Does he not understand the physical properties of glass?

Specifically,

transparency,

or that the barrier of the material is not an indicator

of one's relative proximity

(to the other side?)

He does realize we're right here 

- right? - 

Or did he somehow get this far in life

under some sort of misconception that 

"opaqe" and "clear"

are, indeed, synonyms?

No. Maybe he just missed that day in school

Or maybe he has never painted his nails

Or used a camera

Or bought a light bulb

Or ever had to distinguish between two types of pantyhose.

But HOW?

How does he look at us like that

Why does he look at us like that

He must not realize that we see him

(reluctantly)

Every twitch

every tweak

every move of every muscle

on his face, that same face who was must have been absent that day at school

when the kids also learned that saying about not throwing stones if one lives inside a particular type of house.

Those who don't speak know everything.

Those who don't know speak nothing.

"Nothing", no one said

was said by anyone.

If we didn't believe that no one

was anyone who didn't know,

how comes it no one never wrote any words about it?

This latest serial killer in London - 

the same dog-walker

discovered two of the bodies

on two separate walks

less than a week apart.

Sometimes life didn't deal us lemons.

Sometimes when I'm alone at night 

when the space sneaks in between

my brain

turns off

and my mind turns on.

And always, it occurs to me, again.

That the only thing that I know in life to be true - 

Is that THIS reality

and everything that comes with it

has no name

has no number

has no locus

has no bounding box

except the ones that we assign

which are nothing more than memories 

inside the walls of a maker's mind.

Ten minutes left to mars tonight

And forever in between

Ten minutes, minute, minus mini-it

Minute mini minuets marching

Softly swiftly sweetly somewhere else,

Away.

Synchronized in three quarter time

In a silent sideways soft shoe ballet

Headed out again,

Somewhere else,

Away, away, away.

I wish I was a minute

When there's ten minutes left to mars

I'd pull some Irish exit shit

And go hang out with the hours

And know that in my absence

There is nothing there

I'd know they know they know that too

I'd know they say "she never stays",

But it's true.

I can't

and never do.

I'd watch them watch me float away

As the moon floats away from the stars

And I'd know they'd wish there was more of me

When there were ten minutes left to mars.

I remember the last time I saw the ocean, it was the first week in February of this year in Naples, Florida.  My husband's family was involved in a complicated legal battle with a large bank, the details of which I was not then and am not now familiar, nor interested. Work had been extra shitty, I had a new boss who was becoming increasingly passive-agressively hostile toward me, which is my least favorite quality in a boss (though one I've for whatever reason encountered numerous times).  I decided that I would take family leave under FMLA and stay the week with my husband and his family at the beach condo while the trial was going on so as to have a chance to get away from Chicago, and mostly from work, and clear my head a bit.

I remember arriving at the condo around 11pm, the air had that super "dewey sweet"quality you always hear people reference but (at least where I come from) never experience aside from maybe one time at  camp when you were a kid (though that memory may well be fabricated, I don't really know) or possibly a couple times during college after partying way too hard and walking home as the sun rises (though in those memories that smell brought on dread, self loathing, and nausea, so that's probably not relevant I guess).  But the air was dewey sweet, and in a good way, like in a way where you still have a night to sleep and and a day of sun and ocean and relaxing ahead, so it's all good.  That's how it smelled.

It was dark out I didn't care, I could hear the ocean and I could see the ocean and I could see the sand and I wanted to sit in all of it, so I ran through the house, flipping my shoes off and shedding my winter coat on the way, out the back door and onto the beach.  

It was calm.  It was rhythmic.  It was quiet.  And it was big.  I shed my socks (which I never found) and rolled up my pants and went in, it was warm.  The gulf water is always warm, around this time it was about 72 degrees.  I stood there for a while.  I looked at the moon.   I thought about my dad.  I tried not to think about work but flashes of intermittent worry crept in every now and again - I tried my best to dismiss them, and breathe.

Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.  OH HOLY SHIT WHEN MARIE SAID THAT SHE DIDN'T CARE IF I TOOK THIS WEEK OF IS THAT BECAUSE SHE KNOWS SHE'S GOING TO FIRE ME WHEN I GET BACK ANYWAY?  Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Dad. Wonder how the Maya Angelou doc is coming.  I love Dad.  Dad'd tell me that work isn't worth stressing over, everything is as it should be, and we must except that.  Except that, and breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.  ...But not that quickly. No, not that quickly, it's fine. OH SHIT NO IT'S NOT I TOTALLY FORGOT TO ATTACH A THIRD EXAMPLE IMAGE TO THAT DOCUMENT GOD DAMNIT THERE'S ONLY TWO TWO ISN'T ENOUGH THERE NEEDED TO BE THREE MOTHERFUCKING GOD DAMNIT I'M SUCH AN IDIOT.  ...Breathe.  Breathe.  Breathe.

It's nice out here.

I am that I am that I am that I am that I am

and I speak me and I speak loud

and I speak what I feel

and what I know and what I am

and yeah I'm aware

that It's comes from somewhere else than you and they and them and there

but I am who I am

and you are you, mostly.

and they are those and that is them

okay

But I'm me and nothing else

And I'll be that thing that I am, I am, I am,

till the end of the end of my days.

Today is Day Number One.

So,

I asked the moon, “What should I be doing?”

It said,

“Do what you always did when you felt everything so closely and so much was was happening.”

I asked, “how should I be?”

It said,

“Be the way you are when there is no one else, nothing else that matters except what you want to do.”

I asked,

“Moon, are you friendly?”

It said,

“Yes.”

And it glowed a perfect soft white glow,

radiating outward from it’s circumference a perfect halo of magenta and fuschia

that sang into my eyes

and fell out of my face.