riding real fast

spent most of the day with xagly talking about the past. its incredible how much we cherish our own stories, and how imperitive it is to share them. for all our pain, these are our souveneirs. our stories are full of light, and strange happenings. we tell them the best we possibly can.
i hate when it becomes a competition. when the old insecurities kick in and our herstories become weapons. darker, stranger, and you cant come close. its then i want to really show the scar and say

there is only one wound and we are all fashioned around it let me tear mine open and show you (i have seen god look how brilliant she is, in a tear, i will give her to you)
and in these moments, it seems most like i am at war - most like i have something to prove
funny how we are made (of god, or bone, or lies) the faster we run towards something
the farther we are moving away... regardless of faith or theory
a poem i love talks about crying for more lonliness and becoming closer to god by becoming more lonely and i think about all of our psychology and the work we do in order to not to give too much away and i agree with all of that but there are lines that separate
(if separation is possible at least for the sake of theory, abstraction, or escaping the natural abstraction) different kinds of giving

if i am listening to a friend and feel unheard when i say 'me too'... then why not listen better. giving away what you wish you would recieve in this world is close, close to beaoming stars, moons...

i am inclined to keep saying 'me too' louder until it feels like a war... i convince myself that i am trying to offer a friend the knowledge that we can relate when i push my own stories. but im really craving the release of telling my story. im excited that stories are being told that suggest my own wont be invalidated. and if that's what i know can heal... (the listening) why not just offer it instead of asking for it? and let my lonliness cut deeper, and bring me closer to the as is, to bone, lies, words, whatever or god.

it was a long and laborius day, with more than enough laughter, plenty to eat, and things slowly getting accomplished. sometimes life feels uphill, but at east m not alone in it. we stumble up the hill laughing.

haha i just remembered drunk climbing mt. denny's in arizona with kim and sarah and whoever else that one night and how we laughed and laughed. the kind of climbing i do these days is less about instant gratification, and the hills are longer and the road passes slow. funny to make the comparison, but still climbing, living in and telling ghost stories, collecting brilliant shadows. still alone, still haunted, and amazingly glad to be what i am. small and winged...

funny how half my writing ends in gratitude. holy shit. the kid (the kitten, monster) is attacking a giant bright orange catterpillar worm thing, probobly the nasty thing thats been eating becca's tomatoes. its really gross the watch him torture it, but becca wil be so proud.