Writings from Walleye Vol. #3 7/15/13

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There is an ache in my shoulders from breaking trees.  The muscles pulled tight from the rise and fall.  My legs still shakey with the energy of last nights tremblings.  And all this time I was a ghost, haunting familiar terrain, where I shouldn't have been.  In sleep, I have been aware of a warm, black presence that is in my heart but that I am only given seconds to caress.  Death and sleep being so similar that sometimes the threshold blurs and you can float back and forth and find a true love dwelling there.

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What would happen to a flower, if it chose not to bloom?  To not uncurl and show it's center, the truest reflection of the sun.  How would it dance with the breeze, a shy partner hiding itself in the corner of the room, hoping it's singular magnificence goes unnoticed?  A subtle shift is all it needs to open up and become that living thing it was meant to be, a golden heart at the center of a stem.

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A Three Lined Score
1.  The sun hits it's zenith and instead of continuing West, returns East.
2.  There is a zoo and it is on fire.
3.  A hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower, freezes and falls dead.

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A Sea Wall That Longs to Break
1)  Why does it want to break?
2)  What will happen when it breaks?
3)  How will the breaking impact it's surroundings?
4)  What will the wall be after it breaks and is no longer a wall?
5)  What function will it serve in it's new form?
6)  Will it miss being a wall?
7)  Does it understand that once it isn't a wall, it can never be the same wall again?
8)  Do any of these questions even matter to the wall?

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Writings from Walleye Vol. 2

How long does it take the Earth to give birth to a mountain?  The rumbling and grinding of rock upon rock, pushing in a skyward direction, while at the same time pushing back towards the center.  The way that each mountain grows uniquely and slowly, all so that the Earth may again find contact with the Sun and the Moon, other heavenly bodies.  All so the Sun and Moon can rise and then fall.  A returning.


From the moment we come into the world it is good to find the space to be cradled.  Held as our bodies give motion to our oldest feelings.  The oceans and rivers that flow inside of each of us and sing us to sleep with the gentle sound of air curling into a seashell.  Maybe our hearts are the shells that know how to sing our truest songs?


Following the voices backwards through time.  Weaving a story that travels through and with your bodies.  The voices of the past and mostly of shared blood carry you forward, out of the deep sleep of the forest and towards the night sky.  Let yourself be cradled, as you were in birth, one tiny but important piece of the love and hurt, that is the birthright of us all.  These will provide you a line, so that wherever you are, you will always know the way home.


The anticipation leads the way or takes the backseat.  You will go this way or you will not.  Your hands will rise over your head or remain by your sides.  What is that tugging at your sleeve and spinning you around?  Do you know where you are, who I am?  Who are you?