Simon and Garfunkel "Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme/She once was a true love of mine."
Bob Dylan "If you're traveling to the North Country Fair... Remember me to the one who lives there/ She once was a true love of mine."

wise men and artists, their implications. that true love once was and continues to be transient. where it was once transcendent. true love is simply another way to identify and segregate. making one love more important than the other. always the other.

the other love is purer, simpler, without discussion. the other love has a carry on that fits under the seat. the other love is always safe and kind. the other love can't break you, jade you, and always makes the right choices. the other love has others and others that are mere and meaningless and the other love is the true love that once was and will always remain true to the memory of something else that probably never existed.

then there is the this love. this love is sticky and wet. this love is scary and gravity defyingly precarious. this love is hungry and needy. this love is smuggling in deception and thievery. this love is long discussions about the other love and even longer discussions about how this love could never be the other love.

only, in the end, there is really only this love. only this love is true.

what if that green space over there was purely the foreground for the blue space over there and sitting amongst the various forms was a moving substance that carried the top half of itself upright and therefore ate with utensils and the utensil utilizing movements projected from the clamping jaw of a round delicate frame who formed molecules of liquid when chewing and spoke of the need for life to prosper while vibrational waves travelled into the spiralling side tunnels of one broad pillar of hair and flesh across the landscape who heard only the echo of wet smaking lips and the need for life to prosper such that all must work diligently toward procreation while the candel lit lips rather considered the prospects of making things grow in the green space over there when the sun stayed at its optimum angle in the blue space over there and the lips and the hair nodded enthusiastically at such undefined expectancies?

it's too easy in this world to complain. it is too easy to not see how blessed we are at every moment for every limb that works and every breath that exhales. it is too easy to underestimate our ability to impact others gracefully. it is too easy to wish for more when we already have more than enough. i live 7 doors from the outside. i live 700 feet from the Yukon River. I live 70 feet from the ground floor. i am resposnible for 70 hormone rageing, cooped up, angst driven, teenagers. they are contagious. i am regressing. i live in a box. i sleep like slumber is heaven and hell is what happens when you wake up. i sleep in the morning and the afternoon but never at night (defined by the hours on the clock. at this latitude darkness is only what we try to keep outside). at night i send and receive messages that impact my dreams. my dreams are about seattle and aliens, love lost and secret disguises. tonight i will write letters to people i never met about their children who i take care of and pretend to know. i would take a bullet for their children i should tell them but instead i say, she seems to be doing well. i would take a bullet but i imagine i'd be crouching on the ground instead because i'm the kind of person that runs when someone yells, heads up.

the smallest things can set off the hugest proportions. wanted to wash out the natty fusion of homemade dreading most recently taking its course on my locks. my mother asked me if i thought men would find my new do attractive. i told her i didn't care. she was disappointed that i would repress the sheen from my flaming red hair now more rusty red like menstural blood or old brick chimneys. maybe i don't want to be pretty. then again my friend iver says that dread locked girls are to him like bearded men are to me (damn sexy that is). and yet today i saw the magazines and they were glossy. i saw the replacement girlfriend and she was gorgeous. i saw my reflection and it was changing, creeping around the corner as if to rob me of my old self. the self that could fit into normal. but i could never fit into normal cause the world is so fucked up and i'm living it. i hear we're going to war. looking for reasons to bomb people. how about looking for reasons not to? that seems simpler. i am part of the we that is represented by the he that has his head up his ass and i want to live in peace. i am locked up in this fucking babylon and i can't pretend any longer.

today i awoke to an unusual ice fog, unusual because the temperature was only zero degrees and ice fogs prefer colder. the atmosphere was thick and white like walking in refrigerated soy milk, but not creamy. no, the air was crispy, the inhale and exhale of frozen fumes. i drank green tea with triple echinacea in hopes of defeating the chest cold that followed me here from vermont. vermont is damp. it is dry here so the cold does not seep into skins. my friend wrote me, and i quote: "i love thinking of you nipple deep in poetry and snow." we're close friends. today, i could look into the sun that peaks only a few feet over the arctic horizon thanks to the subtle hazing of unusual ice fogs.