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A Week With No Alarm

Tom Bilyeu, host of the Impact Theory Podcast, never sets an alarm to wake up in the morning. He lets his body tell him when he’s had enough, and attributes much of his creative energy to this connection.

I am a regular listener of his podcast, and have admired this about him for a while. I wanted to do it, too, give it a try. But I found excuses. Many excuses. Many “justified” excuses.

What if I don’t wake up until 11 a.m. or something, and then my day is gone?

Can I still wear the label “disciplined” if I let myself sleep until I’m ready to wake up?

Continue reading “A Week With No Alarm”

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Conversations with my Subconscious

It was 5:15 a.m. and my hands felt like doorknobs stapled to my wrists.

My fingers had been absorbing the bulk of rain-wind-early-morning-wintery-chill combo, and I had to garner support from at least three of them to shift the gears on my bike. I’d long since forgotten I possessed toes.

I was biking to Il Forno, the Italian bakery at which I play brunch chef on the weekends, and wearing as many layers as I can zip a puffer jacket around. My core was nice and toasty, but the appendages dangling off my body were suffering. My face, too. The wind seemed to harbor vendetta against me, and was shifting with me every bend I took. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t raining; the wind fashioned the drops into torpedo pellets and drove them into my eyeballs.

Continue reading “Conversations with my Subconscious”

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With the Earth Like This

 

How warm the rain this morning!

It is a morning to sing along with—

the rain a drum beat on the roof of my helmet
the whoosh of rubber through puddle a cymbal
I let all the car alarms, too, be bird song
and my grin swells with the wind and the clouds.

It is a day to breathe, like the wind, a bit deeper
to look at those clouds, like that, a bit longer,
to hope that I die before those trees do
to ask of the birds, who am I to outlive you?

Continue reading “With the Earth Like This”

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To Feel Grounded

Over family dinner of Moroccan-spices-plus-all-the-veggies-in-the-fridge, Max asked me a question in reply to some nonsense sentences I was spouting:

“What does it feel like, for you, this concept of being ‘grounded’?”

Shamefully I had already forgotten the sentence I had said which, I’m assuming, contained the word “grounded”. Actually, I’d forgotten the entire context for it. I had simply been speaking sentences I believed to hold together loosely in intellectual progression of thought. This is a common side effect of the days I spend cycling through the hills singing loudly to myself and not practicing human conversation.

Continue reading “To Feel Grounded”

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What do you find? I beg my soul

 

I trudge through the desert
while balancing the water on my back,
blinking to uproot the flies
and to bat away the sticky sweat
from rolling in my eyes.
My vision is blurred by endlessness;
no mountain no tree
no landmark just dunes
and this dusty shuffle casting
fiery shadow prints.
My feet sink ever deeper,
deeper in the blister sand
with every stumble my knees
bow closer to the scorched earth
and I come closer
to reverence.

Continue reading “What do you find? I beg my soul”

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To be Human

 

There are so many concepts
I don’t understand so many theories
I can’t fathom

I don’t know little things
like the number of
people in my town or whether

my maternal side is republican
or otherwise. I don’t know what
it’s like to be a black woman, or

Continue reading “To be Human”

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Die Traumdeutung

 

Once
I was chased by Swastik gents
and big boned ladies.
The ladies wielded buckets
of rotting salmon, I remember
specifically, because
I hate salmon.
The gents wielded extroversion
and I couldn’t bear that either. Continue reading “Die Traumdeutung”

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To Be New and to Yearn

 

O, to be new and to yearn;
when my burden is dreams
untamped
untoppled
inevitably unwise,
leftover evergreen haystacks upon
bamboo and bits of forest, sun filled
powdered sugar dreams
with no good reason
except for every reason.

Continue reading “To Be New and to Yearn”

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Fingers Reach for Moon

 

In the darkness
I drape legs over the back of the bench
rest back upon the wooden planks.
Arms unleash
and dissolve to the ground, fingers spread
to caress velvet Grass.
The curl of the seat tilts chin to Stars
who moan beneath Shroud. I sing along.
Wind captivates waterfall hair and Earth
waits.

We are breathless.

Continue reading “Fingers Reach for Moon”

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Mountain Grows Taller

 

As Earth groans and shivers
I observe Mountain grow taller;
the childbearing summit,
too many spines to count in a single lifetime,
she sees me. So small below.
She gathers Wind and bids him
go to me.
He whistles through my hair, disrupting cyclical thoughts,
for a spell, with gusts of play,
then rises and rejoins her.
She invites Sunlight in for tea
and lets him linger.

Continue reading “Mountain Grows Taller”

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Squiddy Library

The library is, for me, punctuality’s greatest weakness.

Especially Auckland’s public library, a carefully laid, intertwined system of so many books in so many libraries dotting so many corners. I can’t seem to sweep my gaze from east to west without spotting a library.

They call to you.

Continue reading “Squiddy Library”

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My Dreams are the Dew

My dreams are the dew on the
morning grass and the sound of the drops
‘neath the leaping grasshopper.

It seems the cold darkness of a swallowed
night blessed the condensation of what deeply
matters; that which shines bold against the

thousand thrashing insects. I wish I could
say thank you, say anything, really, but the
sunshine is blossoming over my closed eyelids

and all I know is warmth.