3.3.23

Memory: a hand holding what it can in this moment. 
so when you need to, open your palm, 
& when you need to, close your palm. 

this is a basic teaching. 

the other night, waking up from a dream the words caught in my throat: the years pass, despite the facts. we know men steal from everybody and we can't even mock them for it. open fist, closed fist. 

I was so angry in that tiny hotel room I drew on the face of my notebook until my pen ran out of ink and threw the pen across the room. No more ink I said to no one and no one looked up at me. Anger is a practice too. I'm going on a walk I said so I picked the pen and myself up and walked out the door. I drew something ugly that day so I walked around the block until I remembered to listen to the sound of my own footsteps. 

This experiment in language meaning that you (and I am talking about you, not me) used to smother him like you were his mother. You smothered him with your love until he jumped out the car one day, finally, screaming at you. I told, I don't even like you, he said. 

Do you remember his words after telling me about them? Does forgetting mean first an impetus to remember?

Consider the weather: I want to be as quiet as the snow. 

thay tells me not to shoot the second arrow.
and so my trembling hands, and so this knowing about what hands can do.