I am a terrible hiker but I hiked into this place today all on my own.

It’s a place that used to be a volcano (but I didn’t know until I got back and googled it). I was in a volcano and didn’t even know it!

It was 3 miles roundtrip. I’m improving as a hiker. I borrowed one of those camelback things that has a tube you can suck on as you walk, so I was just sucking on water throughout the hike, sucking like I was an infant. (I had to pee three times on this short hike). I’m improving as a hiker. Maybe someday I can do it alongside other people. The southwest is a beautiful place. I’m not just a terrible hiker, I am also a cliche-generator: I am only loving this place now that I am leaving it.

After the hike I lay in bed for hours, wrote a poem called HOW STRANGE A BORROWED POET ON BORROWED LAND.



“We gave birth to so many babies that our uterus slipped out and we had to wear a special girdle to keep it inside. We almost gave birth but the baby was turned sideways and all that came out was an arm. We almost gave birth but the baby’s head was too big and after three days of pushing we looked up at our husband and said, “Please forgive me,” and died.”

(The body as foreign / grotesque, the body as impending death.)

Last night’s dream:

A lost child. About 7, 8 years old. Girl child. Expression of a face that had been wiped. Back erect, expectant. I was in charge of watching her, charged by whom, I don’t know. Her face got muter and muter and finally she hid herself in some corner I couldn’t reach.

Time passes just as well whether or not I document it.

I used to approach journalling as a means of getting rid of thoughts in my head, the adage of “getting the crap down on the page” so that it’s not clogging up the “real stuff.”

But really though, sometimes documenting just feels like creating. It’s not that you are writing what’s already there, instead, when you write you are creating something out of nowhere.

Which means, if I’m getting too much junk down on the page, haphazard, bonafide, junk, then, instead of clearing my head, what I end up doing is causing chaos, making messes.

Better not document. Or, better yet, better document differently.

I met with a friend today and we tried to talk poetry, somatics, creating with/in the body, all of which ended up giving us headaches.

Didn’t take too long to ditch that, shut up, do 5-minute speed sketches of each other, instead. Quietly, quietly.


What I drew of her


What she drew of me