I’m gonna wake up early tomorrow and go for a run!

I wanted to, but my heart wasn’t in it, my hands felt weak, the lights were on. I wanted to, and so I did. 



(Source: cocothinkshefancy)

straight up a fly just fell and died on its back on my keyboard and then resurrected itself six seconds later and like, this has been the worst day, and i need to go to sleep, and I’m keeping myself up trying to write, and the only thing I could even begin to put down is “I remember feeling like a maniac out on Alabama street in May” and i don’t want to remember that, because it makes me ache with the knowledge that I contained that, and the knowledge that I contained C, and continue to contain him, and I’ll never push out against that, but I will sleep with it curled in my sacrum, and it’s time for bed, and that fly just landed buzzing slowly in my ponytail and i do believe that montana only exists because i am in it and that’s all, really, that’s it. 


He put the dozer in the ditch!

I don’t have enough words for these encounters, and often feel as though I don’t have enough of myself for them, either. Two mornings ago I saw my first bucks of the season, their antlers warm and furred and new. They paused for me near the beehives, near the end of the first mile of that morning’s run. We eyed each other for a moment, and no matter how many times I get close to them, I’ll never lose the way they watch and wait and lead their own way through the hay fields. I think a lot about what it means to be human, on a road, through this wild place. I don’t think enough about what it means to be wild, on a road, through this fenced-out space. I don’t know how to approach that, on foot or otherwise. 

Last night I learned that bow hunting season had opened early on Saturday morning. 

The wildfire fighter asked me what I’ve killed, and I said Nothing. 

There is gratuitous bovine groaning coming up from the west and in through my window, and I know Z will be getting another calf tonight. The first was weak and limp against the straw in his stall in the barn, bottle fed and supine. I can’t wait to ride my bike past him next summer and be stilled, for a moment, with fear. 

DW described, this morning, a fall from his four wheeler, that left him with a broken vertebra and torn muscles in his back. Z, who’s been on our roof for what feels like long impenetrable months, described the steel pins put in the back of his cousin after a fall this past winter. I remembered the caterpillar of scar along the final eight inches of J’s spine, and how that sung in the joints of my hands. I remembered my hot palms on the wildfire fighter, quelling his shiver, resting my cheek against the thin cotton of his tshirt at his shoulder and telling him, I’m so lonely, pulling something through the callous on my fingertips even as I was pushing something through them into him. 

i’ve made a series of huge mistakes

Soaked in nine days’ worth of water, fighting the fire west of Missoula, he can’t stand up straight. We attribute this to the work and not to the whiskey, which is generous. Pull on his beard and he’ll ask for it again, Please, he says, softening at the edges. You can pull this person down, and you do it gently, against the edge of the bar where he knows everyone. Walk me home. You have such a beautiful smile. 

Kiss the right moment, and kiss it clean. 

The no on your lips sends a bruise down both of your spines. The milky way is yours for the taking, on the highway, on your bike. The distance is the same as from Madrone, but this route takes you further east, further south, further into the velvet sky. You want it alone, and you take it alone, bright and clear and edgeless. It removes your breath but is also fresh and lonely. I am so lonely. 

A shooting star is the least of our worries, but it is something, at least, to hold onto. I see it alone, and it belongs to me, which is how the nights here unfold: vast and permanent and glimmering. Shared by everyone I can’t see or speak with. Personal in this upturned, offered way. Were I a gentler person, were there more trustworthiness in the stiff muscles of his back, I would have allowed sleep to overtake our stiff thick skins on the soft unwashed cotton of his bed; and I would have waked early on a Sunday to sneak away. But his back, which I held and pushed on for a moment, existed only because of my palms, and I knew that, and loved it, only for myself. And it is bleak to have your loneliness broached by your own hands. And it is bleak to push and to pull against something that you have to be generous about. And it is bleak to love your loneliness, but I do, with something that resembles a fever, and I won’t break it, not tonight. 


ok but consider this

  • who cares


Thank God it’s Frida

Not to be self-aggrandizing, not least because my eyebrow game is not nearly on point enough to even compete (like, what a shallow thing to say) (I mean honestly) (I am missing the point here), and also: not to be totally insensitive to the bed-ridden plight of this actual goddess (I am the most offensive person), but: literally me. 

“Try to see it from a police officer’s point of view: You may be unarmed, but you’re also black.”


sometimes i change my outfit four or five times in a single day just so, like, that’s one concrete thing I can point to when trying to figure out what I did with myself.

“Start ignoring people who threaten your joy. Literally, ignore them. Say nothing. Don’t invite any parts of them into your space.”

— Alex Elle  (via makethemdream)

(Source: alexandraelle)

o fuck I was wrong that thunder just got here, here we go!

live bloggin’ mt

At about 10:30, the thick blanket of the dark securely fastened around us, I’m peering out window at the top of the stairs, facing west. Who needs the Perseid when you have an overcast sky and a lightning storm spilling its guts over the Tobacco Roots? The light explodes slow and utterly silent through the clouds, illuminating the sky, backlighting the valley. I can feel it getting closer, but it makes no sound. 

Now the wind is rushing up to the window; the smell of rain pours in. I can’t tell you about this sound. It’s like flooding- it sounds like the creek got moved about 150 feet and now runs directly along the edge of the house. This isn’t breeze, or gust. It’s constant. 

Now here is the rain. First splattering on the roof- fat drops, I can hear them, like thick popcorn. Now I can hear it hitting the lawn. Now it sounds like animals tussling in the rafters. Shockingly loud, shockingly present. 

I keep waiting for the thunder; for the gasp of light to rip through the trees; for the hayfield to open up for me in an instant of electricity; for the deep rending of air to send its growl out into the night. I’m keeping my eye out, keeping my heart out for it, but by now I think the chance of it has passed us over. 


once a girl in my biology class asked if the sun had bones

(Source: goatpolice)