growing hair

i have practiced pithy things to say while i'm growing my hair.  i am obsessed with growing my hair? it is something i have not noticed--not ever having been obsessed with my hair--having it always grow, thick, beautiful, long eventually--even after i cut it severely when i am ready or not ready for the next adventure.  hair.  hair.  dead strands of cells.  i have a lot of dead hair around.  i have the hair zoey cut from my head in the pat allen class all those years ago now.  it is all those years ago, now.  now, it is all those years ago.  it is not fresh from my head.  it is in the black hut conglobmeration--yes--new word--yes--slip of the fingers--yes--it is some kind of power i let her cut from my head.  and then upstairs, in the buddha's arms is the rest of my power.  my power is resting.  my resting is power.  how does this thisness do its thingness in the art and miracle of here and now? i am never sure.  i am here.  i am tucked under covers in with my back to the window that lets the cold in.  i have put the black hut nest across from me--finally installing what i was too afraid to install when this was the poet tree house.  too polite.  to still trying to be sane.  too concerned about what others thought or think that do not think about me, really.  and now i can see it.  i can look at the water on the table.  i can hear the seeds sucked out--pits--no, not partners in training from the ruin of a different enterprise--but pits--sucked from olives? maybe? will they sprout into tree? and i have avacado number two--its promising sprig of life--growing toward the mirror of something.  i am here in the basement again.  it is not a basement in california--because they don't have basements in california.  in california, it seems, there is no more room under the ground.  the buried indians are taking up all that space.  space to conquer with colonial intent.  space to gentrify with whitenss.  space to take across landscapes of gone in the here and now of what can not be forgotten--i type here.  in this place.  i put these letters down one fingerstroke at a time.  what was he telling me about fingertips? i forgot to write it down. 

content.

he gave me content i was content with. 

now, my bird is gone.

i wear the bell around my own neck now--no one to call down from the upstairs when i am here behind the desk attending to the no one of the on-lookers that do not look at what i think is brilliant as brilliant any more.

i cut my hair after every love affair.

is that true?

queer.

what is that exactly?

an interesting life--that is the life i have now, i suppose.  an interesting life.  an interesting life.  an interesting meandering of circular mind and what kind of soul? unfolding soul? origami configurations of birds made of folded paper--ohhhh, peace cranes, maybe? maybe peace? in making cranes? in ribboning the blues of the past in the ballons of the present. 

why must i be pleasant?

i am not so good at being pleasant?

pretending has gone the way of something else.

i am here now.  sitting with my back to the window in the smoking corner of this room i could have--i should have--given.  i lay here now in some strange attempt to find the part of me that wants to smoke.

i am a drinker, though. of any substance.  not any.  i am always so bold and brash in my announcements.  i am a drinker of any liquid--water, tea, coffee, 7-up, bad wine (cheap), and when someone brings it to me or offers it to me or buys it for me, as an offering, as a way in to my secret lair, then tequila, vodka, rum that tastes like sun tan lotion.

i am here in this now.  i am surrounded by options.  i am not drinking any of them.  i am becoming more tightly wound around my need to manipulate objects instead of people--art supplies instead of young minds.

where is the how of this unfolding now? what begins it? what becomes of it? who decides how anything should be folded? or where away is when it is time to put it....

i am growing hair now.  hair is now growing.  the feel of rubbing against the grain has become less satisfactory than it first was when the bristles were still sharp enough to rub back.  now even the hair wants to lay down.  the fighting has become less fun. 

what is the right balance of life? how much is too much? how much is not enough?

i went in search of an endless pursuit of enough and i keep finding too little or too much. 

new piles of excess have been gifted to this space.  i have accepted them with less grace than i could have expressed--and now, bubbling over is still bubbling up. 

i am here now. 

with cold sores sore-ing and fingers tapping and words wording and periods perioding and things making themselves up as possible inside possibilities that keep expanding on the way to endlessness.  something is pinging--a connection i've left open.  i leave this now to go there.

goodbye.