I wonder if these thoughts are annoying or if it matters if they are. Definitely stupid, but a virgin-stupid, prescient and growing. These days I’m interested in knits—book bindings, spiderwebs, chains—things that grow and compact by the laws of their intrinsic structure. Butterfly goo in the chrysalis. The words ancient prophets have to say about friendships; the laws of drought. How I might feel different in new architectures, or more fully convinced of basic unrealities in my presence. How a generation lost might blame the north node of the moon, how some palms are warm the way others are scattered by wayward winds, crusts scarred with fulgurite, memories of rift bombast in the ringing beneath ears.
In Kauai my faith in hurricanes is a kind of breath, a surf-scarred way of thinking onto which things grasp—black crabs to the side of volcanic rocks, orchids leeched onto trees. A braced calm, monk minds calculated in relaxation. My mom and I—lilikois, blue marble trees—existing in and in between gin and tonics, wasabi almonds, rice crackers, ylang-ylang and blossoming rain, the horizon’s white line expanding to the brink of tangibility. Creatured-seas on cliffs. Still I subsist within a Capricorn sense of demise, stemmed from worry of things I can’t see, though we pour our beliefs into what is there: tiny sea turtles in her earlobes, prayer beads on the ground, singing bowls in the crystal shop so beautiful the walls could cave and I might die a Billabong, California brat in paradise but for the loss, the heat, the sounds.