place and lay it out and piece it together and it feels so right. It feels so right that it must be from somewhere or something bigger and better and wider and deeper. It must be from somewhere. Do you know that kind of music? It's too good to be made by mere human beings. It makes us feel like more than mere human beings. It makes us feel important. It wraps its crooked fingers around our hearts and stops our breath and makes us feel. I like that kind of music. I like that kind of music a lot.

There's hope for me yet.

We were promised jet packs.

As the dentist leaned me back in the chair today and fixed that awful swiveling light somewhere right in my eyes I thought to myself,

Isn't it strange, society. Isn't strange how we've made dentists offices and the postal service and highways. Humans have made a gosh awful mess of things, yet we have done quite the job with organization.

I find it oddly comforting. What comfort is there in a dentist office? I like the order. I like the normalcy. I like that we've all been to the dentists office. I like the average- middle class- American- citizen feel to it.

The government could be taken over by crazy, power hungry aliens from outer space; I think we would still believe them. We want to believe them because it gives us order. A fragile order perched lightly on top of the endless possibility of utter chaos, but an order all the same.

And I say, "recess".