she is a holy grail

The amber burn of tequila. I roll it along my tongue, holding the sensation, wanting it to burn away the naked fear that is creeping up inside me. I’m sitting on my porch, hearing the rich open frog chirps and insect noise in the trees that stretch out from the railing, me almost at their height as the ridge drops away behind my apartment. It’s dark out there, no moon tonight, the sky half-cloudy and obscuring the stars.

Another sip of the agave medicine, and I wrinkle my face from the sting. In the dark to the left off my porch is the dead dog I found on the road today, its body limp and forgotten. After stopping my car, I’d pulled on its back haunches, tugged the animal to my car, and loaded it into the trunk. The body was stiff, the dog about 40 pounds, and once home I found rocks and wood and buried it, not so some other creature wouldn’t find it, say a vulture, or something to continue the life cycle, but more so its blank face wasn’t there, open to the sky, wasn’t still looking out. I’d covered it, and now, with the third sip of tequila, I felt I’d done wrong.

Death had to have meaning, but it didn’t mean it lacked meaning if I didn’t understand it. But I wondered: what if the dog didn’t understand its own death? Did I take away any possibility of understanding by covering it up? How far into death does one need to look, so that slinky tingling feel of fear wouldn’t rise?

I raised the tequila bottle, held it high before my face. A faint glimmer of light reflected in the liquid. Light. Another thing I didn’t understand. Why joy and beauty came and went. About how to trust those things, the light parts of life. How not to want them too much.

I walked into my apartment with the tequila, set it on top of the fridge. Then back outside to rest my legs on the wood stool there. I leaned back, tugged my hat down over my eyes. It was a long time, and the fear rose more than once, but finally I was able to sleep.

What is the question to which my life is the answer?

The trial of the sexual dream: can you climb to your feet on that wave and surf into beauty?

It's easy to fall off the board into the crash of surf, the sensation of churned silica, and forget, forget the pure joy.

If I don't say this thought right, I might destroy it

Standing on the roof as the sun set, we tiptoed between the shards of broken glass. 

I pulled the bone out from the box.  It was the same size as a finger bone, maybe the piece between the knuckle and the tip.  Super white.  Like stone, hard, yet different, organic and temporary.  This had belonged to some human.  Somebody like me.

When fear rises up in your belly, you need to wrestle it to the ground like a demon cobra. You need to jump upon it, crash it down, hold it, hold it tight to yourself and know it and love it and let it go and don’t ever let it fucking hold you back again. Cause you’re fucking God, seriously. You’re fucking God.

"Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything." -- Henry Miller

From light and dark birth color

Colors arise at the borders, where the light and the dark flow together.