18.4.10

and i is the.

ghost of a ghost of a girl. dont be fooled its just the



(THAT YOU SEEIN)

lexington.

using the sharpened sharpened spit clean wipe rust
sharp end of the knife to cut open the scar on my knee


hurts so twisted lips in a beautiful painful painful musical wincing heart twisting grin.

14.4.10

i am a rock. i am an island.

i am america. big and wild and beautiful and too young for my own good. big dreams and the whole world my whole life in front of me.
to learn to laugh to grow to crawl.

happy birthday to me.

getting older
feels like my bones inside a bird cage
i'm carryin
clangin round a rattling
dangerously exposed robot form
bones white scraping and its fallin
fallin apart.

today i bought eggs from the neighbors' hens who run around in the yard with the giant bunny rabbit.

the girl on the train on the way to milano was studying naturapatia and food and told me about the chickens, sometimes two in the space the size of an 8.5 x 11'' piece of paper and how in these cramped quarters they often become violent and hurt or kill eachother and then i thought about the city.

13.4.10

stuff we done.

helicopters and birds that fly way down below. climbing a hill with its green silk hair
waving to find more castles in the sea in the distance beyond rolling near evergreen covered in vineyards.
we are sitting on the high castle wall fighting the wind trying not to fall and a bird sails wide an arc in the green the valley below.



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rows of apple blossoms cherry blossoms grass spring green and skies peppered blue.

blue and green and pink and white. pink and white. pink and white.

pink and blue and green and white. green and white. green and white.



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'i am extremely against extreme controversy.'

the difference between us.

i guess some people were born to lie in the field, inspired by dreamy shapes in the clouds and others born to run around them in frantic circles planting and reaping and moving on to the next field with such a speed that the cloud watcher feels only a breeze seemingly warmed from some faroff land.

3 sarahs.

part of me wants it part of me wants to want it and the other part of me wants nothing to do with it.

12.4.10

alagna. 24/03/10

i awaken to the steady soundtrack of the stream where i wash our clothes with handmade olive oil soap and leave them to dry in the three hours of sun blocked out most the day by the nebbiose montagne who echo avalanches shotguns all day long, who almost took my life yesterday while ice clamps on snow shoes weren't enough for my paralyzing fear as we traversed avalanches frozen nearly solid and raced the rising sun to safety on flat ground.
we are greeted twice daily by the smell and the bells of the sheep being herded by.
we get our milk fresh from local cows and boil it making a smell like a pasta meal and black pepper. we fill our water bottles from the fountain in the village, cold mountain stream water and we make love in the warm safety of our camper in the snow.

from biella to alagna.

we woke up on the side of a little hill town, next to the cemetery, the view of the alps bright and costume-backdrop in the distance. i wandered alone into the fogged morning with my camera and found myself in the cimitero with an old lady who introduced herself as 'renata' and showed me all her family members' graves, talked about how pretty my hair was and how old she was and how well i spoke italian. she left me in front of the grave of her mother, covered in bright perfumed daffodils she'd picked that morning from her garden.
elia and i ended up finally in biella, where we watched the world with a backdrop of white black ominous mountains, ate free ice cream, were served dinner of local deer, the best wine in the region, in the house of my dreams. a hot shower a warm bed. we drank one of the world's best beers 'menabrau!' in the oldest and smallest beer distillery in italy and had a panino from heaven. we swang high into the sky and laughed and screamed and giggled our cares away and marvelled at the now-beautiful clouded grey grey sky atop a hill in a village where all the buildings were older than 500 years, sometimes 700. we found a secret closed path, climbed a wall and still couldnt get into the well-guarded castle courtyard. that night we drove to novara with good beer in our stomachs and stopped renata by a river in the woods. we got high and abandoned our apples, pears and pecorino for eachother's embrace. i got lost inthe music and my own thoughts.
the next morning we went with matteo to his little farm where we tasted honey (with pollen!) from his bees and watched them working. i got sweaty in the cool grey spring air from tilling the earth, fighting combatting la terra with hand tools for hours, bruising my muscles and surprising myself at my own strength.
we made a fire in the stove and ate like fucking kings, and had hot chocolate from orgasms and uvette. we drank the water dripping from a broken kiwi branch and tasted the nourishment mother nature gives a tree. we breathed in wet heavy hanging silence echoing in an empty dreary wood. we tested our limits in a sauna heated by our fire and sweated out all that was left was peace and sleepiness. we tried every kind of meat and cheese novara's fiera had to offer (tartufa = truffle) and spoiled ourselves with fresh licorice root, nutmeg, gorgonzola and beer.
i took a walk and counted tree rings and sang at the top of my lungs in a forest where no one could hear or see or touch me and where i got scared of those wet hanging grey darkening woods and i forgot all the songs i had learned and let the trees and my body and my heart tell me the notes till they echoed and mixed with distant church bells ringing. i found feathers fluttered in a quick violent shuffle, a defeat, blue and brown and irridescence. i wandered away and wanted never to return but i was afraid. i found the forest of my dreams with grey blanket encircling rows of white birch trees cocking their heads to the sides to listen to the wind on the dripping air.
we were guests of honor at my first italian matrimonio and i spent a day mostly in silence again, watching the tree shapes drip in distant foggy fields who stayed the same luminescent shade of gray all the day through.
i meditated for the first time since chesney's and discovered that it is really interesting and i must do it more often.
right now i am at the base of monta rossa, between france and switzerland, with a liter of milk fresh from the local cow sitting in the snow behind renata while elia paints a collaborational gift for ettore who took grand italian care of us in biella. my stomach is growling as we've both kept to our fast today of only 3/4 of an apple each - a must after yesterdays' wedding gorge-session. we are making friends everywhere we go, learning about life and love and we have a camper full of food. i think we're good to go so momma don't you worry.

venezia.

the smell of fresh italian sweet drifting over the cobblestone streets takes me to sicilia takes me to summer.




walking city. walking surreal city.




we watched the city sink.

train ride

pass a forest of gridded new trees each bearing a white riga of snow balancing treacherously on the side. i want to make you come in my mouth.







clouds painted on a sea just for me.
i am tired in the sun but the gift is too beautiful to turn down, to close my eyes. in the moments i am writing i am searching for my camera to steal a moment and try to make a 2d permanent fixture of it.
i lose something dear to me.

heading to venice.

all i want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air. with one enormous chair oh wouldnt it be lovely? lots of choclate for me to eat. lots of coal making lots of heat. warm face warm hands warm feet oh wouldnt it be lovely? oh so lovely sitting abso-bloomin-lutely still. i would never budge till spring
crept under me windowsill
someone's head restin' on my knee
warm and tender as he can be
who takes good care of me oh wouldnt it
be lovely?



a bit of red emilia-romagna, my reward for having missed my train and spending many euros more to catch another and im walking down the platform (stumbling?) when i see this short stump of a man blatantly following the steps of the woman in front of me-watching her ass in tight jeans as she walks by. without thinking i raise my hands smoothly in front of his little face and clap them
twice
hard
feeling the sting as i walk on.
he follows me to the next platform and i make him mousechase me until i hide in a corner, the fermented grapes of freedom loosening their effect.