how the light gets in.

sunset on the hudson last night.

waves of cold air wafting in from the water, but it didn’t matter in the end.

i still don’t remember much of what i mumbled to you. you’ve always been good at getting me to talk when i least should speak. i sigh as i clumsily overstep the self-set boundaries. we argue lightly about whether the better description of this particular mistake is my “Biggest” or my “Favorite.”

i bury my face in hair and chests and arms and shoulders. “you’re the perfect height,” is the common response, though i’ve always felt that i come up short.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

– Leonard Cohen

i find the cracks that keep on growing.
it doesn’t matter what it means, but maybe it is that every year i fail at love.

i’m not sure if this is trying again,
but if so, it is with only faint knowledge of what failure might look like.
you’d think i’d be a pro at avoidance by now.
but, Beckett lends his wisdom.

no matter.

Fall again. Fall harder.
Fail again. Fail better.
yet Cohen is right, somehow Light keeps flooding in.

 ***

From TM:

I hope you remember that I’ve oft quoted this Sam Beckett and believe it in everything
(live it in everything)
I do, make, share, love:

Ever tried. Ever failed.
No matter.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

I’m not sure which it says about me:

I neurotically re-attempt an act whose outcome I’ve experienced as failure
or
I persevere.

mouths open to what’s above

rose in the rain by traci

traci in the rain by rose

originally posted on tumblr, entitled by Traci:

Three mouths; two open to what’s above them. (July 2012), film

photo of me in the Texas rain by Traci, photo of Traci covered in milk by me.

***

notes from last weekend:

      that thing about the great outdoors, the wildflowers, the light, and the humidity. that thing about bare feet propped up on the edge of rolled-down windows as the sky passes by.

that thing about my neck hurting gloriously from falling while learning handsprings in the flakey grass.

that thing about curling up in the hammocks and lazily watching the trees.

that thing about jumping in cold river water while the sunlight breaks through the clouds. that thing about the liberating scream while jumping.

that thing about stubbed fingers from throwing and catching footballs in the wet sunlight.

that thing about the nearness of majestic modes of transportation – like looking upward at low-flying airplanes and racing alongside ambling freight trains.

the dampness of the air that’s aching to rain,
the dampness of my eyes that are aching to see into (and eventually, through) you.

and that night, while drunk on music and southern heat, I grabbed your hand. I waved up to the underbelly of the plane and shouted in your ear over the thumping beat- my self-proclaimed forte, “Maybe the very best thing about me is that I remind people to look up.”

your eyes, looking skyward, agreed.

Texas, my Texas 

Fully knowing that I was about to race through the airport in flimsy flip flops to hopefully catch my connecting flight, I cheerfully took a series of portraits while eating banana chips for strength.

I mean, you’re already in midair, what else can you do but enjoy it?

Texas, my Texas. Shouldn’t we remember to be grateful daily for the trees, the water, the light?