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Bob - May 30, 2018

Even in his suffering he still comes back.   In intense darkness pits you learn a lot of life. First, to not be afraid of train tracks. He hunts and he fishes and brings it all back to share over dinner or alone in warm black. Life is never straight. Feelings, the body and the soul live in psychophysicdogmiasmatic soups. They drip down the sides of life, welling at feet. Most people enjoy dry socks, but he plays puddle hopping until the mud makes sense (though it never makes sense, might at least enjoy the mud.). And he touches cold corners of the map because there's only so much cold left in the world. And he writes, and laughs at himself, and in that brings to community such a friendly confidence that you can't help but break straight-listening-focused-serious--trying to figure it out--face whenever he bears his joy to the world. Second-coming of christ-Bob shows us that love is best liquor, and that it's good for your skin too.
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My Digging Arm

I have discovered, in the quiet, that I am being listened to. And in silence, I am being spoken to. I can tell, even alone, that the words I speak to myself fail to capture what I think. My parents could say much more with their words, but I cannot. I speak my half thoughts and they are heard, the other half filled in. 

It would not be hard to find place in the woods. Many villages I know of, and a far greater number are throughout the VitchWood here, far outside the eyes of the silver-clad El. But I feel, I know, that is not where I belong.  

My body is growing into a shape that I do not recognize. Some nights, I awaken in a fit, my right arm bruised in it's attempt to dig itself, and me, into the soil. Even through solid stone my fingernails will be worn down and my finger tips bloodied trying to find purchase in the rock. 

Beyond just my arm, my being, twisted in its dual capacity seeks to be buried beneath the dirt. Now I feel the urge to satisfy this alien craving, to satiate the simple pulse emanating from my right forearm. I need a home. I need to find it's home. 

Something calls to me far from my little valley home. There seems a great wound in the ground that begs me to it. That clawing, digging sense of mine drives me there. And I must fulfill it's hunger. 
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