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In by Lucía on March 2, 2011 at 1:23 am

To have others believe in you, and to know that others believe in you: this is a gift.

To be afforded space for honesty, for wholeness, and for self-full-ness: this is love.

To hold hands, high-five, lock eyes: this is well.

To rendez-vous with a pillow, to flop into bed: this is rest.

To sit in the sun, to give you a hug: this is life.


To hear the words: it could be worse; to think, simply: “It” could be bad – This Is.


Because even the things that are bad are just non-good.

And that – well,

That is good, too.

Both Hands (song line prompt)

In by Lucía on February 16, 2011 at 9:52 pm

I am walking out in the rain, and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again.  It’s been three months.  I know you’re busy.  But I’ll keep calling for as long as you keep waiting to call me back.  I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at the old-school receiver that’s somehow attaching me to you via this strange, metal cord.  I’m still thunderstruck that I can reach you across a continent – still thunderstruck that “reaching you” means hearing your recorded voice roll back to me through the wires here in the rain.


In by Lucía on February 1, 2011 at 6:24 pm

It got quiet, the way it sometimes got when you were allowed to play in your own room as a child, and your parent could excusably put you to the periphery to take care of an important call.  But this time, truly, no other is present as the light crossing in from the windows grows more dim, and the shadows in the room slowly invert through shades of gray.  The air seems to move with the light, becoming perhaps heavier and more still, but the sense of play, of malleability remains, a book resting on the floor by your side.

Two weeks

In by Lucía on January 19, 2011 at 3:51 am

These kids tell me they’re tired when I ask what’s up, and it doesn’t make sense that just two weeks after three weeks of break, you’ve already worn yourself down — it’s a down that I don’t go to anymore, and as the day comes to a close and we walk and we walk and we walk, tracing the outlines of the places that fill our days, we walk in emptiness and move with the shadows until I return to the empty space that has been given me, to make an impossible decision about which pair are The Best sweats.

Feels Like, Pt. 2

In by Lucía on December 24, 2010 at 4:09 pm

It feels like burning lungs and flying legs, moving toward the sunburned horizons of the Southwest, and the clarity of standing above the clouds halfway up Everest. I blink as the cold of California glints off of leafless trees, bland highways, unfamiliar and disturbing overbuilding, and San Jose comes closer.   It feels like the restfulness of rising and setting alongside the sun, of perfect wellness and staying up all night to catch up.  It feels like the profound cool of swimming beneath waterfalls.  It simply feels like this, like life, like flawless movement and perfect flexibility.  Feels like feeling One.

Feels Like, Pt. 1 [Dec 23]

In by Lucía on December 24, 2010 at 4:09 pm

You’re the only person I trust to double the speed limit down winding mountain roads, and you took your eyes off the road to ask what it feels like.  For a moment, I am quiet, slowly moving to conjure words on a pristine mind.  It feels quiet at 5:30am, watching the sunrise before classes.  It feels like the tingle of spiced Moroccan coffee watching the silhouettes of minarets.  It feels like lying in sunlight of Place des Vosges with French tinkling into my ears.  It feels like the beach in New Jersey, and returning to familiarity and our chosen families.

Eyes Open

In by Lucía on December 18, 2010 at 9:20 am

It’s been like being six years old again, lying in bed awake in the many hopes enveloped by anticipation on Christmas Eve or the night before our birthdays. But we’re no longer small children, and these days are not known to our world as different than yesterdays or tomorrows, excepting their uniquely quantified names: twelve-eighteen-twenty-ten. But they are. These nights we stay up with the anticipation of simply being alive, laying in bed wide awake simply because we exist, knowing that what we are living no longer differs from the things that we can dream.  Eyes open, not falling asleep.


In by Lucía on December 3, 2010 at 12:44 am

These tears are falling from my eyes the way buttons fall off of my clothes, barely holding to their final threads and losing their purpose as they tumble and twist down to the floor.  These tears are falling from my eyes the way you used to do a back 1.5 straight off of the three-meter board, diving and twirling and then disappearing into a bottomless pool as the ripples fell into stillness.  They’re falling around me like the day it rained into the hollows of my bones, and nothing could have moved me out of the weight of that water.


In by Lucía on December 3, 2010 at 12:37 am

We traveled together for a few weeks:
he moved through countries
the way I slid into sheets
at night, smooth and calm.  But
he was ready for a certain
rest that I never was able to experience
together with him. He was
a history major; I was learning
about all the new places, while he
was greeting them like
old, familiar friends. They had
never spoken the same
language, but never needed to.
Each new voice was an aria to his ears,
a melody floating
across his eyes, a gentle smile
on his lips as
he talked to the strangers.


In by Lucía on November 30, 2010 at 9:09 pm

The flowers at the table were beginning to wilt.  And even though the dishes weren’t piling up in the sink, the kitchen was always unbalanced, the overflowing drying rack preventing the handful of dishes on the counter and in the sink from being washed.  Wires between computer speakers, a power cord, the wall scuttled across the table, books heaped in mismatched groups around the table, and Geoff’s desperate eyes stared hopelessly at the screen.  The world around him was turning into a complexity of zeros and ones: one – music coming out of the speakers; zero – couldn’t remember his last meal.

Sugar high

In by Lucía on November 30, 2010 at 8:55 pm

Let’s experiment.  We decided to go off of processed sugar, and it felt pretty good, so it’s been a few weeks.  But the jury’s still out because the effects are a mixed bag.  On the one hand, it’s resulted in delicious homemade no-sugar-added bread and produced incredible pasta sauce because I had no idea that normal-looking pasta sauce adds unnecessary sugar for no reason.  On the other, the brownie I ate at lunch today was the most sickeningly sweet thing my pallet ever remembers eating, and I can proudly say that I now know what ADHD on crack feels like.


In by Lucía on November 24, 2010 at 1:32 am

There are some people who are uncomfortable being alone. They feel the silence like a judgmental force, compelling them to fill the space with something – anything; they only feel like whole, real people when they are surrounded by other people, by something to do, by the opportunity to be somebody for somebody else.

There are some people who are at ease in solitude.  They hear crickets chirping at night and enjoy the music; they feel the wind through the windows and enjoy the whispering breeze like a calming conversation.

These people meet each other, briefly, and swiftly, they turn away.


In by Lucía on November 22, 2010 at 11:36 pm

Each breath infiltrated body,
each touch a familiar
conception experienced
as a foreign body. Deeply intertwined,
yet never before recognized by
these eyes, in these forms,
a silent reverberation spoke
the only comprehension
that existed
in these moments, an existence
beyond all time, beyond
these forms, greater and more encompassing
than bodies.
Single hands created firm pressure
between them, simultaneous
solitude and singularity, two spirits
recognized one another unconditionally,
fascinated to see the other once again.
Past lives, kindred spirits, anomalous
existences in the entirety of realities,
in these moments
long hours passed, lifetimes
already lived, and a welcoming


In by Lucía on November 21, 2010 at 7:06 pm

It was odd, she thought, that although she sat on beautiful beaches and atop the tallest mountains, what she was gaining with most clarity was not, in fact, appreciation for these things, but a clarity about what that distant “home” meant and what it was to be purely her self.  The days were becoming longer to her now, more time passing between each setting sun and more effort put to seeing each one through.  For though she came into a better understanding of what she was, it came through a process of walking that which was not, knowing it, understanding.


In by Lucía on November 21, 2010 at 11:20 am

Sometimes at night, as she was going to bed, Dani lay back and tried to remember what it was like when she knew Christina.  There were scattered memories of birthday parties, broken bones, playing in the backyard.  But as she racked the shelves of her mind, the hazy, scattered memories up to sixth grade were followed by clearer but fewer and fewer memories from middle school, high school, and now college. Maybe their lives had been intertwined when they were kids, but it was hard to believe.  Now they spoke every few months, and she couldn’t quite say about what.


In by Lucía on November 19, 2010 at 11:14 am

My eyes snapped open in an instant, just quickly enough to absorb the deafening boom that was echoing through my room, waking me both violently and smoothly into its reverberating waves.  The house seemed to shake, and in a moment my hazy mind flashed to solitude in the Rockies, the same depth of thunder collapsing down on all sides, the same darknesses torn apart with the flash of thunder.  Silence followed, distant tremors teasing like a call to insanity while flashbulbs continued to illuminate shadows on the window.  And just as smoothly, just as abruptly, I drifted back to sleep.


In by Lucía on November 19, 2010 at 2:07 am

She went running down the chairless aisle by the windows, tottering lightly back and forth in her black and white striped leggings.  Each boot landed with a consistent small thud, and her fine brown hair flew behind her. The small blur of forward motion spun onward, and in its wake a father’s long strides paced a measured distance behind his daughter.  She reached the outlet, and came to a lopsided stop, eyeing the power cord with curiosity, then misunderstanding.  She stepped over it.  Triumph.  A high-pitched giggle danced through the air, clear and mellow, and the toppling began once again.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

In by Lucía on November 14, 2010 at 6:47 pm

Options are to collapse, or to cry, or to vomit, because the only thing that exists in each of these steps is a pure and unadulterated burning pain.  This is movement, this is upward motion faster and steeper than anything I can remember, and this is gravity holding our bodies down with their own suffocating weight.  A beautiful vista has erased from my mind entirely, replaced by a constant reiteration of capacity: keep. moving.  We left at 1:11 and after 3.8 miles straight up, we reached our peak at 2:18.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to go faster.


In by Lucía on November 12, 2010 at 6:06 pm

It had been seven hours, and there she was, seated at the end of a line of chairs that ran down the hospital corridor.  The lights buzzed, and the nurses and attendants shuffled by, and the visitors clumsily nosed their way towards their visits.  All she wanted was silence, a relentless silence, a silence of stillness, but she found herself rooted there, bound to this space.  What she would have needed was a space of uninterruptedness, to clarify, to understand.  But as she sat, the aggravated, busy noises broke into her ears and through to her mind, shattering her thoughts.


In by Lucía on November 2, 2010 at 2:14 am

When I think about All of 100, all I think are happy things.  For example, everything I read makes me feel happy, or inspires me to write better or funnier or more intelligent things, or makes me laugh, or just makes me feel – and that is wonderful.  Also, I think of Wyatt and Lara, Michael and Chris, and the whole gang, and All of 100 is just written all over in awesomeness.  And all the new/guest authors, who pop up and – hi-ya! – kick so much writing ass, keep writing!  I’m too distracted by goodness tonight to write my post.  Sheesh.

Hawaiian Halloween

In by Lucía on November 2, 2010 at 2:13 am

If you thought Christmas in Hawai’i would be weird, try Halloween.  Picture yourself sitting on a beach, tanning in your bathing suit, only to look over and see Dracula staring hungrily back at you.  Imagine yourself beginning your dive and looking 10 feet over in the water, only to see Waldo wearing striped scuba gear and looking for urchins.  Think about paddling out to catch a wave, and instead getting demolished by it, confused and bewildered as King Kong rips by.  Christmas without snow might be weird, but, really, Halloween was never supposed to be celebrated on a tropical island.


In by Lucía on October 28, 2010 at 11:59 pm

They’d buried her mother 22 months earlier.  At that time, everything had turned gray. She received the phone call mid-morning this time.  She was 20.  It was her father.  And this time, nothing changed.  An accident, a funeral home, and an audience of close friends and family that was even more hushed now than before.  That this was possible had been inconceivable.  Now, it simply was.  The idea of gray ceased to hold any meaning or sentiment, and her movements were smooth, just another streak in the whole blur.  Home evaporated.  Family evaporated. Everything moved around her.  Nothing made sense.


In by Lucía on October 28, 2010 at 11:58 pm

Heather and Noah walked into the house, side by side, breaths shallow.  Anticipation.  The large window in the open living room stared at them as they took in the house, one pale wall at a time.  Nothing.  The house was too big, empty, unused, and unnecessary.  The kitchen was worse, stale and tasteless, a space that would never create warmth.  The wooden floors creaked beneath their feet.  For Heather and Noah, there was no need to look at the other.  They walked through every empty room, a desolate ceremony of quiet respect.  Then they left, fingers interlocked, to find home.


In by Lucía on October 27, 2010 at 1:07 am

The term “chilling” is used pretty often to describe the general act of doing nothing in particular.  Synonyms of “chilling,” according to Microsoft Word include: frightening, scary, alarming, unsettling, distressing, terrifying, disturbing, unnerving, nerve-wracking.  Weird how that’s totally not what I meant, but thanks, nonetheless, thesaurus.  Also, sneezing is weird.  But apparently, back in the day everybody thought that sneezing was a sure symptom of the bubonic plague and whosiwhatsie who was Pope back then ordered everybody to bless each other, all the time, in whatever way possible to avoid getting the plague. Thus, “God bless you.”  That is all.


In by Lucía on October 25, 2010 at 12:10 am

We were sitting next to each other, and then, she was shaking.  Silently, just shaking; and all the cushioning the couch had to offer couldn’t absorb the shock of the shaking.  I looked – sidelong.  She was doing that really awkward thing where you shake kinda violently as you laugh, but you’re completely silent, and so it just looks like you are convulsing.  I’d eventually find out that it happened pretty often.  But tonight, as she weathered her way through that silent laughter, she finally got to the breath.  She leaned forward and declared, “I need more ‘Ha.’”  Ha.  Ha ha.


In by Lucía on October 24, 2010 at 3:50 am

He’d helped me to remember things about my own life that I thought I’d forgotten: the dollar mom would give me for the vending machine at work; the lecture that nearly broke my heart; how calloused my hands had been from those monkey bars.  And then it occurred to me: if someday there was an accident that touched my memory, those are the things that I would remember.  All those little things that seem inconsequential, the ones that are filed away into the unlabeled envelops of our minds.  I might remember all of those nothings.  I might not remember you.


In by Lucía on October 24, 2010 at 3:42 am

The air is cold and biting and clean.  It is everything that air should be, weightless, and clarifying, and well.

The sky is boundless and unadulterated blue, impossible to distinguish from the horizon of limitless ocean.

The clouds rest and tumble on one another, forming a brilliantly white and flawless sea four thousand feet below.

The sun is closer here, radiating warmth with the severity of its own non-interruption, touching and heating skin without compromise.

The wind is sharp, delivering the sound of simultaneous stillness and motion.  It is the only entity to accompany here, completely enveloping and completely inaccessible.


In by Lucía on October 21, 2010 at 12:40 pm

Breakfast is like the Christmas of every day.  Sometimes, you wake up real early and you just know: after waiting twenty-four hours that felt like a whole year, it’s finally breakfast time. Only that breakfast is actually better than Christmas, because it happens every day, and you always get to choose what you get, and you never get those weird ass presents from your great aunt.  Plus, every bite’s like a gift, so if you play your cards right you can have dozens and dozens of gifts, which isn’t how Christmas usually turns out, particularly once you’re past age twelve.


In by Lucía on October 20, 2010 at 11:46 am

Morning in the new house was unlike anything she had experienced.  In the hours when the sun was rising, Collette would tiptoe into the living room and marvel at the colors outside the large windows.  The house was empty and quiet, and it felt like a polar bear that had fallen asleep, curled up around her.  The colors in the kitchen seemed lifeless, and the blues and browns that usually warmed the space now seemed like icicles, frozen in space.  She loved to pull her small body up onto the very center of the couch and sit, watching the snow.

Short stories

In by Lucía on October 19, 2010 at 11:45 pm

It was perfect, the way he’d put it: life is like a series of short stories.  We line our lives up, the edges of one existence touching its predecessor perfectly, connected only just barely with a plane flight, a car ride, a new home.  Thread the stories together, and, no, they don’t always follow quite exactly what came before or what comes afterward.  So keep writing.  One day, life’s happening in Peru, touching llamas and climbing ruins, the next, in NYC, ordering a candy bar and thanking America for high fructose corn syrup.  Go with it.  Keep making it up.


In by Lucía on October 19, 2010 at 11:34 pm

Steve stood at the front of the room, pointing up out of the ground like the thinner cousin of a golf tee sticking out of the sand.  His feet were flat in their entirety, and their inward pronation guaranteed the impression that his entire body was suctioned firmly to the ground.  Humans usually walked about, but not Steve.  Each step he took required pulling one foot off of the ground, and replanting it somewhere else – slurp! – so that it might suction once again.  And so he went, suctioning himself firmly to the ground everywhere he went, standing tall, moving slowly.


In by Lucía on October 17, 2010 at 9:54 am

We floated there, the most awkward things to ever sit in the ocean. Our Professor asked if we did whale imitations.  We giggled.  We definitely knew how to run transects.  We might know how to imitate whales.  Professor Dan dove, descent facilitated by the weights attached to his waist.  He paused well beneath the surface, lining his body up, arms by his side.  Then, the wiggle: wiggle-wiggle-wiggle to the surface, and he broke through like a whale, straight up in the air for a split second, mooing, and flopped over into the water.  Laughter exploded.

This is how people drown.


In by Lucía on October 15, 2010 at 1:00 am

This is: unprecedented.
It is also: endlessly fascinating.
It is: fate and Guatemala.

It started a few weeks ago,
on a regular day.  I left one morning,
I came back changed.

The change was visible
on the skin: the day had written
itself across my flesh, sparkling
along in a sun-kissed radiance
that emanated right back out.

A light, healthy-colored yellow,
brightened to a warmer gold,
and as the days went on, it was
a process of becoming well-done,
of accepting this as natural,
of becoming something that I had
never been before.

I am now fully and incontestably: brown.


In by Lucía on October 15, 2010 at 12:36 am

I want to write 100 words tonight, and I sit here thinking of the crew that always inspires me.  But tonight, as I slink down into this conterproductively comfy Comfy Chair, my body is a noodle, with one head sloppily flopping down off of one end and my legs inertly falling off the other.  I don’t think these adjectives make sense combined with those adverbs and my nouns feel like they’re going to be squishy into oblivion, but I’m going to reach those 100 words, and then spend all of tomorrow snorkeling and learning about fish sex all over again.

This is

In by Lucía on October 12, 2010 at 2:05 am

The warmth of a laptop through the blanket on these legs.  The pressure of a body against an unnaturally comfortable couch.  The stale lighting of a house with no soul.  New music on repeat, and the consuming pressure of noise-cancelling headphones.  Eyes confused by a bright screen, and legs tired with use and lactic acid.  The memory of orange converse; of blue eyes; of a smooth chest.  The smoothness of freshly washed damp hair, and the smells of a bonfire.  The space in a large, empty room.  The end of this day.  The tired typing that’s putting off falling asleep.

Rise & shine

In by Lucía on October 11, 2010 at 1:36 am

It was 7:04 am as Albert walked into the kitchen.  There – immediately, his body twitched.  One eyebrow sunk dramatically.  Another eyebrow jumped up.  Both shoulders tensed, two centimeters closer to his ears, and ten fingers contorted into mutant shapes to keep from forming fists.

The ants were everywhere, countless miniature nightmares marching along in their single file lines, swarming across every surface, and methodically carrying away Albert’s kitchen faster than he could restore its various components.  There – the toaster tottered out the door..  And – oh, for the love of Christ! – why was the coffee maker always the first to go?!


In by Lucía on October 10, 2010 at 1:57 am

Quisiera llenar esta página de lírica
sobre lo que es ser completa.
Sería mentira desgraciada.

Lo que me falta es la lengua española,
lengua de mi madre,
y por lo tanto
mi lengua maternal.

Me tiendo en las playas
a leer en voz alta
las palabras de García Márquez.
Escuchando a mi propia voz
finjo atender
a un deseo incontrolable.

Les leo a las nubes
los amores de Aracataca.
A veces pienso que
sólo me podría casar con un latino.

Tiento leer para saciarme.
Pero estas palabras son
una conversación
y sola queda mi voz,
sin cualquier respuesta.


In by Lucía on October 9, 2010 at 12:32 am

He wore a thin, fitted hoodie that he sheepishly admitted was “cozy” when his friends told him they liked it.  Safe in its comforting cloth, he lay on his back tonight, staring at the ceiling, and groaned.  He wasn’t sure if he could move, but looking back on the day behind him, he wasn’t sure he could complain.  He just wished that he wasn’t so behind on his real work.  Oh well.  He got up, and padded toward the kitchen, pausing just behind her at the sink.


A cascade of dishes tumbled clumsily out of the drying rack.



In by Lucía on October 8, 2010 at 12:40 am

Tedrick was the better part of a foot shorter than most of his students.  His small Asian frame looked underdeveloped beside his many athletic students, and his oddly pale skin looked discolored against the healthy twenty-somethings he had in class every day.  On this particular afternoon, as he walked back from the dining hall toward his cottage, he whistled, and the trace of a smile lingering in the air as he moved along.  He had always only been the mind, but these students were the mind, the creativity, and the movement.  These students, he smiled happily, they were the future.


In by Lucía on October 6, 2010 at 4:29 pm

It’s such an incredibly weak word: an expression of what could be, what might be, what likely ought to be or would be best for us, but we are not willing to truly see through.  I’ve tried to eradicate this word from my vocabulary, but I can’t help it anymore.  There is a right way to educate, and a wrong way to educate, and this is how education should be: a celebration of our greatest capacities for sensation, for observation, for thought, and for expression.  Education was meant to inspire us toward our greatest capacities as humans. Please:  Go.  Learn.

No words

In by Lucía on October 5, 2010 at 1:42 am

I wish I had more words these days — then I could write, and tell you everything that I have been experiencing.  Then we could talk, and you would understand a little bit more of what I’ve been living.  Instead, every day falls on top of the day before, and the older days all get a little bit smaller as the pile of new days keeps getting bigger and bigger on top.  Each day stacks up, just there, alongside my spine..  They become a little more me, I become a little less what I was, and I still have no words.


In by Lucía on October 4, 2010 at 12:19 am

Quiso hablarle, pero sintió que ya no tenía voz.  Habían pasado tanto tiempo a tan grandes distancias que en su memoria sus ojos ya se rendían espejados, como nubes que disfrazan la realidad sin ni siquiera ofrecer ninguna lluvia.  El tambor claro de su voz había desaparecido de su memoria, y ya lo único que le quedaba era un imagen de su rostro, sereno y bello, sin saber si todavía se veía de esa forma.  Cuando lo vio de nuevo fue como que si el tiempo ni había pasado, pero aunque llegó a reconocerlo, el sentido ya no le entró.


In by Lucía on October 2, 2010 at 8:49 pm

Les après-midis on se promenait dans les jardins Luxembourg ou les Tuileries pendant des heures, et jamais il nous arrivait d’arrêter la conversation.  Nous nous étions rencontrées le premier semestre à l’Université, et depuis ce temps-là, elle était la seule fille avec laquelle j’arrivais à m’exprimer absolument.  En réalité, elle n’était plus une fille : elle avait dix-huit ans, mais elle était devenue une femme depuis le mort de son grand frère.  Ensemble on parlait avec une liberté complète, et toutes les deux, nous comprenions que notre relation éxistait parce qu’on se voulait, et ne pas parce qu’on en avait besoin.


In by Lucía on October 2, 2010 at 8:47 pm

They pulled their hoods up over long, dark hair and quietly walked under the arcade, away from the door.  Smooth female voices floated into the night sky, bright socks padding along the concrete walkway and around to the back.  A pipe surfaced, and in the thick smoke that drifted back and forth between them, they wandered back through the day just passed, releasing it all in a steady verbal exhalation.  The darkness matched their thick eyelashes and the gray shadows mirrored the crease of seductive collarbones.  Their eyes scanned the dark outlines around them, and the two smiled quietly together.


In by Lucía on September 29, 2010 at 2:21 am

His skin was healthy but weathered, like bark on an older tree.  Lines formed creases along the planes of his face, and although his cheeks dipped inward, mature lines formed parentheses around his mouth, falling outward, like ripples from his smiles.  The hair was a top layer of unruly fluff, its soft grey reflected in blue eyes that shone bright against the wearing skin.  Softest, though, was the tone of his voice, a smooth rolling wave that kept the integrity of its tone, even when it echoed with emotion.  The man was an educator; it was written on his face.


In by Lucía on September 28, 2010 at 2:23 am

The tiltometer is a machine owned by the USGS.  It determines when the earth’s surface has tilted, down to a micrometer-sized tilt across the distance of a single kilometer.  Seismographs record every single shift beneath the surface of the crust, including the tremors that persist every day, endlessly.   Plus cameras designated to alert for any new lava flow or explosion.  And gas detectors monitoring SO4 and CO2 levels.  This oversized rock is the most boundless entity most humans will ever come into contact with, and but here we are, doing our best to fit it into an Intensive Care Unit.


In by Lucía on September 26, 2010 at 10:38 pm

We don’t see our own blood often enough.  If we did, we might have a better sense of our own finiteness, or the fragility of these bodies.  Maybe we’d be better at internalizing that what we put into our mouths actually becomes a part of our physicality, or we’d give thanks for the complexities within us that keep us alive.  Perhaps one day, we’ll all look down toward our ankles to find blood dripping down, toward the foot.  We won’t feel the cut, but we’ll bend and look closely at the pattern, seeing, with no uncertainty, what we really are.


In by Lucía on September 25, 2010 at 10:36 pm

Upwards of 70 years old, Don arrives at the observatory every morning by 3:20am to test ash samples along the 16-mile perimeter of a volcanic caldera before the wind disturbs them.  On these mornings, he’s greeted by the sweet, mellow sounds of Hawaiian music that drift to him from above screen after computer screen of illuminated data.  He’s an emeritus scientist, and as he starts his day, his eyes still sparkle just to see the delicate seismic instruments scratch back and forth.  He knows: these lines are perfectly unpredictable, but they’re there, etching out delicate lifelines, drawing the earth’s quiet heartbeat.

How’s the water feel?

In by Lucía on September 24, 2010 at 11:28 pm

Oh, the water is so soooo good!  We all woke up at 3:30 this morning (soooo many hours ago!) to go see where the lava tube pours out into the ocean while it was still dark — which also meant watching the sun come up over the ocean….and then our geophysics prof, Paul Segall, took us over for a swim right where fresh water meets salt water and the water at the surface is super warm while the ocean water at the bottom is super cold. (Not next to lava flows.) Wow, I bet that’s almost one hundred words.  Damn: ninety eight.


In by Lucía on September 24, 2010 at 11:27 pm

My eyes would like to believe that you’re dancing with these skies, but as you rotate around and around, it is really my own two feet revolving along with this planet.  We don’t have straightforward conversations very often – it’s hard to talk to you when you only come out at night, dancing in circles around me.  But on days like these, the ones that begin at 5:27am or at 4:50am, you stand upright on your two feet and look directly down at me, welcoming me to the this world’s nocturnal outdoors.  I can’t help but smile: What’s up, man?