bah

my secret summer project

Stockholm from Amber Crago on Vimeo.

silly me

Oh that calm was the eye of the storm! Silly me.

Two suicidal parents in one year is a record. And I thought I had problems.

My step mother is coming to live with me till she gets on her feet financially.

wait what?

lol

working in the garden

Winter is coming. Greens, kale, beets and radishes. Persimmons, fresh eggs, dried figs, and hopefully rabbit meat. Today we started turning the soil and building the frame for the new bed. Saw a black widow spider and caught her leg in a board. Power-sawed and tasted the smell of sawdust. The sound reminded me of my father.

Under a canopy of soft green leaves and warm sun, I wove between branches laden with figs, a breath away from glowing delicate blue. Stepping over old wood the ground was like burnt toast with thick jam on top, oozing between my toes and filling my nose with a whisper, "Indian summer." My shirt sagged under the weight of my forging, and my adopted figs called out to their fallen comrades, "nurture thy mother."

The tomatoes were swollen, bursting under the constraint of over-population. Jujubes dried on the tree and catnip glistened in the afternoon light. My sweat salted the earth where my food will grow.

Golden grapes were discovered growing above the chicken coop.

Overflowing, I am gratitude.

Everything keeps boiling down to this reoccurring moment where nothing else exists but me looking God in the eye and asking, "well what on Earth do I do now?" 

grinding teeth.

A big thumbs up to every.

 single. fucking.

 one. of. 

you.

Reminders of you in every corner...

I keep dreaming of my ex lover. Fading between glimpses of memories buried in images, scents that tug me to long for the warmth of safety. Companionship improperly mixed with forgiveness, wrapped in loving arms and sealed with a kiss.

The dust is settling and my bed is warm from wine.

Crusted on the edge of my mind is the fleeting reminder that I'm missing something. A sense of being, non-specific to anyone except perhaps myself. Take two and keep waking up in the morning, only it's still not working. Touching myself is becoming a cycle. Spiral motion spinning predictable, dradle drade dradle...orgasms escape me even in my solitude.

Maybe I'm tired of being alone. Confident as I stride, cravings for touch leave me sullen.

When sleep comes, all I'm shown is this world of love that exists outside of what I know. Here I stand, emotionally mutable but superficially untouchable...something's telling me I sold out but the audience is a no show.

I'm starting to realize that what I know isn't true anymore. Reminders of you in every corner keep slamming doors, and when one closes, this house just gets taller. Construction's expensive when your heart's locked in a tower. The new staircase is almost finished, waiting to be dusted by it's first foot print.

All I keep hearing is that god damn saxophone echoing through it all. Mental pictures of warnings predicted true. It's not that I want him back either. I just want to have something real.

Whatever that is.

roots

Today was cold and wet, wind pulsing to touch the back of my neck, chilling me with it's loving whispers to run wild together through the forest.

melatonin

 I've been here before.

Too distant to be distinct...

...somewhere in dreamland...

walking towards the growling dusk.

I've come to perfume the ocean

weaving cocoons.

the house is sleeping

What happens when one places the wrong faith in closure?

Exposure of fading motives, don't give me that empty hope.

The house is sleeping, and I am stirred. 

Patience, my darling.

I shall return.