madeline, my home was up that road

2003-09-20, 10:12 a.m.

bleeding conversations through uninsulated walls, i remember the days when the world was just what the eye saw. i remember when the earth was hot all over, and the rain forest was construction paper on my classroom wall. that was when the immediacy of living counted for something, not because you realized it, but because it was the ONLY thing.

i can still walk the treated wood walls of my old house, when the dirt was balck, air bit my hands, trees melted to the ground in a november gray. how could that house have fallen, because it no longer stands tall like a grizzly amongst river stones. the pond was a sinking vastness, gold freckles relocated every so often.

and the eucalyptus were spiders legs, shedding dry fur that crackled when you stepped on it. Eagle shreak, swoop and crack, a lofty residence that i thought planes could not reach. in that forest was blured, even then, like a faded memory, i never saw the insides; memories bleed through my uninsulated walls