901-1000
901-910
In the forest i wait among the ferns and crumbling leaves.
Waiting for a symbol, waiting for a sign, waiting for a vision to fertilize the architecture in my mind.
Mosses crowd around. Lichen binds my clothes. Storms rebuild the empty halls.
Waiting for a signal, waiting for the word, waiting for a spark to set the timer on my code.
The earth will freeze and thaw. Trees rise and fall. Rivers reroute need.
Waiting for a break, waiting for a dream, waiting for a tug on the silver thread binding me to me and me to the forest floor.
911 - 920
I can’t do much, but i can wish you well.
But mostly i can offer my kindness well-informed, unpackaged from naiveté. I can offer hope unsweetened with willful ignorance. It won’t be curated for selective positivity. It will be sun-bleached and well-versed.
I can't offer angels, but know what the devil looks like. I offer uncompromised care braced by the truth of known suffering. I will offer well-being burdened with its cost.
I can give you sincerity tethered to reality.
I can’t do much, but i can wish you well, wound within an understanding of how precious that can be.
921-930
We used to sell fancy, high-end sweets at festivals. They’d line up and buy one of everything, luxuriating in the taste and exclusivity.
Once, i was walking around the edge of the festival and a man asked me for cash. I offered him food, but apologized all we had were sweets. He happily accepted.
An unhappy tech bro who had just paid for his food walked up and disdainfully asked why he had to pay. How can i know the difference between who can afford it and who can’t?
The only answer i could give was, “true need doesn’t lie.”
931-940
Off the shiny bits of morning dress a glint of off-toned praise. The sparrows chattering wildly at the hawk high in a sycamore tree. A flitting flash of dirty sunlight slipping under a long-locked door. Years and years spent painting it over, papering it shut again and again. Paper and paint, paper and paint. Until laminated, harvested and carved into little boats. Races held on proper Sundays in cultivated pools pumped around gardens in the finest lady’s hats. And even then there are little tragedies, tiny burials at sea of innocence and dignity farmed out for others with whiter teeth.
941-950
A simple ingredient list.
Two or three neutrinos, depending on desired texture.
A mash of fresh hen’s teeth.
Whipped owl sneezes.
A teapot of elephant swear words.
German jokes to balance the salt.
The nose hair from a narwhal.
The sound of a dozen buddhist monks cracking their knuckles.
The last drop of cyan printer ink.
A poet’s honesty.
A thief’s hoard.
A box of orphaned ocelots.
Tomorrow and tomorrow.
Schrödinger’s cat in Heisenberg’s box.
Bringing it all together, the last days of light from the morning star, pressed into the pages of Julia Child’s childhood diary. Bake until firm.
951-960
Everything is only ever just in time, at the moment of need.
Little fanfare, less awareness, popping into being at the moment of observation. Oh, there it is. But wasn’t there before. Our need gives not just utility, but existence. A universe of information and systems crowding around at every moment but out of phase until needed. Called into being by a question with no answer. The information of everything in a swirling stew of not-yet-necessary knowledge.
And us to others, unknowingly out of phase with the world until someone gives voice to our purpose and calls us into being.
961-970
We are called to order, gentlemen. We have weighty business to discuss. A proposal has been made to admit women into the Order. Quiet! Protocols will be followed!
I now offer the formal rebuttal. To which i offer a single statement: I am, in fact, a woman. And it has become clear everyone in this room is a women.
Silence!
I now open a floor vote on admitting women. All in favor? Against?
Note that in a unanimous floor vote, women will not be allowed into the High Order of Marmosets.
Now let’s all get the hell out of here.
971-980
Our daily promises rest gently, bubbles in a foam. Tiny commitments forming a mass.
I will care. The more tiny promises made, the stronger the whole becomes. They become intertwined, intercommitted.
I will listen. They become a substance, flowing with us, pressing around to keep us safe from the day-to-day swells and rogue waves.
I will return. Positive charges keeping us buoyed and engaged.
I will see. The more promises we make to the world, the lighter we are, buffered from the errant wildness of life.
I will remember. The more we care, the better we are.
I will try.
981-990
I’ve been a resisting force to beauty. It's naive to create pretty things. It's superficial to appreciate something because it makes you happy. Beauty isn’t universal and valuable art is universal. Skip over the surface of being, dismiss every-day beauty because it wasn’t meaningful… enough. Wildfires and sirens were where i need to dive.
I’m working to be an advocate for beauty. Now knowing it's not a thing to see, but a frame of awareness. Now feeling how to refresh from pain and anxiety by opening that frame to praise all the beauty around me. One object at a time.
991-1000 [one word from every text]
start promises jarring persistence colorbound temporary fresh fruitfulness delicate fortune
extreme gardener offering magic metaphor flailing composition spring goodby weight
antagonistic story wet seasons gods timeless unbalanced forest beige truth
punchline bursting remember weeds narcissism wizardry remnants request enclosed trash
touch solid skittering beats bullshit gone starlight cell invaders roots
pet try forget layers erklären anomalies curiosity sphere heavy yellow
persistence rise pretty fog hold danger gift home balance grow
analgesics version secret little mysteries curate fire capers comfort tomb
entwined out retold nest basic peace splurge shit words ice
waiting precious need laminated ingredients phase order try beauty text