Inspiration is moving through me again — a running river after a summer without rain. The moths stay above the jungle. I watch as they dance in circles, teasing toward sky, chasing open air. The storms come and go easy, breathing nothing but winds. July is over, hot and sticky, unbuckled, unburdened, sent back home. August is a new door and I am finding my footing where I can only hear ocean.
Stomach pain, the wind howling like the whistle of a flute. 28 pesos for pan. 60 for cold coconuts. 140 for tuna fresh from morning. 1200 for the long road home.
I am writing my book everyday, in small ways, I tell him. A nod, grin, kiss. The southern side of the coast that curls on the end, waving me hello. Driving a friend to the airport, the cusp of Mexico, how fucking good it feels to be alone. Summer’s underbelly. Her warm body. The soft side of her hand.
—
July was gathering it all. A season of input. Of hands hovering above keys, flatlined when they were positioned to move. Of accepting that the fog was sitting still. Of watching, listening, breathing, observing. Of quiet ideas, writing stories for friends, quick words at the laundromat between loads.
“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again.” The O’Keeffe quote I have seen on socials daily since June. A shared experience of summer’s stiflings, a validation of our own humanness spoken through the mouth of another.
A moment of relief each time its read, and in the heavy heat — I remind myself to remember what I already know.
Salt water heals everything. Let it peel what’s been weighing off your shoulders into its united body and swallow it. Walk washed, unburdened, clean.
Be careful of pining for a life you can only perceive. Inhabit yourself. Pine for your own, pine for what’s yours. Pine for what you can see upon opening your eyes. What you can taste. touch. hold. Gently cradle the rest.
Bite just a bit. When you can’t breathe pages, try words. One at a time, little whispers. Lopsided sentences and a poem that will never breach the light of day. Pen to paper, even when you’ll padlock the book.
—
At home, I can’t wait to see my garden and my friends’ babies. Squash blossoms and soft laughter. Watermelon sprouts and “can I see?”. Row of poppies and little fingers wrapped around my thumb.
Cactus hold their own in the middle of forest — strong and tall. Limbs taut, bone and rope, heads high, where the moths live. There is this, and there is the soft almond of his eyes and the sheath of humidity that my body already knows. There is morning’s cool air that peels back July’s fixed position and moves in something fresh.
Take the woman where all she can hear is ocean, where the jungle is green where last year it was brown. Where I can smell smoke and salt and motor oil but there’s no freeway and there are no demands of me and I take my inhales easy, smooth like water
— and watch the fog run in opposite directions, first rapids flowing, her mind set ablaze.
wow wow wow Gabs. This piece was stunning. Bodily pleasurable to read. "When you can’t breathe pages, try words." The reminder I needed this morning.
stunning as always. "i am writing my book everyday, in small ways" - and the best most gorgeous book(s) they are going to be! i can't wait