This morning I ran in the cool rain, and thought about ways to see you again. None of them felt true or good so I ran straight through them. By the time I got home I was gesticulating wildly at myself, and breathlessly admonishing both of us. 

Then I languished for the rest of the morning and wanted more, and also less. More of you and less of myself. More of myself and less of you. I looked at myself for a long time in the image projected by the camera on my computer. I took all of my clothes off and put them all back on again. 

I feel safe in my lonesomeness. I keep putting this sunhat on because it makes me feel beautiful and smart, and I keep calling it “running” because that makes me feel strong, so strong. I’m electric this month, but also wasted. Wasted on the thunder no one else hears, wasted on the mountains I’m too chicken to hike alone, wasted on the river that runs too fast for me to float. I feel like I’m vibrating and I feel like no one can listen. 

I like listening to the creek run out my window. I want you to come here in your truck and pick me up so I can lean my face out the window and grin. I thought I liked you texting me at 11:00pm every night but I was wrong, it made me volatile and hungry. I want bourbon and calloused hands and slices of lime. I want handstands on the lawn. I want to wake up and hear voices, not my own. I’m enjoying wanting everything, but I also want to come to Big Sky and pretend to be older, smarter, slower than I am by myself. Sometimes the shape of the sky makes me think I can see further than I can. I’m ok, but I want to press on your flesh to teach you how to press on mine, to see you again before July closes itself off, I’m ok but I’m aching for everything. 

Anonymous said: what is the moon

reallyreallyreallytrying:

i don’t know and i don’t think i should have to answer this question

I rode my bike into town today. Sat in a booth at the Gravel Bar and had a solitary lunch, reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez and eating an overpriced salad. I’m from California!, my whole body was screaming. I’ve never been lonelier, or cared less about that, than this month. 

A man on the street asked me what the deal was with my helmet, which i had strapped to my backpack and was carrying with me. I told him, “I have a very valuable brain,” before striding off down main street back to my bike. 

I rode slow loops through the backstreets of town, passing the time, pedaling lazily through the afternoon. When I got home, finally, I danced hard to music turned up so loud that I felt bad for the mice in the walls. I thought I saw a bird fly in my window. I realized that I miss being touched- touched in that tender, almost-to-bruising way, the way you touch the skin of someone you can’t bear to look at and fear that they’ll burst under your palm like the ripest peach. 

I’m quieting my head with whiskey; I’m touching myself. 

(Source: theworldofcinema)

ghostghost:

I made a little Plant Horoscope for brand new zine, I’m Champagne!

Filled with self doubt, need a pick me up? Check out your horoscope, the plants can help you out.

The whole zine is about regaining and maintaining self worth. My very good pal Lauren Catchlove put it all together and a bunch of friends contributed and everything in it is wonderful!

Buy I’m Champagne on etsy here!

This morning I went with my dad to the dump, and stood on the bed of our truck throwing garbage into the pit. 

I have had a Kenny Chesney song stuck in my head all evening. 


I ran the short loop this morning, and saw something I’ve never seen before.

There are a couple of signs for the Diamond J on that loop, and I insistently neglect both of them every morning. The first I pass about a mile and a half in, and I make a sharp left where it points me straight on, its “8.5 mi” glowing white hot. The second, a mile later, tries to correct me again, tries to divert me back where I came. The stretch between them is long, straight, treeless and flat. I always pause at the second sign, and I always feel like I’m traveling backwards when I see its “9.5 mi”. I stop, I stretch my aching legs. A few times, old cowboys in their old pickups have stopped to ask me whether I’m okay. They never seem convinced when I tell them, Yes sir. 

The sun makes its ascent so slowly up over the Spanish Peaks, and the sky is so huge here; even at 8:30 or 9:00 when I’m closing in on Home, headed due east, she still feels like she’s just above my line of vision, like I’m running straight toward her. I know now that it’s pointless to wipe my brow or worry about my red face. The sunscreen I have to wear even in the early morning makes my skin bead with salt water, no matter what. As I rounded the corner off the asphalt and onto the dirt county road, I felt a vehicle slow behind me. It tailgated me for a while, as I passed my cousin’s driveway and neared the goats who live in the pasture under the cottonwoods. I moved over to my left, my feet buried in the too-long grass by the ditch. 

The vehicle passed me and materialized into my peripheral vision. Slow. Too slow. A blue-and-silver Chevy flatbed from about 1987. I got what may have been a nod, or an apology, from the driver. And then: the face of a horse, and then: its body stiff, unglued, muscular and frozen. I kept my pace. My hand went up to my heart and my breath caught in my throat. The sun burst behind the truck. I was chasing the carcass, lighted in gold and affixed by nothing to the flatbed; just its stillness, just its still-animalness. No visible gunshot wound. Just this quiet rumbling parade of death along the county road.

Even when I’m running, I’m still slower than a horse’s makeshift hearse here in Montana. They outpaced me and after about a quarter mile I’d lost sight of them. I don’t know what happens to a horse after it has passed. 

The way thunder here really rolls, like it’s being unfurled slowly overhead, is something I wish I could explain to you. It’s not quite 10:00pm, but the night is thick, and separated by flashes that come punctuated seconds later by this long, loud crash of electricity. I can hear a horse over at the Clarks’ screaming. There’s no rain. 

I ran the loop this morning, out along the Jack Creek road for longer than I thought I could, trying to gulp air and water, my body hard up against the haze (smoke, my uncle told us, from a wildfire up in Canada). I couldn’t see the mountains, only their Bob Ross purple shadows against the grey orange of the sky. An Agnes Martin painting through a kaleidoscope. When I got home I was red and panting with sweat dripping from my skin, and that made me feel a little less lazy, a little less stupid, made up a little for yesterday, for all of the crying that I did. 

jesselucas:

A glimpse of what is to come in my minicomic ‘Cash’
View more of Cash here: http://jesselucas.com/cash

jesselucas:

A glimpse of what is to come in my minicomic ‘Cash

View more of Cash here: http://jesselucas.com/cash

“Destroy the idea that men should respect women because we are their daughters, mothers, and sisters. Reinforce the idea that men should respect women because we are people.”

— (via closedforprayer)

(Source: khaleesi-lifts)