May 10th, 2019

[wenders] marion dreams

like innocent children flowering

december 10 2004
no psychotherapy for a few days, alright?

i need to write about something other than the workings of one part of an entire system that needs expression. expression, as a whole. wanna write with my knees for a while. say hello, collarbone. thumbnail, speak! why do you always break a few hours after i observe you at your most beautiful? maybe i've intuited the coming break. admire ye thumbnails while ye may.

windrose order in today. boxes and boxes of fragrances, of perfumed and perfuming goods in contact with themselves, pressed together until that sweetness merges into an indefinable, sickly sameness that permeates every surface, every paper and cardboard, all that stabilizing styrofoam. it almost seems to weaken the fibers: cardboard buckles from the scent. i am, hands and jeans and sweater sleeves, permeated, too. light my tip, blow out the flame, and let me smolder, some days. walk past dad in the garage when i get home, without even needing to turn: judy's home from work! windrose's note is amber dhoop that lost the battle (but won the war.) everything remembers the amber, it's windrose's alamo. there's also sort of a synthetic rose flavor about, maybe in honor of the company name, an olfactory re-enactment of that cheerful bouncy logo printed on the catalogue cover. incense from india orders tend to be overwhelmed by the harsher notes of their most popular charcoal dips: "sin," a musky sort of perfume floral; "lotus blossom," grape scented suntan oil; and that horrible blasted coconut that overwhelms everything. there's an abrasiveness there, an almost chemical smell. it swells shut my sinuses. it makes both my ears sound like crinkling cardstock. sage spirit, of course, has a dried herbal sage-y sureness about it, but they are different from spirit dancer sage in that sage spirit has this unpleasant high-pitched comment it makes, i wonder if it is the cedar? spirit dancer's flagship product is that white sage they grow in great lots*, i think that must have something to do with it; the other vendors supply more desert sage, sage possessing the violence of surviving in the desert at its core.

each of our vendors has a different quality about them. even if they sell the same products, the feel associated with them, the scent and touch: something indefinable is changed, from the source.

twitch in the ear, inside my head sounds like earthquakes. i'm rubbing at the shell, i'm poking at the mouth of the cave. the next spasm rumbles: what's going on, in there? something's not real happy. something's not quite right.

december 14th
eleven days, then, until ben is here: almost to the single digits. single digits: almost to the toes, we'll say, this-little-piggy territory, there's a hand in it, though, yet.

[box for waiting: open hand, palmistry diagram except perhaps with constellations. poem in japanese about waiting. five days to the hold:]

am i running out of words? i always saw words like rabbits in breeding season: let loose a few and you'll have a hundred by morning. now i've found myself stammering even in here, where i am not normally inhibited (and so cannot say this is a matter of shyness?) perhaps i am analyzing the ink-worthiness of that endless psychoanalysis i criticized myself about the other day. maybe i'm just transitioning again: two journals full in a little over a year after years and years of not writing a thing between blank book covers might indicate transition, the spring days stretch to a languid summer: but i am tired of all this leaving of spring i must keep doing, i want my words to always be wild, fecund, beautiful if a little unruly. maybe i'd do better to say i'm always transitioning through the seasons, that perhaps i've changed now from an autumn of self-reflection and evaluation to arrive at winter: seeds below for some wanton wild spring in a time not too long from these darker months.

i'm just frustrated, with the fallow periods. it seems like i've been one for so long.
* wow, i wrote this a long time ago. i'm not sure spirit dancer is still in business (i might have heard something about a wildfire) and in the fifteen years since i wrote this, ethically sourcing salvia apiana has become increasingly difficult (but it's not listed as endangered, yet.) white sage has served me dearly over the years. now, she needs more humans to better understand the politics of white sage and maybe retrain some behaviors. for the record? there's a bunch of other kinds of sage out there, much of it easier to grow (so i've heard) and rosemary, juniper and marjoram make excellent alternatives for smudging that i've come to prefer in certain circumstances. also: if you're into that wildcrafting scene or thinking of getting into it, read this entire article twice, please.

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