It is Aquarius season. It is 57 degrees in the final hour of January. Donald Trump has taken his seat and sat for more than 24 hours. The streets have erupted in nuanced, endlessly unanswerable ways--it is not quite the raucous of revolution but there are people vibrating with a desire to dig even if they are still collaborating with the cops and enraging over a burning vehicle. 

I pulled together a new intention today. It goes something like this, 

I tell the truth and the knowledge does not belong to me. 

I've noticed more hyperbole, more tendency to insert expletive where detail should have been. Less language and more visceral bursts, they might be boasts. I'm not sure what I'm so confident about. I can be like a black-winged cock in that way, but I am ruffled and spacious because I trip over my own big toes, because I can get so lost out here. 

I tell the truth and the knowledge does not belong to me. 

Yesterday was a dewy morning. The bundles of night water froze to the tiny fingers of my gangway in Albany Park. In the morning everything thaws to sunbathing mud and this is my chance to feel happy. 

I chopped a tomato in your kitchen for the first time and my mind broke down to loose clay. We talked about my mother. There were moments where I could hear your elastic laughter. My life will be a string of days spent trying from the nerves in my psoas to not pretend to be anything other than this next breath.